MARCH 9 ICE FISHING REPORT

HEY SPORTSFANS!
 
We are nearing the end of the season (LAST DAY FOR FISHING = MARCH 16) but there are still fish to be caught. 
 
​The Ballard’s houses stayed put (LOCATED NEAR GARDEN ISLAND) and hot with the perch bite!
 
A few of the Ballard’s ladies made their way out on to the lake this week…. lots of laughter coming from those houses. 
 
As we write this (EVENING OF SUNDAY MARCH 9) the guides are bumping the houses in…5 miles past Pine Island. 
 
Glow jigs were the hot commodity this past week… keep the presentation simple!!
 
We hope to see you here to #SETTHEHOOK before the season is over. 

SEASON 3, EPISODE 9

Season THREE – Episode 09 – “Catch me if you Canuck”

With Rusty at the helm, Link perched on the dash, and Cos in the copilot seat—Hooked on Poutine made her way safely from the confines of Hensen Bay and set course for FSFO. The location of their newly purchased property was eighteen miles northwest through a passage of islands. It was unnamed, but previous proprietors of the island included an Illinois businessman who originally deeded the ten-acres for private use with a rare purchase opportunity from the Canadian government.

Years later it was sold to a couple from Minnesota who raised their children there during the summer months—at least until the kids got older. Ever try keeping teenagers remotely isolated from their friends and modern conveniences for three straight months? Shortly thereafter, the island sold again.

The third time it went to a well-established real estate gentleman from Wisconsin who had the wherewithal to go through the hoops to get it zoned commercially—gifted the island to his newly wed daughter and son in law—gave them the reins to a startup fishing camp biz—watched it last for one season—drank himself sober after their divorce—and then sold the island for 28.5% less than what he had paid.

A traveling band of circus gypsies from Oregon became the next proprietors. They held the deed for the longest of any of the owners but spent very little time at the property. When discussed by historic local color, it was generally agreed the business had been used as a front to wash frothy amounts of unclaimed cash from countless Ferris-wheel and Tilt-a-whirl rides.

International laundering, if you will—was never confirmed when Canada Customs sent Ontario Provincial Police to inspect the island for business proprietors. The only thing they found was the entire island becoming an overgrown mass of vegetative growth. Mother Nature was slowly retaking what was originally hers—Government Canada took the rest with records of delinquent property taxes—Key the microphone for Rusty and Cos.

The fifth owners of the soon to be famous Flather’s & Scale’s Fishy Outfitters aka FSFO—the fishing camp that hooks you for life—throttled down the passenger boat and idled their way into a semi protected harbor exposed only to an east or south easterly blow. Rusty stuck the bow of Hooked on Poutine on the beach—turned the wheel and forced the stern to the dock on the starboard side—land ho!

The horse weeds and cackle bur bushes that greeted them at the end of the dock caused a minorly obstructed view of what appeared to be a path to the main lodge. More unwavering were the goose and gander unwilling to give way to the newly arrived guests. Link had attempted to reach shore on multiple occasions but was promptly sent in retreat after some verbal scolding by ma’ and pa’ goose along with some hissing and pecking. At eight weeks old he was in no way a match for this duo.

The rain continued while Rusty and Cos transferred supplies from boat to dock. Unbeknownst to either of the partners they were each silently running numbers to calculate the number of times you had to touch one item from its original location to its place of storage. Rusty was at four—Cos was one ahead of him. Example: case of water carried from the grocery store to the bed of the truck, then transferred from the truck to the mainland dock, dock to boat, boat to island dock, dock to storage shed. That’s five—but let’s not forget that once the refrigerator is up and running, we will now jump to SIX for final transport.

And one could go even further adding once the bottle is drunk, placed in the garbage, garbage is hauled back to storage, back to dock, back to passenger boat, back to mainland dock, and off to the landfill just east of the town of Jackfish—both Rusty and Cos had lost count.

Five guest cabins—two bunkhouses—one boathouse—the pumphouse—a generator shed—the central bathhouse—a main lodge with kitchen and dining area. Each building seemed to be accounted for, and none was prepared for use. With arms full Rusty made his way past the hissing geese and hoofed his way toward the lodge sludging through muck. The trail would need some gravel. First things first, he wanted to check out the lodge and get out of the rain.

Cos was two steps behind him—his newly acquired Brigham Pipe clamped firmly between tops and bottoms—full to the rim with fresh Canadian rainwater. “Are we sure this isn’t Lake of the Rains” he uttered from beneath his Filson Tin Cloth Bush Hat.

“What’s that?” replied Rusty. “Can’t hear you over the rain.”

Exhaling—Cos blew a spout of water from his pipe and entered the lodge on Rusty’s heels. Even the geese were now on the covered walkway and wanted to get out of it.

“Three weeks to the opener” commented Rusty as he knelt to the barrel stove in the main lodge and struck a match to kindling. “Do you think we’ll have time to get everything ready to go?”

“Hard to say—we just got here—we’ll just have to go building by building and get everything opened up” replied Cos. On the plus side it appears as though the roof in the lodge is airtight. I’m not seeing any watermarks on the hardwoods.

On the fourth ring someone on the opposite end picked up, “Catch me if you Canuck—fish wrapping experts.”

Sally raised her eyebrows and responded, “This is EagleOne—I’m looking for some fresh salmon—do you have a charter available for late this afternoon?”

          “Copy that EagleOne. What’s your ETA?

          “Forty-two klicks to Sand Point Beach. We’re going to need rods—reels—bait—tackle—the works.

          “Roger that EagleOne. Other than the salmon we can put you on mulloway, squid, skippy, flat head and sand whiting.”

          “Thanks, Catch me if you Canuck—see you in twenty.” Sally returned the phone to her backpack, tossed it to the rear seat and hammered the accelerator to the floor. The Corolla came out of the parking lot sideways shooting gravel to both sides and the rear.

“Hey Hazel—I’m assuming we have a gameplan—How about you?” mused Ellie from the back seat.

          “That sounds fair EagleThree. I’m guessing the same.”

Sally pushed her mirrored sunglasses to the bridge of her nose—watched the speedometer climb from 55mph to 95mph—and inadvertently allowed a smile to crease the corners of her mouth. “Next stop, Bremer Bay ladies. The approaching tides appear more favorable.”

– To Be Continued – 

SEASON 3, EPISODE 8

Season THREE – Episode 08 – “Lure of the North”

With a six-foot-long oar, Rusty searched for the bottom next to the floating dock but found nothing solid. Even when extended down to his armpit there was no hard pan. Ice out had been three days prior. If he wanted to retain the two wheeled cart and complete the mission of loading the fifty-five-gallon barrels of diesel fuel, there was going to be a polar plunge.

The crowd was not dispersing. A portion of the “Lure of the North” was watching a fishing camp newbie flounder with reckless abandon.

There was already a wet as hell factor in play, with Rusty soaked through his rain slicker, but he deemed it necessary to strip to his skivvies to provide freedom of movement in the water. If only Sally hadn’t blessed him with this pair of boxer style underwear bearing a bright red maple leaf in the crotched region of his less than stellar—cold, weather-shrunken male part.

“Here goes nothing” he blinked, then inhaled deeply, easing himself into the lake with a makeshift rescue rope in hand. Down—down—down—it was soft bottom loon poop without the presence of the cart. Momentarily, he thought he spotted the base, but the water was murky and what appeared to be the base was now swimming away. A fiercer glance confirmed it was a toothy piscatorial critter.

Back at the surface it was apparent he would need a longer length of oxygen, thus requiring a sailor (feet first) dive. “Was it colder in the water than out?” he pondered with blue lips and frost-stricken skin.

Again, the crowd gawked with exuberance. How splendid to see this rookie “I’m going to run a fishing camp” teeth chattering character leap from the dock in early spring!

At first, he found the handle—then fixed his eyes on the frame. With a triple granny knot he expelled the balance of his wind and tailed the loose end of rope with him back to the surface. Scuttling dockside he handed Cos the rope and took a dry towel from luggage storage in exchange.

The applause from the intimidating crowd had turned to nods of approval. Whip Bunkel from Outreel Me Resort—Winston McCloud from Drake Bay Lodge—Patrice Newhaven from Newhaven Island Outpost—Claire Gauthier from Straight Narrows Camp—Ronnie Roy from Lost Time Retreat—they were all in unison moving the remaining two barrels down the walkway and assisting their new peers with refreshing grandeur. “Hail to the Queen ‘o Canada. Or something of the sort” Rusty grinned.

Even Link was caught in excitement, flapping raindrops from his puppy ears and politely yipping with approval. This was until he mistakenly found his way off the end of the floating dock and abruptly realized he knew nothing of the coordination required to accomplish the doggy paddle. Instead, he slowly sank like a duck decoy being capsized internally by held water.

This time it was Cos to the rescue, reaching over the transom with an extended landing net, scooping the black furry ball from beneath the surface. “One swimmer is enough for today young man” he cautioned with a second towel now being prepared for use. “We need to get you two off this dock and onto our island.”

With final thanks being made—Hooked on Poutine fully loaded with supplies made her way down the channel of Hensen Bay. Next stop Flather’s & Scale’s Fishy Outfitters aka FSFO—the fishing camp that hooks you for life!

EagleOne—EagleTwo—EagleThree continued at an accelerated pace through the hills of Stirling Range. The Toyota Corolla begged for mercy on the inclines, but not knowing the whereabouts of Too-Tall and Shorty-Short (their unfriendly Eastern European trailers), along with what might lie ahead at Bremer Beach, the traveling trio graciously agreed to keep the throttle buried.

“Rainy days and Monday’s” Sally thought to herself. “Or is this a Tuesday?” She couldn’t recall. “What is clear is the leak within the Australian Commonwealth. Someone had our arrival pegged, is seemingly a step ahead of each turn we make, and clearly does not want us to meet our destination.”

Thanks to Monfuckintana she now had Ellie Waylayer along for the proverbial ride in the back seat. After Jackie Loonsuckle had disappeared from the Gold Rope Ranch for the umpteenth time on some fly-bum adventure across the globe, it didn’t take long for Ellie to enlist her services. She and Sally had meshed like paternal twins during their brief togetherness at the ranch. The spectacular sparks in her eyes, her unwavering ability to perform impossible physical tasks, and her approachable disposition made her a true asset in the espionage world.

It had taken some coercing on Sally’s behalf to get her onboard with the Australian government, but permission was finally granted when a both of us or neither of us ultimatum was delivered. There was a very lenient leash around the neck of any person committed to this impossible mission.

Enlisting Hazel Brown was currently outside of the parameter, but she couldn’t be kicked to the side of the road. Her ignited efforts back at the safehouse were forthright and commendable. It’s not every day someone saves the skin of Sally Squatsnfishes.

“Hey, reach in my backpack and find our burner phone” she then requested. “And Hazel, thanks for jumping in back at Woodanilling, our partner in the backseat is Ellie Waylayer. Ellie—this is Hazel Brown.”

EagleOne—EagleTwo—EagleThree maintained their crash driving course to Bremer Bay. Fifty-seven klicks out Hazel punched Sally’s requested number into the phone and held it to her ear. Best to have both hands on the wheel with the foot feed still mashed to the floorboards.

No answer. Forty-two klicks out. The Indian Ocean was now within visible sight.

Sally took the next available turn, as it happened to be an overlook, put the Corolla in park and turned off the ignition. “I’m not sure if we’re leading the charge or charging into some unknown.” she admitted.

“If anything, it’s dicey at best” she continued. “Our rendezvous in Bremer Bay is not picking up. We’re scheduled to convene shortly after dark which is approximately three hours from now.  And I can’t even confirm that our Blackfin Phantom submarine will be at Sir James John Port.”

This was unchartered territory for Sally. Decisions being made on the fly that not only affected her, but also her constituents. One more try on the phone. She let it ring three times.

-To Be Continued-