APRIL 14 FISHING REPORT

RAINY RIVER SPRING TROPHY WALLEYE FISHING
RAINY RIVER SPRING TROPHY WALLEYE FISHING
Hey Sportsfans!
 
Need a recap of the final weekend of walleye fishing?
 
– Friday: Boats crept in closer and closer until eventually the Rainy River broke open in front of the resort. After that, it was a PACKED HOUSE off the end of the docks.
 
– Saturday: The afternoon was so nice it could have fooled anyone into thinking that winter was  a thing of the past, but the dusting of snow on the ground this morning said otherwise. 
 
– ​Sunday: While temperatures​ varied, one constant remained… The thick fish were out to play.
 
​OVERALL — A fantastic final weekend for walleye fishing. 
—
Have the Urge to Sturge? Here’s a few things to keep in mind:
 
– Discounted lodging rates still apply. Bring your boat up and enjoy the Rainy River this spring. 
 
– Nightly food specials every Thursday – Sunday. “The beers are cold and the food is hot… no better place to be.” – Marissa, Frequent Tavern Visitor
 —
ONLY FOUR WEEKS UNTIL MN WALLEYE OPENER. Will you be here?!
 
Get your reservations in now to SET THE HOOK this summer. 

SEASON 3, EPISODE 14

Walleye fishing Ballards Resort Lake of the Woods, MN
Walleye fishing Ballards Resort Lake of the Woods, MN

Season THREE – Episode 14 – “Big Attitudes for Small Fish”

Outside the cottage, shots from the attackers (Too-Tall & Shorty-Short) continued with a fevered pitch, while they pressed toward the building. Their luck with the no-see-ums was none better than those who arrived earlier at the party. These impossible creatures exhibited “Big Attitudes for Small Fish”—gnawing clouds of midges were being ousted from multiple locations while Eagle ONE-TWO-THREE and William all attempted escape.

Clawing their way through an entanglement of hell both Ellie and Hazel reached the natural harbor where the Grady-White was docked. Then, without audibling, and realizing Sally had disappeared, they reversed the direction of the boat pointing the bow toward the openness of the ocean and prepared for fight or flight.

TOUGH was going to be catching sight of Sally and William before they could leave the island. Dammit for bugs.

Ellie flipped the switches on the Quad Yamaha’s lining the boat’s transom and brought them to life. Their volume did little to attract attention with low decibel humming. Conversely the exhaust they produced in the open harbor generated the attention of millions more nighttime aerial acrobats.

The white based non-slip floor of the Grady-White became an absolute greased pig. To stand, one became a toddler, attempting your first go-round, blades strapped to your feet, while hovering over pond ice. The black thickness of insects covered the white laces of your skates.

          “Wait—I hear something!” announced Ellie. “Unhitch the ropes—but hang onto the dock!”

Hazel followed orders, choosing to hold a portion of the pier with one hand and the grip of her Glock in the other. At this point it was anyone’s guess who would appear through the cloud of incessant flies. Ellie held tight as well—one hand near the throttles of the 1800-horse-power—second on her Austrian made Gen5.

First out to the darkness came Sally, bouncing off the dock, launching herself over the outboard motors and backside of the transom like Carl Lewis winning his fourth consecutive Olympic long jumping gold medal. Midair—gunshots whizzing from a distance—her feet hit the deck—she immediately and ungraciously became unwound by the disgustingly snotty slipperiness of bugs consuming the floor of the Grady-White.

Neither of her accomplices (Ellie / Hazel) could lend a halting hand as she propelled forward, skidding by with arms flailing and feet crisscrossing. Next—log rolling to her stomach she narrowly glided feet first—ass up—between gunnel and center console. Only when she hit the bow at maximum tilt did her horizontal form turn into a slime embraced ball.

More gunshots—next came William bursting out of the trail and onto the boat pier. He was dragging his right arm and left leg.

     “Go! Go! Go! Go!” he shouted in advance.

Hazel released her grip off the dock and pushed the boat slightly away while Ellie slipped the motors into forward gears. Sally remained at the bow—a crumpled ball of paper—thrown against a classroom wall.

     “C’mon William!” Ellie pleaded. “Jump!”

At the stern—crouched low—Hazel returned fire with her Glock pointed toward flashes of split-second red-orange muzzle blasts. But there was no human outline for which to aim. Too much remained hidden by intense vegetation and insect-infected clouds of darkness.

Momentarily stumbling, with more firepower coming from the direction of Too-Tall and Shorty-Short, newfound and trusted friend William gathered his wherewithal and careened headfirst over the portside gunnel.

He too slipped and slid his way toward the bow. But his efforts, compared to Sally’s, were much more subdued. Almost calming.

In one shake Ellie had the Grady-White on step, with its compass pointing east, and total darkness of the sea lying ahead. Then in what seemed like hours she took her first gulp of insect free breath. Something she mentally compared to a smoker’s first pull on a dart to stifle the nerves.

Meanwhile, Hazel holstered her weapon after the volume of volleyed shots faded and took up a position as copilot at the helm. She then observed Ellie’s exaggerated inhale and exhale of fresh air, held her own blonde hair to the wind, and followed suit.

Sensing the boat had reached top speed and leveled out—Sally expanded from the fetal position, slowly stretched body parts, then sat up and spun in a one-eighty to face her teammates. William—motionless—remained near her side.

Sally had smelled death before (never human). The first time was in her teens—a late season November bow hunt—northeast New England property—owned by the Squatsnfishes. She had two harvest tags (doe and buck) in possession with the assignment of bringing venison to the table for Thanksgiving weekend.

The clock ticked toward sunset with less than half-an-hour before legal shooting time remaining on her watch. Then, as if on cue, a medium-large doe appeared on the wild game trail and headed toward her tree stand. Slow—purposeful—nose up—nose down—soon within twelve yards.

Thirty minutes after releasing the arrow Sally exited the stand and climbed down the ladder. Total darkness was very near. She walked to the edge of the trail to look for the deer. Instead, she heard gurgling.

This was consistent with a story her grandmother Molva Squatsnfishes once shared, so she proceeded deeper into the bush, tracking the sound to a set of dark eyes. Both the hunter and the hunted heaved for breath. Sally’s first attempt to kill and the deer’s last to remain alive.

The wait for death was expedited when the hunter retrieved a vintage H.H. Buck & Son 6-inch blade from its sheath. Making the cut—the scent of blood was sharp on her senses—tangy, like iron, or copper. The deer’s erratic breathing halted. As did William’s.

Before getting back onboard the tinner and starting the mangled motor there were pinching sensations happening at Rusty’s sockless ankles. He had successfully kept his wits standing on a slippery reef until he was unceremoniously violated by oversized crayfish.

These buggers had pinchers strong enough to pierce skin, and when threatened in their natural habitat could cause immense pain. Certainly, “Big Attitudes for Small Fish.”

In terms of wounds—Rusty fantastically had many. His utter display of incoherent dancing approached someone in water with their feet on fire—Cos and Link quietly exchanged glances as day two of their Canadian camp ownership adventure catapulted to full send.

–            To Be Continued –

SEASON 3, EPISODE 13

Walleye fishing Ballards Resort Lake of the Woods, MN
Walleye fishing Ballards Resort Lake of the Woods, MN

Season THREE – Episode 13 – “Reel in the Unreelable”

Rusty awoke to the thump-thump-thump of Link’s tail whapping him on the cheek, a blazing ball of sun bursting through the east panorama of the lodge windows, and the fresh smell of Genuine Canadian Bacon on the kitchen flat top grill. Pulling the Hudson Bay blanket under his chin like a kid delaying the start of a school day, he shimmied back into the warmth of the couch and rested his cheek alongside the dog’s beating heart.

          “Day two buddy,” he whispered to Link, who responded with the vigor of a shop vac licking his ear with a problematic accessory.  “I wonder if we’re trying to Reel in the Unreelable.”

This wasn’t as much a question, but more of a reminder of the challenges that lie ahead. Again, without Ms. Sally Squatsnfishes leading his charge, this was uncharacteristically far from the safety net that Rusty had unknowingly woven in the past year and a half of their relatively new and chaotic relationship.

          “Alright—time to get out of my head—too early to question life’s choices.” Then Link sprung off the couch to skip his way toward the lodge door and fresh air. Rusty stretched his stiff neck from the previous night’s sleep and followed suit.

After breakfast, which was tremendous, the trio made their way to the dock house and began sorting equipment to organize a skiff. Their first mission of day two? Search and rescue their passenger boat Hooked on Poutine.

Today’s winds were relatively calm compared to yesterday’s gamey southeast breeze responsible for taking their vessel from the harbor. That and the fact that neither Rusty nor Cos had bothered securing the boat to the dock. Without hands and fingers Link was also unable to complete the task.

The sixteen foot Alumarine tinner powered by a 40-horsepower Yamaha four-stroke outboard motor purred its way from the harbor with a determined compass heading. Link was perched high in the bow with ears flapping—Cos rested on the middle bench seat with his pipe puffing smoke—Rusty held steady at the stern, his cap spun backward secured against the propulsion of the boat generated breeze, and a confident hand on the throttle.

Lots of islands, too many to count, stretched for miles in front of them. During this preseason prior to the annual Canadian walleye fishing opener, there was zero traffic on the lake in this specific sector of mass-water. True wildness abounded and they only had themselves to rely upon.

Their intended hope was to find Hooked on Poutine resting gently ashore on the leeward side of one of yesterday’s windblown shorelines. But common sense would dictate otherwise. Presumably they would locate her high and optimistically not dry.

Now beyond eyesight of homebase—the skiff continued in a southeasterly direction with Cos glassing shorelines—tensely pulling puffs from his pipe. “Is this the proverbial needle in a haystack on Lac des Bois, with its greater than 14,000 islands?” he thought to himself.

And then the outboard motor found a submerged rock. KERBANG! It was a mid-lake shallow tabletop made of punishing bedrock and large boulders left behind by glacial activity of the previous ice age. There was no mercy in this unfortunate miscue.

With the motor stalled and the tinner entangled atop the submerged island of rock, Rusty hoisted a leg over the side and walked to the rear of the transom to assess damage. “How strange—ankle deep water—middle of nowhere. If there were anyone viewing from a distance, of which there is NOT, they may presume that I’m walking on water,” he mocked himself.

The pool of milky oil that surrounded the calves of his jeans was a disastrous indication of what lay below the coffee-stained water. “My god does this water ever warm up,” he thought while hunched over with chattering teeth and arms wrapped around the motor’s shaft, just above the prop.

          “This damn thing is literally wedged between two boulders Cos. Go to the bow where Link’s at and see if that will help me free the motor.”

          “Sure, just hang on a sec,” he replied, and stood to amble his mid-sized frame toward the front. Even Link, at the front of the boat, tried to support group efforts by bouncing up and down like a bullfrog spiked on Mountain Dew.

Finally, with a second exasperating effort, the length of the outboard motor was pried loose and the rear of the tinner again returned to buoyancy. No apparent holes in the boat—not so lucky on the motor.

Rusty hit the trim switch and raised the balance of the motor from the water for further review. A hole the size of a golf ball. May as well have been the Grand Canyon. All the lower unit oil had escaped its metal casing. From there—spider cracks worked their way down toward the prop—of which there was now one of three blades left.

          “Not much choice here,” Rusty thought out loud. “I’m going to need to use one of those paddles to try and straighten the only blade remaining on this shredded prop. After that—We might as well see how far we can get on a motor with no lower unit lubricating oil.”

          “Geez—wish could get a cell signal out here,” chimed Cos. “At least enough to let us make a call to Raker’s Marine for help.

          “Well—Let me get us off this pool table sized rock—And we’ll see how far we can get with the motor.”

Meanwhile, thirteen hours ahead and still dark down under, Sally Squatsnfishes had army crawled her way to the back of the cottage and managed to reach William before Too-Tall and Shorty-Short had made her out.

Peering from the base of the front window she quickly raised and fired two warning shots in a misdirection. Her aim held no intention other than to remind the two aggressors that someone inside was still holding their position.

          “William, we’re going to have to move,” instructed Sally, as he sat with his back to the wall applying pressure to a bullet hole in his right arm. “Let me get a quick wrap on that wound and then we’ll bolt.”

          “Who are these guys?” questioned William.

          “Relentless,” she replied. “That’s who they are.”

Bandage secured—Two more shots reported from her weapon—They both slinked low to the floor and duck walked their way to the back door. It was as if they were attempting to “Reel in the Unreelable” with these two ruffians constantly bearing interception to their path.

–            To Be Continued –