SEASON 3, EPISODE 25

Season Three – Episode 25 – “Crack ‘En Eggs”

Eight days until the official Ontario Walleye Opener and the team at FSFO were no nearer ready for operation than Sally was in her efforts to seize and conquer The Kraken. Someone, or both parties, being on opposite sides of the globe needed a gimmee.

By late afternoon, the word of Stash McGivern’s body removal project from the septic tank had already spread across the islands. Whip Bunkel, Winston McCloud, Patrice Newhaven, Clair Gauthier, Ronnie Roy—the whole damn neighborhood of camp owners had gathered to find out exactly what the skinny was with this skeleton bearing a wristwatch.

With an A-frame construction and a pulley contraption they dropped a cable with a wild game meat hook intact and reversed the hand crank to release metal cable from the spool. Then—once the cable reached the base of the muck—they allowed Stash to start jigging the cable.

At first it was slow and steady. Like teasing a walleye to take bait. Unfortunately, no such luck.

Then he bumped it up a notch when Tawny suggested snap jigging. On paper the idea would get the hook to drop deeper into the muck and the up snap might catch a rib cage. She’d had previous success with a weighted three hook treble on local lake sturgeon. Illegal? Possibly… Frowned upon? Definitely.

Taking heed—down went the hook now in a free fall—then Stash steadied for a jerk of a SNAP! “Hooked up… Yes… I do believe I’ve caught the corpse,” he informed all onlookers. Then with help from Rusty they tightened the cable with the crank and began to lift.

          “Shit… I mean not really… I mean—Who do you think it is?” announced Patrice.

“I’m guessing it’s going to be one of those circus gypsies,” Tawny spoke out. “You all remember when they were roaming these parts… Rumors about money laundering.”

          “Well, we’ll have to run some forensics on the body parts, once we get everything tagged, bagged, and sent to the mainland,” shared Stash. “No sense guessing until then.”

With the skeletal remains carefully maneuvered on the top side, Rusty and Stash swung the boom counterclockwise away from the tank and lowered the remains onto an old boat tarp they’d dug from the boathouse.

Body parts and limbs were quickly searched for clues and for a moment all breaths were held as Tawny removed the shiny watch with the alluring Bohemian band, loosely clinging to the remains of a left wrist bone.

“Hey…. This thing is still ticking!” She impressed the viewing audience, then passed the watch to Professor Scale.

          “She’s right!” he continued, “And the markings tell me this is truly high-end, a Bohemian-inspired luxury watch. If we can confirm it’s a Montblanc Boheme—which is incredibly expensive—it would also indicate a feminine elegance—meaning, it’s a WOMEN.

Then he spit on the backside of the watch head and polished it with his shirt sleeve. “There’s an inscription,” he announced. “Here Tawny, I can’t make out the words.”

The sun from the west dropped below the tree line of the natural harbor on the island as she held up the watch to catch the remaining beams of the day’s light. YES—there was an engraved name. NO—it did not resonate with Rusty, Cos, or any of the locals from Lac Du Bois.

          Tawny began inspection: “Oph…. Oph…. Ophilia.”

          “Clam…. Clamella.”

          “Ophilia Clamella B….”

          “B-something. Looks like Barnacle.”

          “Yep! Ophilia Clamella Barnacle—That’s it!

“The name on the watch strike a bell with anyone?” Stash polled the crowd. “Nope, me neither.”

          “It’s hard to say Stash,” offered Tawny. You know how folks come and go in these parts. For all we know—could have been a camp worker—out here “Crack ‘En Eggs” as a chef to make a living.”

“Or maybe just some unlucky guest who found themselves on the wrong side of a confrontation?” Rusty added.

          “You’re both right—impossible to speculate—we’ll bag everything and get it all sent down to Ottawa for examination. And hey! We got your septic cleaned out Rusty! So, there’s an upside.”

“Thanks for all the concern gang,” Rusty bid farewell to his neighbors. “We really appreciate you stopping over. Eight more days. Good luck with your opening season!”

When the last boat pulled away from the docks, an exhausted Rusty, Tawny and Cos made their way to the lodge. “Yep, eight more wonderful days. Think we’ll be ready?” He asked his partner and hired camp working guru.

          “We’ll be ready Rusty,” Tawny replied and pulled him near with her outstretched hand on his shoulder. “Or I wouldn’t have signed up for this gig.”

Meanwhile…. Downunder…. The Three Eagles continued to wait for intelligence via the Australian Royal Navy. Since they bailed from the Blackfin submarine and Admiral Horace Barnacle, a new game plan had yet to come to fruition.

“Hey, that little fracas inside Dude, Where’s My Board really worked up my appetite,” Sally announced. Why don’t we see if there’s a place where they’re “Crack ‘En Eggs”.

–To Be Continued—

JUNE 22 FISHING REPORT

Hey Sportsfans! 
 
A quick fishing update from Lake of the Woods… 
 
Despite daily weather changes, the June Jig-A-Thon continued to produce fish this week. In full transparency, the bite did slow down as the week went on… most likely caused (again) by the variable weather we have experienced. 
 
Nothing out of the norm for mid to late June, the classic 3/8oz jig, tipped with a frozen shiner was the best method to fill the cooler. (The guides have not yet committed to pulling spinners.) The charter boats have continued to spread out… mostly fishing the mud (30-33′). 
 
Pack accordingly… with the black flies out, pants are recommended. 
 
If you are headed this way… Garden Island is set up and accessible for the highly coveted SHORE LUNCHES! 
 
Forecasted for the next couple of weeks:
 
–  With temperatures rising next week, we could see a big bug hatch. 
 
– Spinner season is just around the corner. Who is ready to drift in Little Traverse Bay? 
 
– Don’t miss out!!! The 4th of July celebration is something special at Ballard’s Resort + our local community offers many family friendly activities. 
 
Now’s the time, make your way to Lake of the Woods. SET THE HOOK!
 

SEASON 3, EPISODE 24

Season Three – Episode 24 – “R & R”

When the Three Eagles walked through the front door of Dude, Where’s My Board (surfer bar) the jingling bell announced their arrival. It was time for some well-deserved “R & R”.

Then, from behind the bar, the keeper they would soon befriend shouted out, “Ladies make sure you get the sand kicked off them sandals.”

It was early, pre-Noon, and not a sole patron to be seen within the confines of the dilapidated excuse of a tavern. “Kick the sand off?” Sally thought… “Between the warped-out wood planking suffering from years of salt air, and potential asbestos hanging from the ceiling—last thing on this dude’s mind should be sand.

Turns out the dude’s name was Rip. Potentially short for the probability of him ripping off patrons. Time would tell.

From behind the bar counter, with his back now turned away from the Three Eagles, it appeared as though Mr. Rip was working on, at best, a well dated filet of raw mahi mahi.

Short of the reflex gag—Ellie was the first to notice the small white squirmy things on the outer portion of the meat. Then Hazel got the dry heaves when it was confirmed that these little squirrely whirlies were maggots.

Rip gave final confirmation when he picked them out with fingernails. Nails that were two weeks late of being trimmed. Then he flicked them into the nearby trash container. Sally doubled over from her barstool and spat on the floor.

“Good buddy of mine dropped off this nice piece of dolphin couple days ago,” Rip announced with his back still turned to the ladies. “Got a few maggots in the meat, but they’ll cook out if I can’t pick ‘em all.”

Turning to face the ladies—he wiped his hands on his apron—reached into the ice bin with bare hand—packed a glass with ice—and asked “Now, what can I pour you three beauties?”

          “Um…..We’re probably good on the mixers sir. How about a couple bottles of Great Northern Super Crisp for my friends and I,” requested Sally.

“Suit yourself…. I mix up a pretty mean Pimm’s Cup if you’re looking to quench a sea salt thirst.”

          “No…. No worries. Beers will be great.”

“This place doesn’t have quite the same vibe it did a half dozen years ago,” Hazel announced to her teammates. “Used to be crawling with surfer studs. Not parasites.”

          “Oh well,” replied Sally. “Peace and quiet and a cold frosty is just fine for me.”

“Speak for yourself there Eagle ONE,” fired Ellie. “I was hoping to maybe have my coals stoked a skosh.”

Two hours later and several beers deep the Eagles were shooting 8-ball, had the juke cranked playing Jimmy Barnes top ten, and were spinning Rip in circles on the hardwood. The poor retired surfer dude was getting pulled every which way but loose.

Four hours later the tournament had escalated—Rip, who was no longer the bartender, lay tits up in the corner—And a steady flow of NONSURFER rangy looking biker thugs started to amble in through the door.

Their surprise at seeing Sally, Ellie, Hazel? Epic! But not in a pleasant sort of fashion. To be exact—this beer joint of a dump hadn’t seen a member of the female persuasion since forever.

At first…. In cool Eagle fashion…. The girls opted to play friendly.

Sally slung a few drinks from behind the bar—Ellie took a twirl on the floor with a couple chumps that could have bottled their own BO and sold it for skunk piss—And Hazel let a few peons win a couple billiard games.

All was well, until it wasn’t. That’s when gang leader Bubba Big Dink solicited Sally for a trip around the block.

Instantly, her cool as a cucumber disposition disappeared quicker than a ghost shrimp being slurped by a bonefish. She came across the top of the bar top with a forearm shiver to the nose of one Mr. Dink.

“Three Eagles Unite!” she screamed, with Dink on his way to the floor. Then, following the thud of his musk melon to the hardwood, all went quiet in Dude, Where’s My Board. The briefest of silences mind you. A heartbeat at best.

The next sound occurred when Ellie’s heel caught her dance partner square to the jaw with a round-house cage fight move—kicking and smacking him into the vinyl vault. The needle skipped over the chorus on Jimmy Barnes “Working Class Man”. No one seemed to notice.

Not wanting to be considered a maker of peace—Hazel joined the fracas—using her pool cue as a ninja staff. She whirled and twirled and cartwheeled around the billiard table banging every noggin within spitting distance.

Then, when the crowd of maulers began to retreat and circle their proverbial wagon, she shucked her 34D brassier with a Houdini act that no man has ever been able to perform without removing the shirt. This spit second feat produced a primitive hand-thrown weapon (sling) capable of launching stripes and solids at high speed.  

All said and done there were twenty-seven bikers on the floor when the asbestos from the ceiling settled. Rip remained propped in the corner. Sally had broken a fingernail when she smashed a beer mug off someone’s skull. Ellie and Hazel were no worse for the wear. For the Three Eagles, their summation of the festivus was quite rousing. Upon departure it was equally agreed “This has been an extremely well deserved and fun filled afternoon. Something that should be done more often.”

At the top of the world in NW Ontario the gang was having much less success with a not very much being accomplished sort of day at work. Link was having a hell of time with his band of delinquent geese, who continued to drop number-twos across the property with disrespect for new ownership.

At best, it was chaos with some unwarranted and fowl drama. Lead gander named Chaz, was absolutely refusing to comply with Operation: Deuce Drop Relocation.

So much so—When Link borrowed his tiny squirrel friend’s megaphone—made from an old paper towel tube—to make an announcement and gather the flock—Pain in the ass Chaz started campaigning on his own among the down-feathered crowd by stating: “Hospitality on this island stinks, along with whatever’s in that septic tank!”

True…. The situation in the septic tank had gone south. Back at the pit Stash McGivern had set up yellow DO NOT STEP IN SH** tape around the holding site and Rusty was wrapped in a wool Hudson Bay blanket shaking off the side effects of his double faint.

“I’m gonna need some “R & R” after this job’s complete,” announced Stash to no one in particular, while clamping a medium sized wooden C-clamp to the nostril portion of his beak. “Buy a fishing camp, live the good life,” he continued. “If only I had a looney (1$ Canadian coin) for every Yankee I seen cross the border chasing a dream.”

–To Be Continued–  

SEASON 3, EPISODE 23

Season Three – Episode 23 – “Hidden Treasure”

At maximum the septic tank was six feet deep. No real danger now that Rusty had worked his way two feet down. The real danger came in the form of the M-T-M power washer and his newly acquired full body condom of exterior makeshift protection against what would become massive amounts of splattering.

Snorkeling goggles secured—mouth guard in place—hands hidden inside oven mitts—he continued blasting with relentless force. And honestly, he somewhat enjoyed the work. It reminded him of the days on the farm as a youth with cousins Skip and Scoop. Their casual lending of hands was needed doing similar work after transferring pig filled pens to further stages of their grooming for the plate process. Someone had to do the cleanup job.

Work was going much faster thanks to Tawny. Tasks were being accomplished in minutes. In no time this project would be complete. And then—the M-T-M power washer exposed something other than hard settled poop.

Lifting his goggles Rusty laser focused his vision on the bottom half of the newly exposed pit. It was a wristwatch. Something with ornate detailing. Possibly a brass or bronze casing.

He paused…. Then he thought…. It’s “Hidden Treasure.”

Yes, now with chest to the ground, hands clasping the edges of the tank, head stuck down into the pit he could clearly identify what appeared to be a vintage watch. Potentially, some sort of valuable heirloom that would be passed down through generations.

The leather wrap band suggested Bohemian quality. Rough—Functional—Unique. This suggested life on the road. Constantly moving. Always adapting.

What he couldn’t identify was the exposed wrist, belonging to the arm, that was attached to the BODY!!

An ice-cold boathouse rag, dripping with frigid spring lake water, brought Rusty back to consciousness. From his backside he peered up, dazed and confused, with Tawny kneeling by his side applying the cold press.

Unfortunately, his return to the awakened world lasted less than a minute. His new island partner was kneeling over him in a rather precarious position. So much so—It allowed an inescapable, albeit brief glimpse of her cleavage. Instantly overwhelmed by this faux pas—he went to the dark world once again.

YES, Tawny was a knockout—NO, Rusty could not handle her one-two punch.

“Flathers… Flathers… Hey, pull it together!” were her encouraging words, along with some rather abrupt facial slaps used to bring him around for the second time.

          “Dude—Dude—OK—I’m awake, stop hitting me,” he responded now holding his chin feeling as though there may have been one or two additional, and warranted, closed fist punches to his jaw.

Professor Cosmoid Scale also joined in the excitement taking place at the septic system site. His sopping wet clothes clung to his sides, evidence of another failed attempt at fixing the main dock.

“What do you got here Rusty my boy?” he queried.

          “Something bigger than you can flush down a toilet.”

With Cos and Tawny both peering into the pit Rusty continued to gather his wits. Then they each confirmed with a shared glance, “Yep, we’ve got the bones of a body preserved at the bottom of this tank.”

Before Rusty could get the words out, “Now what do we do?”, local laker Stash McGivern was pulling into the harbor on his routine mail route.

“Oh—Perfect timing,” announced Tawny. “Stash can marry you and bury you on the same day.”

          “What do you mean?”

“I’m saying he’s not only the mailman, but he’s also the local lake patrol enforcement officer, an ordained minister, and our area mortician slash funeral director. It’s perfect timing.”

          “Is Stash really his first name?”

“No—It’s Orvis. Stash was a nickname he picked up in high school. Could never grow a mustache—Was consistently denied by the peach fuzz—But never gave up hope. Thus… You get STASH.”

From the mailboat climbs out McGivern. He’s wearing full lake authority apparel: boat captain’s hat with affixed enforcement badge, fishing vest with envelope compartments, starched priest’s collar, and a shoulder satchel to haul packages. The bag displays embroidering that reads Mortuary Monthly. Presumably a gift from the company for being part of the funeral home association.

“Flathers—You got any mail to go today?” he asks, after greeting the septic drawn crowd.

          “Actually, we do—Ah—Um—Mr. Stash. Come take a look.”

With Tawny, Cosmoid, and Rusty standing over the poop pit turned archaeological dig site, the glimmer of the wristwatch hit Stash right between the eyes when he took his first glance.

“Looks like y’all got yourself a fossilized floatie in that tank,” Stash exclaimed. “Might want to get the authorities out here. Oh wait—that’s me.”

Speaking of waiting, the gals (Sally, Ellie, Hazel) had plentifully reached their proverbial fill by the time Admiral Horace Barnacle raised Blackfin Phantom to the surface and set the three Eagles merrily on their way toward the mainland of Bremer Bay in a motorized inflatable raft.

YES—the Blackfin was a “Hidden Treasure.” NO—utilizing Barnacle in pursuit of The Kraken amounted to a pile of poop.

–To Be Continued–