JUNE 8 – FISHING REPORT

Hey Sportsfans… 
 
The early June, annual fishing contest resumed again this year. Two boats. One with the gals. One with the guys. Is it safe to assume who caught more fish??? (THE GALS DID!)
 
Finding the most fish around Garden/Little Oak/Little Traverse Bay, the guides have been making the long haul across the lake almost daily. 
 
Typical for June:
– fish are moving deeper (29′-32′) in the mud
– boats are catching 100+ fish on most days
– jigs tipped with a frozen shiner have been most productive
 
Something to keep an eye on for the upcoming week — bugs. Reports off the lake claim the bugs are starting to pop up on the surface of the water.
 
#SETTHEHOOK

SEASON 3, EPISODE 22

Season 3 – Episode 22 “It’s Quicksand!”

Sally dreamt the dream of a thousand dreams. It’d been almost 72-hours since she’d arrived in Australia, and she and Rusty were two beach bums, windsurfing, clinking ice cold bottles of Carlton Draught and getting touched by the sun as much as they were kissing each other.

His five days past due for a shave and five weeks past due for a haircut were his perfect vibe. She could be comfortable—herself—relaxed in Rusty’s presence. No expectations to meet. No “I have to do the next best thing”. No pressure to hold the weight of the world on her shoulders.

They walked towards the sunset. Rusty let go of her hand and ran ahead along the oceanfront with Link at his heels. He ran toward the orange blaze, setting a ball of fire and his image disappeared into the brightness.

Only Link returned to her heel as she called for them to return. She picked up her stride and each step raised a notch of anxiety. The fine sand beneath her feet became mixed with a combination of clay, saltwater and groundwater.

The solid surface under her feet lost its strength—she sprints—objects surrounding her are sinking—“It’s Quicksand!”.

She cries out for Rusty, but the only thing remaining to be seen is his Patagonia truckers cap. The one she recently gave to him before her surprise announcement they would be doing a remote trip to Rio Malleo in Argentina. This was world-class dry fly fishing. An epic river adventure. The trip of a lifetime.

With a broken tree limb Sally reached out to rescue the ball cap. And then she too felt herself falling uncontrollably toward the quicksand.

Who will rescue her—Her strength is weakened in the pool of sand—Treading to stay afloat—She has no one to reach for her.

Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the USA was the ring notification that brought her to consciousness—this song was released on June 04, 1984. Unbeknownst to Sally at this juncture, June 04 would also mark an even more commemorative day in her future—an extremely VIP birthdate.

Five hours later Sally Squatsnfishes was out of her bunk, washing sandy dreams from her mind, and refocusing on The Kraken. Her primal fear was palpable, but she kept it hidden beneath layers of what exuded as a calmness.

“Hey girls—Ready for a thirty-minute rejuve?” Sally quizzed while holding the door of the spa open for both Ellie Waylayer and Hazel Brown.

The spa’s ambiance is serene. Next level when one considers you’re traveling below the sea’s surface on a reconnaissance submarine. The lighting is soft. There’s an overwhelming sound of water trickling in the background. But not in an alarming way. This is gentle—soothing—chill.

Sally, Ellie, and Hazel are greeted by a friendly spa attendant named Hans Rubalot. For the spa biz the dude seemed appropriately named. All things considered… EAGLE ONE—TWO—THREE were jacked.

“Let’s spoil ourselves!” Sally announced.

Then each of them was provided with a plush robe. Three unique and slightly flashy colors. Then slippers and a key for personal belongings in a locker.

Ellie opted for a Swedish massage. Preferring the long, flowing strokes that ease muscle tension and make you feel less like punching people in the face when certain “spy things” don’t go your way. Hans insisted this pressure was coming from her glutes, and as he paused his massage mid-stroke, he infused by saying, “I once massaged a Yeti in Kathmandu with similar tendencies.”

Hazel chose an aromatherapy massage. More so for the calming effects. You never shout, “CALM DOWN” to someone with high anxiety. Hans appeared dissatisfied with her choice of treatment. Muttering to himself something along the lines of “wasted dragon eggs” in reference to his bundle of hot stones sitting idly on the caterer’s cart.

Sally went all in on the hot stone massage. She was ready to “embrace the burn”. Thus, potentially alleviating the possibility of sending Admiral Horace Barnacle out the trash shoot of the submarine. This brief idea of niceties passed quickly as Hans infectiously hummed “Eye of the Tiger” off-key and then produced a marine mud body wash that smelled incredibly close to pickled herring.

“What’s our plan Sally?” asked Ellie and Hazel almost in unison after the massages. They had been invited by Hans to “stay as long as they like” and were currently enjoying a bevy of infused waters and herbal teas.

          “Now that we are recharged… We need to get back to Bremer Beach. More reconnaissance on mainland… Less cruising on the Blackfin. At least until we know more about who and what we are up against.

“Agree,” followed Ellie. “Just cruising around out here, waiting to be ambushed by The Kraken, doesn’t seem like our best offense. I agree. Back to shore best bet.”

“I got a guy at Dude, Where’s My Board, he might be able to give us more intel,” Hazel added with a sly grin. “And he’s got a great set of surfer quads. So, there’s that.”

Ellie arched an eyebrow. “Is that your best version of a credible source for intel?”

Hazel sipped her tea. “Absolutely, it might not hurt you to HANG-TEN, if you know what I’m saying.”

Ellie did know what she was saying—And she hadn’t “hung-ten” since leaving Jackie Loonsuckle back in Montana at the Gold Rope Ranch. The Loonsuckle’s claimed to be big on Faith—Family—Ranching. Only Jackie was a bit lacking on the “faithful” part.

“Yah! Come to think of it… Let’s definitely go HANG-TEN!” exclaimed Ellie.

Sally—Always the more reserved—Agreed. The dream that occurred during their 5-hour shut it down and recharge the batteries time-out had her on edge. They (Eagle’s ONE—TWO—THREE) needed to get to shore and blow off some steam. They weren’t sailors—But they deserved a bit of leave.

Back at the island (FSFO) sir Rusty Flathers was still busy steaming the layers upon layers of solid sediment and waste in the septic tank at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters on  Lac des Bois in NW Ontario. With a garden hose and a steel rake he had now managed to plunge his way two feet down.

New sidekick Tawny Bishop had already tightened up the overhead cam on the diesel generator—restored power to all outlets in the lodge kitchen—had the pump house up and running with both HOT and COLD running water—and was currently testing an old M-T-M Industrial Plus Pressure Washer she’d found in the back of the boathouse.

With gold plated pistons the M-T-M could produce 3000psi at ten-gallons per minute. This contraption, built in the early 1950’s, could take the eye out of a barn swallow at fifty-paces. Or take the hide off a Holstein bull. 

Her plan was to Saran Premium Wrap said partner Rusty… Giving him the protection of a makeshift full body condom. Basically, dress him up like a lacking-for-money Ghostbuster in a sausage casing.

After that, she would turn him loose (full send) in attack mode on this septic system poop project. Tic-toc we have guests arriving soon. Let’s work smarter.

“I feel like a damn human burrito,” he thought. “Better get to it.”

His first pull on the handle of the pressure washer gun knocked him back into the tank with a cartoon summersault. Canadian Olympic judges would have scored him a perfect-10 if it were part of a gymnastics floor routine. Unfortunately, this was not the festive games—his consolation medal was recovering in time for there to be no witnesses.

Rusty considered his location perched atop the crust of the hardpack somewhat precarious. And then began to doubt it more as the surface began to soften beneath his feet.

Now that he’d worked his way a couple feet down, the surface had become saturated and loose. What appeared to be solid ground was quickly becoming unstable.

“It’s Quicksand!” Tawny shouted over his shoulder. “Not really, but you might want to get out of that pit.”

–To Be Continued—

SEASON 3, EPISODE 21

The water lines and plumbing needed attention. The generator sounded like a Jiffy Pop popcorn bag over a campfire. Then there was the concerning septic tank, where you know what, was not flowing downhill. You fill in the blank—”you know what”—can start with either an “s” or a “p”.

“Well, here’s the thing Flathers,” Tawny instructed. “There’s only one way to get “Dirty Deeds, Done,” and then she popped the lid off the septic tank. Vile…Odiferous…Repugnant… Pick a word. Bottom line: the odors inside the tank were repulsive.

Upon first inspection Rusty wanted to barf. The fumes that escaped under the hatch were pungent to his nostrils, and he immediately pulled the Simms fishing buff over his face and nose.

“Probably just going to have to get used to that stench, at least until you find your way to the bottom of this tank,” Tawny advised. “Get yourself a steel rake, use it like a plunger, but you have to have a steady flow of water coming here from a hose to help loosen things up.”

          “Is it solid all the way to the bottom? Six feet?” Rusty asked.

“Hard to say until you get through the top layer. I’ve seen some crusts be 6” to 12”. Others might go all the way to the bottom depending on how long any sort of service has been ignored,” she replied.

“So, jumping up and down on this first layer—probably not advisable.”

“Ahhhh… You’re catching on quickly Flathers. Now pinch your nose with a clothespin and get busy. We’re staring down the barrels of an up-and-coming fishing season.”

Rusty beamed with enthusiasm. It felt more than good for him to hear Tawny say the word “we are”.

The septic tank was plugged. Period. So much so that when Rusty started the project, he could literally stand at one top of the sludge and kick away at solid dusty debris. Clearly, it had been way too long since the system had been given attention, and now it was time to pay the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

Though he wasn’t necessarily paying to lure rats away—made Rusty think more of the annoying geese (Link’s buddies)—or if he pays The Piper, will it take care of his poop problems? Lots of questions running round chaotically in Rusty’s noggin. Similar to what the herd of LInk’s squirrely squirrel buddies would look like if they were jacked up on Mountain Dew.

“All this to catch a fish,” Rusty thought, as the first spackling of wet garden hose dirt / human waste splattered his forehead. Then the skies opened and the rains that accompanied Lac de Bois joined the poop party.

“Only one way to the bottom,” Tawny encouraged while spectating from a distance. “I’m going to go check on that generator. Damn thing pops like an old Ford 8N we had when I was a kid. Used it when we could, to haul wood from the bush. Otherwise, it generally took a team of horses.”

“I assume this is something she and her family would do regularly, while I was “busy” indoors, playing elementary basketball in the winters,” Rusty thought. “Two totally different tournaments.”

An alarming splash brought Rusty out of his mental trance. A combination of septic tank digging—and digging further into Tawny’s background.

“I’m ok—I’m ok,” sounded off Professor Scale. His water entrance off the edge of the dock was less than stellar. Noise wise? Sure, it carried the volume of a fifty-pound beaver slapping its tail on the water. Style points? 0.03 as voted upon by both Chinese and American judges. Scale was no Guo Jingjing when it came to technique, and his precision would never be mentioned in the same pool as a Greg Louganis, but he did give it some effort.

The old dock, meant to hold the camp rental boats in a safe haven, was a weather-beaten skeleton of its former self. “Try to get through this first season,” was what Cos told himself. But the further he got into rusted nails, rotten boards, and gaping holes there was a serious threat to guests. He himself was floundering in waist deep water the victim of a dock that had long outlived its functional years.

“Keep grinding,” he told himself—climbing back on the walkway, and then having every step across creaking boards feel like a gamble. “We need to turn this relic into a reliable structure.”

Even Link was doing his part. First order of duty was organizing his literal Squirrely friends to pick up sticks and debris across four acres of property that hadn’t seen a rake in a decade. They were more than compelled to pitch in when he offered up the attic of the boathouse in which to build the ultimate Squirrel lounging arena.

There was no stick, branch, or leaf too big or too small. The ultimate plan was shade, comfort, and a cool summer breeze. They could have their nuts and eat them too within the confines of these new digs. What a spectacular and protected view!

YES, the geese were frustrated with Link’s offering. Particularly the head goose and the lead gander. They were of the understanding they would have free reign on the property for grazing and such. “Such” including their free and God given right to expel tailfeather toffee wherever and whenever they were so inclined. In return they keep the grass manicured and weeds to a minimum. Seemed like a square deal.

“No such luck!” barked Link, once he had them gathered in a formidable flock. “I insist we keep the feathered fudge nuggets to a minimum—that means do your business accordingly behind the boathouse—or you’ll find my six newly sharpened incisors on the back of your heels.”

“Now honk twice if you comprende?” he howled.

There were exactly five ruffled feathers in total, but the bulk of the flock got the jest. Keep the grass trimmed—drop the Gooseberry bombs in an area away from the paths of humans. Got it.

Rusty didn’t even turn when Cosmoid launched off the dock for a second time. His focus was two feet down, into the unionized smell of the septic pit.

Sally’s focus was on the “HELLO LADIES” flashing in bold on the shattered sonar screen. Eagle ONE-TWO-THREE were sleep deprived, going on 72-hours, and getting “Dirty Deeds, Done,” seemed further and further away from fruition.

The silence from 300ft below the surface of the ocean continued. Five minutes—ten minutes—fifteen minutes…

Admiral Horace Barnacle called for a random “Underwater Etiquette Training Session,” in James Bond colorization. Hazel Brown shook her ringing ears as if to clear water from a swimming pool. No way was she in the mood for a lecture on etiquette.

Ellie Waylayer eased the subtle tension by placing a comforting hand on Sally’s shoulder. Sally disregarded Barnacle’s absurdity—checked her watch to confirm what was now thirty minutes of unharmed silence—and ordered her team to personal quarters.

“Ladies… We need a power nap and spa scene. Let’s embrace this silence and see if we can’t bug out for a bit. Set a five-hour timer for sleep—then meet me for a facial,” Sally directed.

“Barnacle, sound the alarms if whatever that was earlier—returns,” she glared. “We need you to hold it together for a hot second. Maybe back off the liquor locker—copy that?”

          “Madame, your safety and rest are of my utmost importance,” he replied. And then his knees buckled, and he passed out on the viewing deck, at the feet of Eagle’s ONE—TWO—THREE.

–To Be Continued—