SEASON 3, EPISODE 29

–Season 3 Episode 29— “Under the Boathouse”

Tawny’s voice cut through the engine noise of the Cessna 185 float plane like an eight-inch Rapala filet knife through a walleye. “What the hell is she (Sally Squatnfishes) doing here, Flathers?!”

          “Wait—what—you two know each other?” was his immediate response. And then his previous night with zero REM sleep put his head into a serious tailspin.

“Yeah—we do—just ask her about the Lac des Bois mega bass tourney, eight years ago!” Tawny hollered.

          “What is happening?!” exclaimed Rusty, pressing his fingers on his temples and manually turning his head from side to side. This, as he watched Ellie Waylayer disembark from the float plane and step down to the main harbor dock falling in line with Sally. “I have to be hallucinating—Ellie what are you doing here—too much caffeine!”

Even Link the British Labrador puppy wasn’t making sense. Rusty could see him from across the yard, but instead of barking he swore he could hear him speaking French Canadian. Something about one of his squirrel buddies and a black pearl Under the Boathouse.

Eight years ago…. The final fish (Tawny & Sally) needed for their bag of five, on day three of the smallmouth bass contest came out from under a boathouse. Tawny herself knew the fish weighed at least 6.8 pounds—she’d seen the bass two and a half weeks prior to the tournament. The fish had been hiding out at Rowell Island where she’d discovered it while doing some underwater scuba work on the proprietor’s crib dock.

“You fish the back half,” was Tawny’s command to Sally as she idled down the 300hp Yamaha engine on the Ranger 621 and eased the Minn Kota bow mount trolling motor into the water.

          “Seems I’ve been doing just fine all day!” retorted Sally. And in truth—she had.

All four of the smallmouth bass in the live well today…. Were from Sally’s production. These fish were coming straight out from the back of the boat and parallel to the shore. The fish had moved off the bank early that day and her deep diving rusty-cray-colored jerkbait had been productive. So much so, that under protest, an infuriated Tawny would not speak a word of praise.

“Look, we’re going to need at least a 30.8-pound bag to win this damn thing,” Sally sounded off. “That means we need a fish close to seven pounds. Are you sure we should be chucking baits inside a boathouse to find one? They’ve been off the deeper shorelines all day, hey.”

          Tawny broke silence just as she fired a yellow, size 8 Yo-Zuri popper, into the first stall of the boat garage, “I got this Stinksatfishing.”

The following explosion rivaled the Chernobyl disaster. First, Tawny’s lure exited the boathouse with the projected 6.8-pound bass in hot pursuit. Next, Sally had a hold of the thin end of her fishing rod and was swinging the butt handle directly at the back of Tawny’s noggin.

Most folks refer to it as getting “crazy eyes”. A thousand times confirmed, Sally had them. And with the purposeful mispronunciation of her last name, she officially erupted, having had her fill of what she considered an unappreciative Tawny.

When the handle grip of the fishing pole struck paydirt, so did the smallmouth bass on the Yo-Zuri popper. Problem was—the ensuing scrum taking place on the bow of the boat betwixt Sally and Tawny—gave neither angler the opportunity nor the wherewithal to SET THE HOOK!

The crowd went wild back at the weigh-in ceremony. Cameras were flashing. All eyes were on the heralded local Tawny Bishop and this new Yankee angler—Sally Somethingoranother.

Bright lights blasted on them as they rode the Ranger 621 to center stage—Tawny with a mangled bushiness of hair snarled up with 20# Super FC Sniper Line and a 2/0 treble hook pinned through one ear lobe holding it all in place—Sally with a left eye taking on four shades of black and what appeared to be a portion of custom cork handle from a fishing rod stuffed into her right ear.

Head to toe both women were soaked clean through. Yep, this duo had literally gone overboard.

If it were a well-attended wet T-shirt contest during the 1970’s, they’d have won hands up with applause. As it stood—four fish in the box drew cat calls and booing from the raucous crowd. These sophisticated fans of fishing wanted to see trophy bass, not prize busts.

Sally attempted to politely explain their “lost the big one” woes at the microphone while Tawny once again had to be restrained by the weigh-in judges. It was an effort in futility as she attempted to get her hands around the amateur’s throat one final time. Allowing Canada versus the US with gloves off on nationally viewed bass television would not be allowed. After all—this isn’t hockey, it’s mature—it’s fishing.

Now it was Rusty’s turn to separate the two…. This time gloves off…. Toe to toe on the dock….

His first of many mistakes was an ill-advised move to get between a crouched and fearless Sally and a hard charging Tawny. A plan that required a man of both strength and wisdom. He maintained neither now.

Epic failure. Best way to describe it. Someone may as well toss a Molotov cocktail into a fireworks warehouse. Rusty was the first to go into the lake, and this before the prop of the airplane had even ceased to spin.

“Let ‘em work it out!” Ellie shouted, with Cos and now Hazel Brown who also departed the plane, making their way to the middle of the fracas. “Just—no hitting each other in the face—ladies” was her shout above the squall request to the two combatants.

But Cosmoid couldn’t stand the chance of violence and insisted on attempting to squash the quarrel by intervening with calmer words, “Now ladies—please—let’s sort this….”

And before his sentence was finished, he found himself floundering in the same pool as Rusty, neck deep in ice cold spring lake water, treading for shore and higher ground. It may have been Tawny or Sally that body checked him out of the way and into the lake. It’s tough to tell from a distance when the claws and the hair start flying.

Though Rusty saw it differently—potentially it was this New Gal Pal (yet to be introduced as Hazel Brown) who was the culprit. This unidentified third party was clearly looking to see some action. And he also noticed she wasn’t too hard on the eyes—relative to Sally-Ellie-Tawny—not that he was making quick and calculated comparisons. Dammit Rusty….

Scratching his way out of the water, shivering and gasping with very little manliness left in his core, Rusty glanced back toward the dock—again in the direction of Hazel Brown. It wasn’t the violent storm of Sally locked with Tawny in a fit of flailing limbs and raging hair, he was locking eyes with this newcomer to the party.

Hazel Brown did not flinch. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t blink. But she did lean into Ellie’s ear and whisper, “If he’s chilled now, just wait until Sally tells him what we think is Under the Boathouse.”

–To Be Continued—

SEASON 3, EPISODE 28

–Season 3  Episode 28—  “Fish your own waters, it’s a big lake!”

 Day three of the tournament and the top five weights were tight. The girls were sitting in the five spot, and they both agreed it would take a thirty-pound bag to boat away with the championship.

This was no fishing derby—no siree—this was the Canadian mega bass tournament of the year. Two hundred and eighty teams were gathered on Lac des Bois for the Pro-Am’s most exclusive event of the summer season.

With so much competition, Sally Squatsnfishes found herself lucky to be paired with a local professional guide who was hard nosed enough to intimidate the fiercest opponent with a laser glare that screamed “Fish your own waters, it’s a big lake!” Meaning? I find you so much as pre-fishing my spots, there WILL be hell to pay! Again, in this situation and with a $500,000 purse at stake, Tawny Bishop was an excellent partner draw.

Tough stik—Magic wand—High hook setter—Eat—Sleep—Fish—Sexy as a smallmouth bass on a spawning bed—Tawny was THE GOAT when it came to fishing her local waters.

For those of you in the know—Pro Am’s are run as a random team selection. During the week or pre-fishing, you have one Professional who is paired with one Amateur for the week. Practice together, hang together, fish the three-day tourney together.

Most pro’s ask little of their amateur status partner other than… Stay out of the way—Don’t ask stupid questions—And when I say, “get the net!” you’d better already have it in your hands. Not exactly the sort of adventure Sally Squatsnfishes is accustomed to, but her agent urged her to participate in this event to expand her international notoriety.

“Keep your ego and your overly competitive nature in check,” were his exact words. “Your demeanor may fly in the states, but our friendly neighbors north of the border tend to be a bit more reserved.”

August was a tough smallmouth bass bite. Many anglers would compare it to chasing isolated trophy musky. You fish a very specific location—deep submerged bolders—soupy weeds—offshore reefs—or shoreline treefall. And it’s in these areas that you search for ONE fish. One smallmouth bass that will contribute to a limit of five in the live well per day. Yes, you’re looking for a six-pound average per fish to win. Tough competition—tough tournament.

As an up and comer in the outdoor fashion industry, and relatively unknown in the province of Ontario, Sally was just another name on the list to Tawny Bishop. When Sally was busy playing with dolls, running lemonade stands in the local neighborhood, and spending long afternoons on the family lake house beach building sandcastles—Tawny was running around Lac des Bois in a fourteen-foot tin skiff with a 10-hp Evinrude two stroke, chasing piscatorial dreams and flipping boats in rough water just for the fun of it.

Learning curve—this is something innate that you can’t teach or coach—something untouchable—something (fishing) that is more less ingrained in your soul. And this is Tawny Bishop. aka THE GHOST (you will never see her on the water, but you will feel her presence, and you know she is catching fish). Arguably, at a very young age she was a modern-day fish whisperer. Reserved, yet intimidating. Calm, but aggressive. Quiet, but speaking volumes with a fishing rod.

It took the entirety of day one of the tournament during pre-fishing for Sally to ask all the WRONG questions to Tawny:

–Where are we going to find the bass?

          In the water…

–What technique will we be using?

          I’ll be using what makes them bite…

–How do you know where to go?

          I go where the fish want to be…

–Is it always this windy?

          Fish the wind…

–How far is it to the next spot?

          When we get there…

–Do you eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day?

          They’re my favorite… And you have officially passed my daily allotment for questions. And you need to be quiet or you’ll scare the fish.

Prior to takeoff on day three of the fishing tournament, Sally was repeatedly reminded by Tawny, “When we get to a spot, you remain at the stern of the boat, you fish the middle water to the back of the transom—I have the middle to the bow at a forward forty-five degree angle and I’m always the first to cast. Always. Got it?”

          “Yes,” Sally replied with a deep sigh and a roll of the eyes from behind her green tinted Costa Del Mar sunglasses. “I’ll stay out of your way.”

“Welp, it’s got us into fifth place with a shot to win, hasn’t it?

          “Yes, fearless leader, it has.”

The insistence for Sally to remain a noncompete onlooker became unbearable. Their first stop of the morning had Tawny pitching jig-n-pigs at a sunken tree while Sally sulked in the back, bit what was left of her tongue, and aimlessly casted jerk baits off the back of the boat.

Then lightning struck and a miracle happened! Like a spark to a dry twig. But this time it was SALLY breaking the proverbial ice with the first bass. The bright sunny sky with a cloudless ceiling had pushed the fish deeper off the edge of the banks. Water clarity was excellent, and so was the five- and three-quarter pounder that took her Rapala for a ride down the Reading Railway. One cast—one twitch of the jerk bait—one fish in the livewell of which required Tawny to man the landing net. This was new territory for someone accustomed to calling the shots.

“What…. No, nice fish…. No, good job partner….” Sally taunted.

          “Even a blind squirrel finds the occasional nut,” was Tawny’s response. Followed by a thirty second stare down, a raised eyebrow, and tilt of the head as if to say, “You want some of this Squatsnfishes?”

“Ok, but the last time I checked, this IS a two-person tournament, so whatever.”

          “Exactly…. Let’s move on….”

One fish in the box, next stop the floating dock at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters. When the amphib bush plane landed and taxied toward them, the pace of the construction project dwindled. From a distance—when Tawny Bishop watched Rusty and Cos greet the plane—the arrival of Ms. Sally Squatsnfishes brought the entire project to a screeching halt!

Immediately, Tawny unbuckled her tool belt, marched across the lawn of the camp and began screaming, “Fish your own waters, it’s a big lake!” over the roar of the Cessna 185’s prop engine.

Sally practically shit twice—could read Tawny’s expression a mile away like a doomsday explosion—and instinctively felt for the pistol on her hip. “Unadvised, but potentially necessary,” she thought to herself.

–To Be Continued—

JULY 15 FISHING REPORT

Hey Sportsfans! 
 
End of June fishing went as expected… FANTASTIC! The jig bite was crazy, coolers were full, and large fish were caught. 
 
Rolling through the first weeks of July, the bite has been more variable. Fish counts have been dependent on… 
 
– wind conditions (too little wind and the fish were picky, too much wind and the guides couldn’t get where they wanted to go)
 
– the bug hatch (never avoidable, always annoying)
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Heading this way? Expect to fish in Little Traverse Bay, with the best fishing being roughly 27′ of water in the mud. Drifting with spinners has been significantly more effective than jig fishing. 
 
Hot colors have varied day to day, but the brighter the color, the better. Pack the bait cooler with frozen shiners and crawlers… both have been catching fish. 
 
The Long Point mud have been the golden ticket to catching slot fish… and if you’re lucky, and over. 
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Ready to Set the Hook? Reach out for our:
 
– Our Back to School Send Off…  August 24th -30th… Kids 12 and under get 20% off their package rate
 
– Fall Classic Special… discounted rates for September and October
 
#SETTHEHOOK

SEASON 3, EPISODE 27

Season Three – Episode 27 – “Gather Your Wits”

The spring sunrise greets FSFO (Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters) early on day seven. One full week remaining until the first guests of the first year of fishing camp business arrive.

Rusty is NOT rested. Matter of fact—513am—He’s still sitting straight as a statue on the davenport with Tawny sleeping peacefully—Her head on his lap. Whoops!

Whoops as in…. Rusty got zero winks last night…. Rusty needs to keep his focus on the camp…. Rusty needs to remind himself what “Link” (the British puppy) stands for….   HIS soulful connection and commitment to Sally Squatsnfishes.

Finally, Professor Scale morning grumbles from his recliner. It’s enough to stir Link from the throw rug, who in turn announces a new dawn at the camp with a rousing BARK (let me out to pee).

Now it’s Tawny’s turn to roust…. Whereas she finds herself comfortably placed on the couch…. She also (quite quickly) becomes uncomfortable with her position on Rusty’s lap.

Easy solution. Gather your wits. Face the day!

Except when she did…. She stared into his face and Rusty had that cross-eyed, smirky grin going. This was enough for her to sit backbone square and proceed to punch him just below the rib cage with a right hook.

As the air left his pipes he hunched over and gasped, “What was that for?”

  “For thinking anything you might not want to be thinking!” she responded. “Now why don’t you stop gawking at me and get some breakfast going. Today! And also, TODAY we’re going to build a bunkhouse with some private sleeping quarters. Priority of today!”

Short of a three-ring circus, the construction project began with an exhausted Rusty gathering tool supplies, only to watch Link snag them in his teeth and race off into the bush. Not exactly fetching—more on the taking spectrum. Huge learning curve to overcome.

Professor Scale was exactly that…. A professor. One who insisted on perfection…. Insisting that every measurement and cut be precise by exercising a “check it twice” rule.

          “We’re not building the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel,” Tawny commented. “It’s a fishing camp bunk house, hey.”

Between searching the bush for missing tools (scavenger hunt) and bringing them to Tawny… Rusty soon realized her indispensable talents. Even when he brought the wrong tool, or Cos took the wrong measurement, she still had the building framed, and the walls up quicker than you could catch a pre-spawn musky during the early smallmouth bass season. For those in the know—that’s quick! (and illegal 😊) Dammit Rusty!

The pace of the Three Eagles had also accelerated considerably. They reached Wylie Bay and Pollard’s place without a hiccup. Met a dude called Dusty Lensecap (eyeglasses thicker than Coke bottle bottoms) who ran the Lock It Up surf shack. And gained access to double-top-secret intel via the Royal Australian Navy through communication with their compadres in Oh Canada.

The girls were scurried to the surfboard storage basement where they watched a two-minute clip on Lensecap’s PC before it disintegrated into flames. Some powerful ideas were shared with Sally, Ellie and Hazel.

Random unidentifiable narrator on medium volume:

Hello Eagle’s…. It’s recently been brought to our attention that our mates in Canada uncovered some smothered bones belonging to one Ophelia Clamella Barnacle.

Before you ask questions…. Please know this….

Ophelia Clamella Barnacle was the heiress to the world famous and utterly wealthy Clamella family. We’re talking about seven generations of pearl harvesters. This dynasty was built on back pain. No easy work.

And this is interesting…. Ophelia actually enjoyed getting dirty. Her great-great-great-great grandmother Myrt Clamella once dove into the throws of a stormy sea to chase a clam the size of a miniature Dachshund, and it has been reported that Ophelia would do the same. Meaning? Do anything, and we say ANYTHING to remain insufferably rich.

She was also the wife, let me correct myself, ex-wife of one Admiral Horace Barnacle, chief pilot of the Blackfin Phantom Submarine.

Now here’s where the story gets smelly… This wasn’t just some unhappy ex-wife. And certainly, not some lady that was randomly bouncing around NW Ontario and accidentally slipped into a septic tank and died.

NO—Ophelia broke ties with Horace. It’s believed she went rogue with an eastern bloc influencer. This person was a proposed double agent stationed at a top-secret freshwater research facility on Lac des Bois. This site was strictly referred to by Canadian black ops as KRKN-8. They were investigating the potential of moving Kraken subspecies through underwater fault lines connecting deep oceans to interior lakes.

YES—This means our Canadian friends were investigating schemes to get ahead of any potential Kraken infestations.

NO—With Ophelia and whomever her counterpart was (male / female) running rouge she was not chasing clams. She was chasing MONEY! Her relationship with Barnacle had gone south and so had the clam business.

YES—We also, through Ophelia and Admiral Barnacle, have been able to trace DNA samplings pinning your “Too Tall and Shorty Short” as estranged children of the unhappy couple. Seems as though they are also playing a mix in this Kraken caper. We assume Horace to be clueless as ever. We assume Ophelia to be the brains behind the beast.

Final note Eagles: there are rumors now surfacing that Ophelia and her sons were smuggling Kraken egg sacs into NW Ontario and hiding them in septic systems on remote island fishing camps.

Your next move is to surf your way off coast to join up with the flight crew on the restored HMAS Melbourne. Rusty Lensecap has your longboards prepared. From there—each of you will board an F/A – 18F Super Hornet. At Mach 1.8 which is approximately 1381mph, we can have you settled in for an evening of fresh Canadian walleye shore lunch in two shakes of a spinning rod.

Now, Gather Your Wits, do either of you three ladies have contacts in the Lac des Bois region?

With this final statement—the HP Laptop burst into flames—and so did Sally’s image of Rusty and Cosmoid enjoying their first Canadian Walleye Fishing Opener at Flathers & Scales Fishy Outfitters.

–To Be Continued—