SEASON 3, EPISODE 34

Season 3 – Episode 34 (Kiss A Quillback Carpsucker)

Ellie fell to her knees and embraced Hazel with the strength of ten thousand men. There is no amount of training in the espionage world that prepares you for your first kill—and Hazel had done it twice within minutes. 

Short of big game hunting…. Ellie herself had never been pushed to the extreme of combat in which you take another being’s life. And she continued to hold Hazel. And she wanted this new, raw emotion to loosen its grip on her Eagle Three partner.

The river bottoms of Tannis Falls were overflowing with whitetail deer and at age sixteen Ellie had joined the family tradition of making big game drives in heavily wooded, rolling bluff country. On opening day you would set up alone in a tree stand for the morning hunt—climb down a half hour prior to noon dinner—be back in the woods by early afternoon for the group PUSH.

Sitting alone in the woods was both eerie and enchanting at the same time for her. Hearing a twig snap or thinking you heard the BIG BUCK trouncing your way—only to be astonished that it was twin moose cows busting their way over leaf and limb in your direction, none the wiser of your existence. Captivating… That’s how she would pen the experience in her journal.

But the group PUSH, or deer drive as her uncles would declare it, was much different. This was daredevil—bullets flying from slug barrels—grown men tripping and falling over logs—shooting, hollering, marching non uniformly as they push anything and everything in the direction of their wide-eyed hunting-party members on post duty.

To be on post duty (blocker) required courage, utter blind faith that no one would shoot you through a dense patch of forest, and let’s face it—a bit of recklessness that a deer hide was more valuable than your own skin. And the game (animals)? Yes, they would come in your direction, charging out in hoards! From raccoons to coyotes to rabbits to EVEN a huge boar of a black bear—everything including the deer stampeded the woods as if being chased by a blazing fire ball.

At one point…. Ten minutes into the drive…. Ellie watched Uncle Clark, who was posting fifty yards down the line from her, shoulder his gun and shoot at what she identified as a stump. “It must have been looking at him funny,” she thought without hesitation.

On the first afternoon of opening deer season, the big PUSH, was strictly a brown it’s down meat hunt. With doe tags to fill this was when the family put venison first and foremost. Long winters required full freezers, and these guys would fire at anything that wasn’t wearing a blaze orange vest or carrying a bright and shiny Stanley stainless steel thermos.

Three legs…. That was the first deer that Ellie shot. She didn’t realize it until after the fact. Until after she had unloaded five rounds from her Browning semi-auto rifled slug gun. Until she watched it attempt to hurdle a barbed wire fence and fail hopelessly, kicking and flailing, entangled in the barbs until giving up the ghost.

Rabbits and squirrels and grouse she had bagged in previous hunting adventures were less emotional—a mere warm up to greater game. The size of this doe with its strength and agility made killing seem more like—well—killing.

Too Tall and Shorty Short were lifeless. Like the doe. Ellie pulled Hazel to her feet and away from the deer caught in the barbed wire fence.

“You’re going to get through this Haze,” was the best she could offer—short of yelling welcome to the espionage club!, which seemed enthusiastically inappropriate—and they gradually made their way toward the rescue attempt taking place below the floating dock.

Once, twice, three times now, Rusty kicked and pulled his way toward the bottom searching for Sally. The stained water allowed little for visualization. He would go under—come up below the billets of the dock—feel his hands under the plastic forms of the floats—resurface for air—nothing.

“Keep going!” was Cosmoid Scales encouragement. Even if Sally was unconscious below the surface, he knew of a case where a near-drowning victim had survived approximately sixty-six minutes in cold water. It gave him hope. At least enough to keep yelling.

On his fourth attempt…. Rusty did not resurface…. But instead chose to remain below the docks with his beloved. This time he had found his path between the billets. This time he had found air to suck barely above water level. And this time he screamed for all of NW Ontario to hear, “I’VE FOUND HER!!”

Sally was pinned between two sets of floats, non-responsive, and lifeless in his arms. Either from exhaustion or hypothermia she had been unable to keep her head above water.

“Hang onto her Rusty!” shouted Tawny as she joined the rescue and plunged below the surface—coming up for air only after she had identified Rusty’s location and an area in which she too could squeeze between the billets.

“We have to pull her below, and then to the surface!” she screamed into Rusty’s water filled ears.

“It’s our best chance! Take a deep breath on three!”

          “One,” Rusty counted, “Two, Three!”

With the duo pulling in unison, they freed Sally on their first attempt and brought her to the surface away from the danger of the docks. Now it was toward shore where Hazel and Ellie waited to hoist her from ice-cold water.

The fire in the stone pit raged. Sally sat three inches from the blaze, wrapped in wool blankets and sipping a scolding hot cut of coffee.

“Tastes pretty good,” she commented, “After being submerged for what, forty-three minutes?”

          “Yes, approximately,” agreed Cos. “And we have the mammalian diving reflex to thank for your still being with us! Along with the fact that you…. Ms. Squatsnfishes…. Never lose a fight!”

The cold water had been a blessing for Sally. In this case the drowning allowed her body to take over a slowing metabolic process that protected the brain from anoxic damage. It had also stopped the blood letting from her wounded shoulder. Two negatives (drowning / wounded) became a positive.

Giving Sally mouth to mouth resuscitation was less than appealing to Rusty. Necessary, but unattractive. Later he would tell her it reminded him of losing a bet to cousins Skip and Scoop, in which the loser (Rusty) had to French “Kiss a Quillback Carpsucker” for a period of one minute. It tasted like a combo of aged green algae and sandy river loam. But that’s a story for later.

“So, while I was away drowning like a champ, did you guys find the Kraken eggs?” Sally asked, her voice unmistakably back to its usual tough-ass sass.

          “Yes,” Ellie answered, “and—”

–To Be Continued–  

SEASON 3, EPISODE 33

–Season 3 Episode 33— “An Early Christmas Miracle” 

With Shorty Short on the move and heading in the direction of the boathouse…. This gave Tawny the sense to quickly inch toward the corner edge of the stone firepit, violently scraping the tie strap binding her legs against the sharpness of granite. Within seconds her legs were free.

“Knife—Knife—I need a knife,” she calmly queried.

          “Boathouse!” snapped Rusty. “I me-me-mean fish….” And before he could finish fish cleaning house, she was sprinting toward the structure.

Flinging the door of the shack open she immediately located a Hudson’s Bay trade knife. This was a cherished tool of her Anishinaabe community. The carbon blade, wooden handle—she could dice through a walleye in twelve seconds—it was an extension of her hand.

Racing back to the firepit she flung herself back into her chair half of a blink before Shorty Short glanced over his shoulder to check on the captives. It would take “An Early Christmas Miracle” for Flathers and company to take back the island.

Charles Wildrice Lilienthal III (aka Chas the local pain in the ass Canada goose) was the cock of the flock. Was he inherently brash? YES. When Charles THE Third hissed…. His down-covered compadres paid attention. Example: recent run in with Clint Beakwood.

Chas and Clint Beakwood, “Beak” for short, had been at odds over a particularly flirtatious goose who had recently joined the flock through a friend of a friend of a cousin twice removed. Regardless of how she arrived—she was stunning—short tail feathers—pearl white cheek bones—she was a full-on spicy fowl package and very much enjoyed playing the part.

Well, as it happened…. There was a mid-morning preening session in which Chas and Beak were both peacocking for Trixie McWaddle. And this was post-fact when Chas had already made his intentions quite clear to Beak that he was planning to properly court Ms. Trixie.

The notorious HISSSSSSSSS for which Chas was known? Yes, it happened. And it happened in a blink. Beak was circling Trixie…. Chas somewhat politely asked to cut in…. There were immediate feathers ruffled…. Chas hissed ONE-TIME…. A last chance warning. And in the next second Beak had his name changed to Snubnose—Never to honk again.

Chas’ bill was razor sharp. His eyes were locked on target (Shorty Short). Flying toward the boathouse at Mach1 speed, with dozens of members of the flock on his webbed heels, he performed a marvelous snap roll and closed in for the attack.

“I need flight support on my 11-oclock and my 1-oclock, lock it in, now!” he commanded.

But Shorty Short was ready. He was still facing the firepit, eyeing his captives, and saw the aerial onslaught coming his way. Then he took aim with his Glock and unloaded his magazine on the lead bird.

Chas flanked one—twice—as bullets whizzed past with alarming closeness. “Tighten the formation!” he ordered.

But it was the final squeeze of the trigger…. The last chance bullet…. A wildly low percentage shot that had his name.

Link watched from below as the head shot unwound the goose’s flight path. Chas was dead and didn’t know it. He was flying straight up, toward the heavens, and then he wasn’t.

Shorty Short watched as the bird folded and began its descent. But he never saw his target hit the ground. Thanks to Hazel and the same oar that busted up Too Tall’s kneecap, her second victim beat Chas to the green carpet of grass.

“IT’S OVER!!” Hazel cried out and dropped to her knees. There was blood streaming down the lobes of Shorty Shorts ears. She would later take him to the adjacent island near FSFO, drive four spikes in the ground, cinch down his arms and legs, and allow Chas’ following flock to pluck him apart.

Also, in Chas’ honor, she later embraced the goose in her arms and promised to roast him for Canadian Thanksgiving with a baste of Domaine de la Romanee-Conti. Arguably, this is the most prestigious Pinot Noir in the world; it holds a market value of $100,000+ per bottle. For Hazel… He was worth every penny…. And she fully intended for the billing to be covered by the Royal Australian Navy (RAN).

As Tawny made quick work with the knife, cutting Rusty-Cos-Ellie loose from their restraints, Link nearly spun himself into the ground barking uncontrollably in earnest to get everyone’s attention.

Finally, Rusty queried, “What is it Link?” And then all eyes watched as the dog ran out to the dock and launched himself off the decking into the lake.

          “IT’S SALLY!!” Tawny answered. But Rusty was already on the dead sprint in the direction of his air born British Labrador puppy.

With Link doggy paddling on the surface and barking in the direction of Sally’s location, there was zero hesitation in Rusty’s dynamic water entry. Canadian diving judges would have scored it a perfect ten. The Chinese are always coming in a bit lower at nine-point-five.

Reaching bottom, some thirteen feet below the surface, he scanned the area and then retreated to the surface for air.

“She’s not down there!” he exclaimed to Tawny and Cos. “She’s not there!”

          “Look under the floating dock,” Tawny ordered. “Look between the billets.”

Ellie was now on her own mission. Weapon or no weapon she was bounding her way toward Hazel Brown (Friend? OR Foe?) who was still on her knees with head hung, lungs gasping for air.

“Just who the hell are you!?” Ellie demanded and shook her drooping shoulders.

 But Hazel was in shock. She had succeeded in taking both Too Tall and Shorty Short down, but now she couldn’t breathe.

“Last chance Brown! If that’s your real name!” shouted Ellie. And then she took a slugger’s stance with the same oar previously used on Shorty Short and prepared to stride (hands-hips-legs) into a home run swing.

Hazel slowly raised her face–tears streaming down both cheeks–then took her Glock-19 from the small of her back and handed it grip end toward Ellie.

Still unable to speak…. She then mouthed the words to Ellie, “I’m Eagle Three…. Always have been…. Always will be.”

–To Be Continued— 

 

AUGUST 19 FISHING REPORT

LAKE OF THE WOODS WALLEYE FISHING
LAKE OF THE WOODS WALLEYE FISHING
 
Hey Sportsfans —
 
Ballard’s Resort has been busy this week, sending charter fishermen out to fish Lake of the Woods. 
 
The talk around camp has been that the fishers have been reeling in left and right and boats were filling up limits before 11 o’clock! 
 
Doing the trick this week…  
– worms or minnows (What is your go to?)
– spinners (Ask for gold or silver!)
– depths of 15-25′ drifting in Little Traverse Bay (That’s where you will fill the cooler.)
 
The lake has been extra rough, even when the forecast said to expect a calm day, it turns out, once again, the internet isn’t always right. 🙂
 
Fishing Lake of the Woods in August? You have a hot chance at a trophy walleye. Our guides have reported the mud has been on fire with slot fish and overs (especially on a day with a little “walleye chop”).
 
SET THE HOOK!
 
KEEP UP WITH RUSTY THIS WEEK
The Ultimate Canadian Fishing Adventure - Ballard's Black Island

SEASON 3, EPISODE 32

–Season 3 Episode 32— “The Fall of Too Tall”

Between the tension at the firepit and the discarding of floorboards in the boathouse, zero attention was being given to the British Labrador puppy Link. His squirrel friends had vamoosed with the blast of Shorty Shorts pistol, and the Canada geese (including lead gander / pain in the ass Chas) had moved out to an adjacent island to spectate from afar.

Link was at the end of the main floating dock—circling—sniffing—prancing on all fours and peering through the 1-inch gaps in the cross boards. “What is this I am sensing?” he pondered in his stately doggy brain.

“Is it Wink…. My friendly musky buddy? No, I am not sensing his protective layer of fish slime. But there is an odor of blood…. Something on the surface of the water…. Perhaps an unfortunate piscatorial victim he crossed paths with earlier?”

Below the docks, wedged between two foam filled dock billets is where Sally Squatsnfishes lay submersed, semi-conscious but alive. Her singular essence is what Link is identifying.

“She’s not dead,” was Link’s inclination. “I can hear my master aerating from below.” Then he turned and barked three times in succession.

“RUFF—RUFF—RUFF” (she’s——over—–here). But there was no response from the distant crowd held captive.

“OUAF—OUAF—OUAF” (I’ll try it in French). Yet still no retort.

Sally is bleeding. The bullet went clean through, back to front piercing her left shoulder. With no vital damage assessed she attempted to remain calm. And she recognized it was the recent ice out water temperature of the lake slowing her pulse and blood flow, thus keeping her alive. For now.

“Later, when there is time for later, I will thank Tawny for swimming me to the bottom in full-on-escape-mode. And apologize for overstepping my bounds in that bass tournament,” she thought.

Then, not totally confident of the situation on land…. She cautiously communicated with Link who was now on point with his nose sixteen inches above hers. Her voice murmured into bubbles, “Go get Rusty, boy. Tell him Eagle One is here.” And then she passed out.

Shorty Short’s countdown continued near the firepit with a twitchy finger. He had Professor Scale in his sights and was down to “FOUR—THREE—TWO”.

Cos was about to crack with his entire being shaking like a leaf on a poplar tree. Rusty started to dry heave (no surprises here). Ellie was glancing down reading her own lips (we are screwed). Tawny fought the tie straps on her wrists and legs like a timber wolf caught in a snare.

Then suddenly, Professor Scale blurts out, “The eggs are in a vault—explosive—pressure of a volcano if not opened properly!”

          This made Shorty Short raise his singular eyebrow. “Go on! Go on!”

“Yes,” continued Cos. “Clearly you know the Kraken eggs are below the boathouse, but what you don’t know is there’s a scientific method in play that if disturbed incorrectly, the entire contents of the vault will combust!”

          “Combust? Speak English, old man!”

“You know—combust—like nitro—blow up—ker boom—we are all gone—including this island.”

Cos was completely shooting from the hip, but Shorty Short was at least hesitating and now looking at the boathouse. Everyone caught their breath waiting for his next move.

Hazel was done waiting. From inside the confines of the building she decided it was time to make her play. Time for “The Fall of Too Tall.”

Prying the last board loose she watched as Too Tall momentarily turned away to discard the last length of lumber. Below, she could see a military-grade waterproof case with quadruple biometric locks (tricky) resting in the squared-out space of the brick fabrication.

Raising her Glock 19 with Bond speed it was now or never—but not fast enough. A ricochet grazed the edge of her right hip. Somehow Too Tall knew she had turned double-agent. And the mirror from a ’72 Chevy C10 rigged to the wall of the boathouse in which he viewed, gave light and opportunity to fire first. It was a poorly executed awkward no-look, and at best an extremely clumsy under the opposite arm attempt. Not exactly a Michael Jordan dish move.

He wounded her, but the titanium suppressor attached to the barrel of his pistol drew no attention from the crowd of listeners at the beach. Then, with the speed of a lightning bolt—the kind that chases anglers off the water—Hazel launched like a tiger for close quarters combat.

Violent chaos ensued—A corroded pipe wrench from the work bench—A tattered rope with a metal dock cleat dangling from its end—A sturgeon gaff reaching in excess of six feet—The proverbial gloves were off and it was not over until she busted his knee cap with a boat oar (this noise was for sure heard by Link who held an evolutionary advantage) that Too Tall went down for the count.

“One more shot for good measure!” she huffed while smashing his head into a mooring post. “Your fishing tournament is over! And you know what else…. Your mother was smarter than you, but a worse shot! That’s how she ended up in the bottom of that septic tank.”

Then she turned to exit the boathouse…. Thought twice…. Thought about Sally…. Picked up Too Tall’s gun and shot him once in the gut. “I hope you bleed out like a northern pike speared below the ice, you Kraken egg sucking pig!” she added for finality.

Link had heard enough and darted off the dock in full puppy stride toward the firepit. But not before being overly careful, per the British gentleman he was, to make sure he marked Sally’s pinpoint location with the slightest of tinkling. One leg up—no splattering—just a calculated one quarter test tube sized amount of fluid.

Rusty, at the opposite end of the spectrum, could no longer maintain regulation of bodily functions. Thankfully, the dry heaving had involuntarily ceased, but bladder control had now become an issue.

Link was not the only animal on the move. Shorty Short had also heard rumblings from the finality of the ruckus in the boathouse. And now, with his dime store pistol (according to Tawny) raised, he started walking—slowly like a junkyard tomcat that has figured out how to flush rats from a garbage tin.

Chas the gander held a no win, lose, or draw view from his safe distance. “Remain silent, look away, don’t involve yourself,” he thought inside his pea sized brain. Then in the next breath he rolled his eyes (twice), let out an ERR-RONK, ran across the top of the water flapping his wings, and took flight towards the boathouse. “These damn Brits are always getting us Canucks into trouble!” he cursed.

 –To Be Continued—