SEASON 4, EPISODE 5

Season Four—Episode 5 (What…. Wait….)

“Good morning, Celine. What’s on the grill for our guests today?” asked Rusty…. Peeking his head into the back of the kitchen near the flat top grill.

          “One of my personal favorites, Mr. Flathers…. Hard boiled eggs, and then we had some leftover baked beans from last night’s supper,” was her response.

Rusty’s eyeballs momentarily popped out of his eye sockets. Then sprung back and forth in unison as if attached to a pair of Slinkey’s.

“Baked beans and What…. Wait….” He replied. “We can’t…. We can’t be serving…. Celine, that’s not a breakfast….” And then he watched as pond sized tears started to swell in her eyes and her lower lip puffed in and out with short erratic breaths.

Rusty felt his temples throbbing and his pulse racing. Opening week and the cracks at FSFO (Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters) were already showing — in the paint, the plumbing, and now his new hire.

          “Ma—Ma—Mama Mere served this as part of a very traditional British style breakfast,” she gasped between hands attempting to hold in sobs.

“Hey…. It’s ok. It’s ok. I’m just suggesting that our American guests would appreciate a more American style cuisine. So—fried eggs—sausage—potatoes—that sort of breakfast option.”

          “Fine!” she barked…. A one hundred eighty-degree change in tone…. “I freaking hate you Flathers! I’ll cook your slimy eggs!”

Rusty quickly retreated from the kitchen, tiptoeing on the proverbial eggshells in his path, wondering how this could possibly be the scenario for starting Day-Two in the life of a Canadian fishing camp manager. “Where’s Cos,” he thought. “Cos is supposed to be proofing all the meals that come out of this kitchen.”

Turns out…. At the start of day two…. Cos had his hands full as well. As in—Beach Side cabin—septic tank—backed up—the ONE of only five cabins in use and there was a problem. A stinky, smelly, overflowing, putrid sort of problem.

So, while Grover and Oscar feasted on eggs cooked over-medium with a side of pork bacon (Celine still insisted on sliding in the leftover baked beans on the side), Rusty’s biz partner held his breath to fight the gag reflux and twisted the top off a pressure fill poop tank.

“Great start to a Canadian sunrise,” thought Cos. The bubbles produced by the mounting tank pressure were now turning into splatters of foul matter erupting from the loosened lid. Even at ten-weeks old, Link the British Labrador camp mascot was bright enough to vacate the area. Plus the fact that his sensory perception, being 15X greater than a human, only exasperated the situation.

“Hey, Cos, can I give you a hand under there?” asked Rusty…. Praying the answer would be, “No I got this.” But it wasn’t.

          “I wonder if Clarence has any experience with these sorts of endeavors?”

“Well, he’s supposed to be guiding today, but I haven’t seen him pull into the harbor yet. He went back to the mainland last night to make a supply run. He said he’d be back—I think.” Rusty’s head spun with the gassy fumes.

          “Alright, well, let’s get our guests to use the community bath house for the time being. Get them out fishing for the day with Clarence, and then you and I will get this sorted out.”

Opening weekend with late ice-out. Spring fishing conditions are excellent. “This will be a bad day to be a walleye,” thought Clarence Bishop as he throttled down the grip on the Yamaha tiller handle. His two guests, spread out in the mid and forward section of the guide boat, were anxious to wet a line.

Questions…. Questions…. Who’s got the questions? (His first time guests. Lots of questions.)

“How fast does this boat go—Are you from Lac des Bois—What are we using for bait—How long have you been guiding—What is the largest walleye you have ever seen—Is this one of your best spots,” they asked in rapid fire format. A pinball of inquisitions leaning heavily toward TILT.

But Clarence was ready…. Clearance Clarence was a pro…. “Shhhhhhh—there’s a good one that lives here—respect the fish gods.”

Then he reached for a puck of thawed emerald shiner minnows, rolled his thumbs in unison over the tips of his fingers, and continued by wetting each index from his mouth before touching a minnow. “Tastes like fish,” he thought.

Sitting on the deck of the lodge…. Sally watched as Cos, along with Rusty, tackled prior instructions given from Clarence on how to safely replace a worn-out septic pump. “Want no part of that,” she strongly confirmed. And then—distant—could see a boat approach the island from a northerly direction. A single occupant was at the helm. Black boat—gray trim—more ski than fish model—Wisconsin registration.

The boat came close to the dock but didn’t pull into a slip. Sally, with Link by her side, was ready to tie up for the meet and greet, but the visitor seemed content floating and talking from about 30 yards away. Link hummed a steady stream of barely audible “grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr”.

The low growl vibrated through Sally’s knee and traveled up to her stomach. She sensed a fish out of water.

“Is there something I can help you with, sir?” was Sally’s opening.

          “Yes, hello, I’m staying on a houseboat a few miles from here—wondering if you have some brothers from Milwaukee with you this week. Friends of mine.” The newcomer started running a hand through his mop of nicely trimmed hair. “I told them I might swing by to say hello.”

“Grover and Oscar? Yes, they’re out fishing right now, but they’ll be here for a few more nights.”

          “Oh perfect. I thought this might be the place they’d mentioned. I’ll maybe swing back later this evening.

“What’s your…. What…. Wait….” And before Sally could finish with NAME…. The pleasantly groomed, out of place boater, throttled down and headed in the opposite direction in which he came. His departing, over the shoulder gaze at Sally, was awkwardly lengthy.

She returned a much colder stare, thinking, “I welcome the opportunity to see you here again.”

–To Be Continued– 

OCTOBER 22ND FISHING REPORT

Hey Sportsfans, 

63 years of summer fishing out on the Lake of the Woods, and we couldn’t be more happier with the outcome. 

Before our opener back in May, our team had a meeting to discuss how the summer would go. In this meeting, we made it a goal to accomplish 2,000 trips out to the lake. 

I am proud to announce that we accomplished this goal by 4. This summer, we hit 2,004 fishing trips!! Beating last year’s record of 1905, with the hard work of this amazing crew, we added 99 more trips than last year. 

Would you believe me if I told you that in 2002, we had only taken out a total of 605? The amount that this resort has grown is incredible, and we owe a lot of that to you. 

This summer, we added a few new members to our crew, from the dining room, to the office, and even out on the waters. Speaking of guides, our very own Mer Rolin hit his 29th year of fishing for us.

These past 2 weeks, we have still been making it out to the lake and fishing on the south side. 

What is even crazier is we are still finding good fishing on the lake. Good spots seem to be in the 16-19 foot area, we have had some success in the river also. A major thing that hasn’t happened is the shiner run, hopeful to see that happen soon. 

Hoping for early ice in December so we can be back on the lake as soon as possible. 

From the Ballard’s crew, we want to send a huge thank-you to all of our hosts who help organize and plan their trips here this summer. We also want to send a huge thank you to the Walleye Connections group hosts and the involvement they have here. 

See you December!

SET THE HOOK

SEASON 4, EPISODE 4

Season 4—Episode 04 (Game Time)

“Good morning, Mr. Camp Owner.” Sally greeted Rusty at the breakfast nook in the main lodge with a piping Canadian cup of Timmie’s.  

          “Good morning, Sal.”

“Well, it’s a BIG DAY! Are you ready?

Appearance wise…. Rusty Flathers was not ready. He was disheveled. Dark circles under his eyes were bordering on purple. Knotted locks of brown curly hair under his ball cap had taken the shape of a wren’s nest. His general sense of brain fog was so thick it would require a GPS unit with a radar system to travel in a straight line.

His previous forty-eight hours spent on yard beautification—wood splitting—deck staining—supply hauling—all culminated with no less than five anxiety attacks. And Sally’s asking if he’s ready for the “BIG DAY?!”

          “It’s Game Time,” he replied. “We’re ready.”

“You’re such a terrible liar,” Sally responded to her man who looked like he had just spent a night trying to sleep under the motor cowling of a revved-up Yamaha outboard motor. “But you guys will get the kinks worked out, and everything’s going to be fine.”

          “I hope you’re right, because my stomach is telling me otherwise. And hey, instead of me worrying about myself, I should be asking you, how’s your shoulder?”

“Surprisingly, not bad. I mean, I’m not going to be throwing a javelin anytime soon, but honestly the mobility is starting to come back.”

          “Good, because at some point, I’m sure Cos and I could use some help around this place.”

“Camp helper?” Sally thought. A super awkward statement for her mental psyche. Officially, Sally had never signed on in any sort of capacity. She was more-less viewing this as a layover…. A recovery period from an injury received during her covert operation…. A chance to get well and then back to business. The business of being Sally Squatsnfishes.

Her response to Rusty was “Sounds good.” When really…. She was thinking about how the Three Eagles were doing without her, back in Australia pursuing The Kraken. And the biggest question, is twenty-four-seven of Rusty and island life really for her?

Fortunately, or so they thought, there was a slow roll scheduled for the grand opening of Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters (FSFO). Their soft opening would begin with two guests scheduled to arrive at Raker’s Marine this afternoon at 500pm. Illinois—first time guests—two brothers looking for a walleye bite on their first ever Canadian fishing adventure.

“Hey Rusty! Great to see you!” offered Rod Gills, head wrench at the marina, as he assisted in tying up FSFO’s passenger boat Hooked on Poutine. “Your two guests arrived about twenty minutes ago,” he continued. “There hanging inside the marina, most likely getting an earful from Minnie.”

          “Ok, thanks Gill. Our first guests. I’m nervous.”

“Man, this is one of the best fisheries in the world. Pretty tough to screw that up, eh.”

          “Yeah, you’re right. And thankfully we have Clarence out there. He’s incredible.”

“Keep your people on fish…. Keep them well fed…. And keep them in a comfortable bed…. You guys will be fine.”

On the ride back to the island, Rusty learned that his new guests were a periodontist and an elevator mechanic. Grover and Oscar Williams—single bachelors in their mid-forties—big Cubbie fans from Chicago—had fished for salmon once on Lake Michigan but violent sea sickness has since kept them landlocked. At least until now, until they heard about Lac des Bois with its fourteen thousand islands offering protected water and trophy fish.

          “You guys are the only fellas in camp tonight,” Rusty explained as he captained the boat into the harbor. “If you’d like to do some fishing before supper, we have boats available.

“Hey, that sounds great!” was their united response.

          “Ok, we’ll get your bags to the cabin, and you can meet me back here on the dock.”

Supper was scheduled for 700pm. By 715 there was no sign of Grover and Oscar returning from their afternoon voyage. By 730pm Cos and Rusty wondered if their first guests were going to require a search party. By 745 Celine’s supper was officially “on hold”, and Rusty-Cos-Sally-Link were leaving the harbor in Hooked on Poutine full-on guessing what direction their guests may have traveled.

          “The last I saw, they headed south out of the harbor and then most likely went west,” offered Rusty. This was confirmed as Cosmoid had previously pointed out some spots on the map near the Sunrise Channel, suggesting places close by to find fish, while they were filling out their Ontario boating form for camp rentals.

“Wait! What’s that?” questioned Sally. They were two miles southwest of camp, and riding co-pilot with Link in her lap, she thought she could see two human forms on a beach waving their arms.

          “That looks like them,” agreed Cos…. Leaning over the port gunnel taking his own view of the situation. “And it looks like they’re fine. Maybe they had boat problems?”

Confirmed. Before Rusty slid the bow of the passenger boat on the beach it was confirmed that there were in fact boat problems. Or more so “gas problems”, as it was quickly explained by both a chattering Grover and steamed Oscar that they had run out of gas and were fortunate to drift ashore.

          Rusty, with clenched teeth, “Run out of gas?”  Then he thought to himself. “How’s that possible?”

“I felt that my life, along with my brother’s, was in peril Mr. Scale.” This statement, coming from Oscar, as he sat shoulder to shoulder with Cos on their cruise back to the island in the passenger boat.

“And if this is the way you’re going to start your fishing business,” he continued, “by sending guests out with unfilled gas tanks, then I should think you will have a very tough time getting repeat customers.”

Later that evening, before the switch to the generator was turned to put the lights out on FSFO’s catastrophically mediocre opening day, Sally consoled her down and out boyfriend. “Hey, no one got hurt, and it was a mistake,” she offered. Then she handed him a moderately warm cup of tea and patted his back as if he were Link but could feel the sparks of his anxiety. 

          “Yeah, my total screw-up,” he responded. “A classic not thinking RUSTY screw-up.”

“Well, you have a couple days to make their trip a success. Start tomorrow with a fresh tank. And maybe a checklist written in ink.”

Rusty leaned back and rubbed his eyes. Tired. Too tired for the opening weekend of the fishing season.

          “Your right, they’re here for another four days,” started Rusty. “Four days with great fishing, tremendous meals, and overwhelming service. Heads in beds…. People helping people.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said aloud. “Camp Management 101.”

Then she calmly sipped from her cup of tea and nodded through more thoughts of Australia and whether “camp helper” meant a permanent life detour. “I won’t disappear on him,” she concluded. “Not yet.” 

–To Be Continued—

SEASON 4, EPISODE 3

Season 4—Episode 03 (Culinary Ineptitude) 

Two days…. Forty-Eight hours…. Two-Thousand Eight Hundred-Eighty minutes…. One-Hundred Seventy-Two Thousand Eight-Hundred seconds. Rusty Flathers lay conscious in his bunkhouse computing the exact time he and his team at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters (FSFO) had remaining before their first guests arrived at the island.

Excited? YES. Petrified? YES. But after spending a couple of hours the past two evenings chasing fish with Clarence Bishop, he was super confident that at least the angling portion of their business was shaping up quite nicely.

Rusty and Cos had convinced Clarence to repower the electronics on the boat rentals. In their opinion, they notched a win. What they could not do was get him to use conventional fishing equipment. But as results indicated this was in no way a deal breaker. At least for their newly hired top-gun-sniper.

From the first evening they hit the water as learning passengers with Clarence at the helm…. They watched him wield a willow stick—equipped with thirty-feet of string and a shiny bent nail—bringing countless fish boatside with effortless form.

Walleyes—shimmering gold—glass eyes the size of silver dollars. Northern pike—razor sharp teeth etched with a lathe—shoulders you could saddle. Smallmouth bass—pro football size—pound for pound tough as leather. Musky—big silver—king of kings in the freshwater. Clarence Bishop raked them in like a blackjack dealer hitting Twenty-One on every hand.

Presumably…. Rusty Flathers played little league baseball as a youth…. Cosmoid Scale built butterfly collections…. And this dude, Clearance Clarence, chased about his home field advantage lake in a fourteen-foot skiff with a nine-horse Mercury discovering endless haunts for piscatorial trophies.

Truly, what Rusty and Cos witnessed was an insurmountable learning curve established by this person who started his guiding career at age thirteen. Unprecedented—Unmatchable—Unbelievable fishing prowess!

“Aren’t you even going to use bait?” was Rusty’s first inquiry.

 And after several seconds of silence and innumerable fish landed, Clarence’s only respectful response was, “Bait’s for kids.”

Then there was a wink and a nod shared betwixt the two business partners…. A human fish finder…. This is what Rusty and Cos had secured for their adventurous camp.

Fishing—covered. Cabins—dialed. Meal plan—TBD (to be determined). Rusty remained in bed, wheels spinning, before his alarm clock blasted rise and shine for the grind.

“I can’t possibly ask Sally to step in for cooking duties,” he thought. “She’s only got one good arm.” But, bringing Celine Maple Cramshaw on board as their executive chef was starting out, he feared, sketchy at best.

This thought was provoked the day prior when he had suggested to Celine that she venture to the patch of wild spring asparagus growing on the hillside near the generator shed. A test of sorts to see if she could prepare a grilled side dish glazed with a simple butter and lemon sauce. Something the guests might enjoy is nature’s table fair.

Celine took this challenge to level-hyper declaring the upcoming evening staff meal would be titled Foraging Foray at FSFO. Practice for doing it with the guests.

“Everyone, please bring me something wild to prepare, to go along with the asparagus,” she commanded. “This will be great!”

Clarence brought in a dead squirrel that had been lying in the bush for no less than two days. Most likely one of the three eagles setting up shop for the summer near the boat harbor was responsible. Hopefully, it was not one of Link’s faithful compadres.

Rusty rambled through a patch, unbeknownst to him, of poison ivy. His immediate puffy eyes and irritable skin being the dead giveaway prompted immediate retreat. “Better find an alternative,” he thought. But the snails uncovered beneath the molding log sure looked appealing.

Cos hit the jackpot with a cluster of wild onions discovered beyond the west edge of the boat house. Much to his chagrin, he would later watch Celine dice them up with a fillet knife, then blend them on high speed with Timmie’s coffee grounds and BC Brine’s pickle juice.

Later that evening…. It was discovered Sally had opted out on the wild foraging foray. Apparently, she was “tired”…. Evidently, there was a growth of “medicine” she stumbled upon, and then proceeded to overwhelmingly consume her find. In bed “early”, she grasped a half-emptied bag of family size Doritos, face covered with multiple splotches of orange chip dust surrounding her cemented grin.

This original asparagus test? Epic failure—borderline Culinary Ineptitude. This, caught by Cosmoid as the team gathered for their evening meal. Cos was more than hesitant to “dig-in” as the steaming platter of suggested asparagus was brought to the table, knowing he had passed the wild patch just minutes prior on the way to the lodge, and noticed not a single stem had been cut.

“Stop!” he ordered. Hoping not to offend their new hire. But also wishing to prevent anyone from ingesting a toxic plant. “This is NOT asparagus—it’s horsetail. Look at the color…. Light brown, not green. Spore-bearing cones at the tips.” Suddenly, everyone (excluding Sally who never made it to the table) lost their appetite.

“Fine by me,” announced Clarence. “This whole mess looks like an August algae bloom and tastes like bait anyway.” Then pushed himself away from the table and walked out.

Celine, bursting into tears, could be heard in the back of the kitchen chugging down a bottle of cooking sherry and sobbing words of “Fine, I’ll never cook anything that doesn’t come in a box!”

When Rusty’s alarm clock finally sounded off, he felt as though he hadn’t slept. “She’s young—We will give her the benefit of the doubt—I will appoint Cos to inspect all meals before service,” he thought. And then rubbing his eyes and dragging both feet heavily to the floor he rose to greet the day. “Fourty-eight hours…. We got this…. I think, anyway.”

–To Be Continued–