Season Four—Episode 9 (TAKEN)

Evening dinners at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters are scheduled for 6:00pm daily. Celine walked out the south lodge door, raised her arm to pull a tattered rope, and then pulled strenuously to ring the bell that the rope was attached to. For three times in succession was the rule. To announce to no one on this particular evening that supper was ready. The search party she waited for (Clarence and Cosmoid searching everything North and West of Moose Island / Sally, Rusty, and Link canvassing everything South and East of Moose Island) had not yet returned to home base.

“Fiddle sticks to feed hot coals,” she thought to herself. “I guess I’ll have to hold dinner indefinitely.”

But something was amiss. She could sense an awkward tremble in the wooden ladle, held in her heat sensitive to touch chef’s hand. Then she held the ladle to her forehead, as if saluting the setting sun. She surveyed the harbor—double checked that no returning boats were within eyesight—it was the three bald eagles (the two naturally colored and the one golden). In her short tenure she’d become quite fond of checking in with the threesome. Of which there were now, only two.

“Clarence… I feel like we’re chasing empty space out here. No fishermen, no boats, no nothing,” was Cosmoid’s comment to break the silence from their past hour of boating.

“Yah, you’re right. Let’s assume they were taken. Whoever might be involved isn’t just going to be out and about, joy riding.”

“What about hideouts? Are there places on islands that are not very well known, or off the grid?” questioned Cos.

Clarence hesitated for two counts. “Caribou Inlet—there’s a local snowmobile trail—it gets used maybe a handful of times by locals in the winter—there would potentially be a path leading to the old abandoned Zholtana Mine.”

“How far?”

“Another forty-five minutes from here, and we’re already over an hour out from camp,” returned Clarence. “Too far and not enough daylight remaining.”

“Then let’s circle back to Moose Island. Maybe you missed something. Take one more thorough search before dark. Maybe we can find a clue.”

Sally, Rusty, and Link were seventeen miles east of Moose Island and traveling south in the Tranquill Channel when they saw the boat. Matte black finish—low to the water—an excessive rooster’s tail spray indicating the vessel was traveling at maximum speed.

“Rusty! Look ahead—he’s coming right at us!” alerted Sally.

And there he was. SAM. Sam the friend of Oscar and Grover, decked out in his matte black boat with black opps looking clothing, and his mirrored black framed shades. Rusty cut the throttle bringing the bow of his skiff flat to the water’s surface and idled toward the middle of the channel.

“What are you planning here Rusty?” was Sally’s response to his idle speed.

“I think we should try to flag him down,” replied Rusty.

“Bad idea dude. This guy wants nothing to do with us. You should make a run for that shoreline weed bed and get us hidden from his view.”

Too late. The V-bottom aluminum boat with the maxed out 250HP Yamaha outboard was on them before they could shout get the net. Rusty stood at the stern waving frantically—Sally prepared to jump overboard—Link skedaddled from the bow and went belly flat on the deck.

This was a kid playing sandlot football scenario and Rusty was the punt returner. YES, the tacklers were racing full bore downfield to cover the kick. NO, he didn’t have to return it, but he would have to wave his arms as if stopping traffic to receive his fair catch opportunity. YES, the defenders were supposed to allow him safe distance to receive. NO, this was not always the case and penalties would be allotted to those crashing into the receiver with malice.

With Rusty waving uncontrollably in effort to flag down the oncoming boat and Sally praying exponentially that the boat would not absolutely T-bone their much smaller skiff… There was a ten-count where all breaths were held. And then—nothing—a non-saluting fly by.

Not only did SAM (or whomever he alleged to be) not slow down, he raced past within 15-yards of Rusty’s boat as if they didn’t exist. He was bent forward, both hands clutching the steering wheel, head with blinders on racing somewhere as though there was a fire to be put out.

“What the…” started Sally. “Not so much as a sideways glance from that guy.”

“Yeah…” replied Rusty as their boat became rocked with waves. “There’s no way he didn’t see us. And he definitely didn’t want to stop and chat.

“He’s traveling way too fast for us to chase, but it does appear he’s tracking northwest. The same direction that we came from. Moose Island.

“Did you see if anyone was on the floor of his boat?

“No,” answered Sally, “But it also looks like there’s an evening thunderstorm building in the direction he’s heading.

“Do you think we should try and follow? We need to go that way to get back to camp anyway.”

“By the looks of it we’re going to be lucky to beat this storm. If there’s a shortcut to get back, let’s take it. I think our searching party is over for the day.”

As Rusty throttled the boat to full speed the first crack of lightning lit the sky and dark purplish-black clouds rolled in, dropping area temperatures by twenty degrees. For anyone lost, stranded, or taken it would be a miserable night to endure the wilds of Ontario’s remote lake country. Even those with a lifetime of outdoors experience.

–To Be Continued— 

Season Four—Episode 8 (MISSING)

2:42PM “We have a situation,” were Clarence’s first words when he pulled into the harbor at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters, with sir Rusty Flathers being the first person on site to meet his fishing guide at the dock. “Our guests,” he continued… “Have vanished.”

“Vanished? Our guests? What?” wretched Rusty.

“Yah… You know… Gone. Disappeared. Absent. Missing. Departed. Lost. Vamoosed.” replied Clarence in an excessively calm tone.

“I know what VANISHED means! (Rusty’s eyes were doing that pop-out of the sockets, alternating Slinky thing—again) I’m talking about the details of VANISHED. As in, give me SPECIFICS Clarence.”

“I’m talking gone. As in one second I’m getting ready to cook shore lunch on Moose Island—sent them to collect wood for a fire—next thing I know the wind cranks up and they’re gone. Gone as in gone fishing. But I’m pretty sure they are no longer fishing. At least not with me.”

This bit of unappealing news did NOT sit well on Rusty’s palate. His next move was to roll with the gag reflux—bend at the waist—hurl what remained of Celine’s lunch—projectile vomit off the dock—feel the burn from his toes to his mouth.

Not even the three eagles perched across the harbor could stand to watch. Their wings were colliding as they launched from their roosts, in an attempt to escape the gut-wrenching scene. Then, somewhere in the trees a raven squawked “GROSS”, and even the two welcoming loons near the natural harbor of FSFO went silent.

“Boss… Are you… OK?” offered Clarence. “Looks like you had some tomatoes for lunch. Sure you don’t need a ginger ale?”

Wiping both sides of his mouth, Rusty exploded, “OK?!?! HELL NO, I am NOT… OK. WE—ARE—NOT—OK. Our guests are gone! Our first and only visitors to this island ARE GONE. Not a good track record Clarence. NOT good!”

Rusty then rubbed his temples and then the lids over his eyes. “Yep,” he muttered, “not good. Maybe I should go to the ditch.”

“Um… Mr. Rusty, Boss, we’re on an island,” countered Clarence.

“A ditch—filled with coffee, and full moons, and friends, rainbows, unicorns, never ending adventures—I’ll build one.” He had momentarily snapped.

“Reality is THINK,” imagined Rusty. “Calmly think,” he told himself. “Like when you were a kid, living along the water filled trench that local folks referred to as Rapid Ditch.”

During the 1930’s there had been much drainage work done by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) in regions that supported boggy tamarack swamps. Such was the case in the area in which Rusty had grown up. And said place near his home is often where cousins Skip and Scoop would find him sitting in a makeshift boat he’d put together with parts and pieces from his Uncle Charles junk yard.

And there he’d just hang out—in the ditch—for whatever reason—quiet—reflective—calming. Even if nothing is everything.

Because for Rusty Flathers… This was his escape. His place. Need time to think? Go to the ditch. Wish you were someone else? Go to the ditch. Crush on a girl but afraid to ask her out? Go to the ditch. Get yourself in trouble? Go to the ditch!

Panic mode had now passed. “I’m going to get Cos and Sally. You get your boat gassed up and grab the skiff out of slip #2 and do the same,” instructed Rusty to Clarence. “We’ll get out a map and get two boats going for an area search around Moose Island.”

“Do you think we should maybe give the local authorities a quick shout on the mainland?” replied Clarence.

“No. Not yet. For one… It generally takes 24 hours before any sort of search and rescue team would act. And the other thing… I really don’t want Stash McGivern back out here, telling me about how bodies continue to pile up around Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters.”

4:02PM. “I’m telling you Rusty… I believe this SAM dude has something to do with the disappearance of your guests.” This judgement came from Sally as she and Rusty captained a boat out of the harbor following in the wake of Clarence and Cosmoid who’d teamed up for this search mission.

Rusty remained hesitant. “Maybe they just wandered off.”

“How do you wonder off, on a twenty-acre island?” was Sally’s response. “Clarence has already told us he spent an hour covering every square inch of Moose Island.

 “OK—OK—Let’s just get out there and see what we can find.”

Even Link seemed opinionated about the possibility of finding the Williams brothers on Moose Island. He stood at the bow of the boat shaking his floppy, puppy, Labrador ears from side to side as if to say, “We’re looking for a needle in a haystack. If those fellas are not on Moose Island—that leaves us with one million acres and fourteen thousand islands to cover.”

Link’s final resolve from the bow was a long guttural growl. Basically, a sigh—saying “If we do somehow manage to find these two jokers, I’m going to bite the tall one first.”

Sally glanced down, patted his head and rubbed his flippy-flop ears. “I know buddy, I know.”

The only person remaining at camp was Celine. Her instructions were to “man the marine radio” perchance news would come to “notify the proper authorities.” And she was told to prepare a meal for their hopefully returning dinner guests Oscar and Grover.

She would start with some campfire caramelized onion soup with aged cheddar croutons. Then for the main course she would offer a “Back from the Bush” theme combining surf and turf. Thus, a hearty symbolic plate uniting land and water.

“Hmmmm… I believe pan-seared walleye and herb crusted elk medallions are appropriate.” She thought to herself. “Seeing how they missed and then went missing at shore lunch.”

–To Be Continued–

Season Four—Episode 7 (Circle the Wagons)

By 10:02am Rusty was finishing up his boat prep (nervous energy makes for extremely clean boats)… Sally was trying to piece together the puzzle with Storm Sanitation (storms and garbage don’t mix)… And Cosmoid was running circles in the boathouse constructing makeshift traps for mischievous mice (because even the smallest chaos in his world needs catching).

His forensic investigation involving the mice had produced the need for a peanut butter swimming pool—inviting—potentially lethal—pending your preference. First, Cos found a five-gallon pale with a faded British American Oil (B/A) label on the side. Then he dug in a scrap pile and came up with an aged, tinplate steel, flat-top Molson beer can. Progress.

Next… He found: a wire (metal clothes hanger) to run the diameter of the pail… Peanut butter (does Celine make homemade) … White Rose Oil Company yardstick (perfect for a ramp) … And a Zephyr handheld drill to punch a couple of holes.

“Cosmoid Scale, are you fixing up a swimming pool for these pesky mice?” asked Rusty.

“My profession disallows me from purposely drowning captives—though my patience occasionally applies for an exemption. I’m setting up a formidable bait station. Somewhere in the middle of catch and re-release.”

“How do you figure?” continued Rusty.

“They will attempt to get a meal by walking the tightrope to the peanut butter plastered beer can… The can spins on the wire. When they lose footing, they will freefall to the bottom of the pail. Instead of water for a definitive landing—I will use worm bedding for cushioning and crumble some meal portions of Christie Premium Plus crackers in the mix to hold them over—with the ultimate end goal of moving them safely to another island.

“Well, if nothing else, you’ll be relocating and confusing the heck out of them!” added Rusty.

Out on the lake… Guide Clarence Bishop was putting together quite a morning for his guests. The springtime bite for walleyes can be tricky, fish can be alternatively deep or shallow, but this particular day there was a shallow shoreline bite. And it was game on!

“Today, let’s look for smaller rock rubble boulders with a mix of sand,” was Clarence’s instruction for success with his (maybe from Chicago) guests. “These walleyes like to be shallow, and I like to use these ¼ oz Snack-Shack-Specials—tip them with a Double-Down split tail plastic minnow—pitch them toward the shallows and pump them along the bottom as you crank ‘em back to the boat.”

This presentation takes patience. More so on behalf of the fishing guide. You must pitch your jig into a veritable landmine of snaggleupagus rocks and then have the wherewithal to sense the difference between a walleye bite and a rock I’m snagged bite.

Grover led the charge with snags… He went seven for seven on their first shoreline stop… Massive hooksets on gihugic boulders that were hidden below the surface of ore-stained water. Not a record, but a heck of an effort.

“So… Mr. Clarence… How is it again, when we know if it’s a fish?” asked Grover.

“Fish move, you’re catching Canada, every cast!”

“Maybe he should try reeling faster?” questioned Oscar.

“Listen… Rocks don’t bite. Fish Do. You have to keep swimming that jig…” responded Clarence. And then he mumbled under his breath, “These two slappies are testing my fortitude.”

The seven snags, accomplished by Grover, were then multiplied by X 3. This is the number of deep breaths it took for Clarence to break the line… Retie the bait… Hand the rig back to his guest.

Clarence was not overly fond of incompetence but held fast with the patience of Job. Do not abandon faith—a fish will eventually bite your lure.

Back at camp… Sally’s most recent encounter with stranger danger SAM, was pushing her to open a notepad in an attempt to decipher the label on his cap that read Storm Sanitation. “What, if anything, do they have in common?” she pondered while opening a notepad. “This guy is clearly fishing for something when he stops by the camp for two consecutive days asking about our guests.”

“Step One”, she wrote on her paper. “Oscar and Grover claim to be from Chicagoland. Garbage Boy claims they are all friends from Milwaukee. One plus one, does not equal two.”

“Step Two”, she continued to write. “If he’s using a false name… Sam rhymes with SPAM. Maybe he’s actually from Minnesota. Which reminds me—Celine said we’re out of bacon—I’d better let Rusty know.”

By lunchtime the Williams brothers were even between the number of fish caught and the number of snags lost. Our fearless guide? His worldly profession had turned into a full-time Lamaze class (hee-hee-hoo, hee-hee-hoo) with multiple cleansing breaths. “I’m going to need a different presentation for the afternoon bite,” Clarence thought as he idled down the boat and pulled into a back bay near Moose Island.

High-Noon. “Guys, it’s time for a shore-banger. Let’s take a break.” A pause he needed more for himself than did Oscar or Grover. On his fish clicker—he’d touched 43 walleyes—felt like the total number of rock rubble hooksets (you’ve caught Canada) he’d dealt with was similar.

Regardless of the snagfest… It had been a perfect morning of fishing, and now they were in a perfectly secluded spot to enjoy a fresh Canadian walleye shore lunch. “You fellas gather up some wood for a fire, and I’ll get these fish wacked out,” was Clarence’s instruction.

Both brothers exited the boat, with Oscar adding, “Where do we find wood?”

“Behind you—in the bush—look for smaller tree fall and branches,” replied Clarence.

“Perfect, we can stretch our legs,” added Grover. “Are there animals on these islands?”

“You’ll be fine. Maybe the odd bear, ha ha. No worries. Just stay close.”

Five minutes later, with Clarence standing on the beach cleaning fish over the bow of the guide boat, he heard an echo off the trees of a distant boat. Moose Island was small. Maybe twenty acres. It sounded like the boat was going around the backside of the island.

Ten minutes later, when he was done cleaning fish, he turned to start prepping the fire—Grover and Oscar were still gone. “I suppose I’d better find these knuckleheads,” he thought. “Before they get themselves full of wood ticks.”

There was a patch of trampled weeds marking the location of where they had entered the fringe of the forest. Then suddenly, a wind came up, with dark storm clouds blowing directly into the protected bay where their boat was parked. “Perfect” muttered Clarence, his sarcasm for the wind and potential rain so heavy it could have anchored a boat.

Taking a few cautious steps into the bush (island entanglement of hell), “Something doesn’t feel right” was his next intuition. The Williams brothers were nowhere to be seen.

Twenty minutes later, again, the sound of a distant boat. Only this time it was more difficult to pinpoint with a swirling wind. Briefly, he sensed this time it was going away from him. Clarence was halfway across the island—deep into the treefall—calling out—rain coming down in sheets—winds gusting—nothing.

1:02pm. The springtime squall began to pass, and the ominous clouds that brought moisture began to part. He could see portions of the sun though the canopy of the timberland and realized he’d been walking, crawling, whistling, hollering, calling out (to no one) for close to an hour. No sounds. Not a peep. Not even Tweety Bird sitting on a limb humming a northwoods tune.

“Time to backtrack” was Clarence’s next move. “CIRCLE THE WAGONS on the way back to camp.”

–To Be Continued— 

Season Four—Episode 6 (Gone Fishing) 

At 5:32am Rusty’s alarm sounded. Day-3 at FSFA (Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters) was beginning to become a more familiar routine for this camp manager. Rise and shine—get Link rousted from the bunkhouse—quick trip to the bathhouse—and WHOA!!! What an amazing glow of morning light across the calmness of Lac des Bois. Better take a hot sec for this to soak in.

His new guests are still alive, their septic system under their cabin is fixed (mostly), and he can smell maple sausage on the grill. All these overwhelming senses relaxed Rusty into an off-key version of The Odd Couple theme. He now whistled, some severely out of tune notes, from under the showerhead: dee-da-da-da, da-da-da-da, dee-dee-dee-dee…

Then the music amplified as Rusty puckered under the water spray and the sound bounced around the cedar walls of the shower room: DEET-da-da, da-da, daaah! DEET-da-da, da-da, daaah!

“Knock knock,” sounded Sally, both announcing her presence verbally and gently knocking on the door. “Sounds like someone’s in a good mood. Can I get you a Timmie’s?”

          “Hey Sal, good morning!” Rusty called out from under the flow. “Yes, coffee, great! Did you see that sunrise, hey! I’ll be out in a sec. Meet you at the lodge.”

“Yeah… Cool morning… And hey, Celine’s breakfast is actually smelling edible.”