SEASON 4, EPISODE 12

Season Four—Episode 12 (EAT, SLEEP, FISH)

Before Cos could finish explaining how he and Clarence Bishop had become separated during their search at Moose Island… Rusty collapsed to the floor. Out cold—tournament over—anxiety forced breakdown.

“Run and get a damp washcloth Celine,” instructed Cos as he lifted Rusty’s head off the floor and placed a throw rug between the hardwood and his noggin.

          “I can’t… Without power from the generator there’s no running water at the faucet.” She responded.

“To the lakeshore then,” countered Cos. “Grab a pale and a cloth from the kitchen and go scoop some lake water.”

          “Should I continue to hold dinner for everyone?”

“Celine, go, please go—now!” And as she departed the room, he let out an exasperated sigh and included “Thank you.”

“Sally, what are we going to do?” asked Cosmoid. “I came into this business partnership looking for part time retirement. I feel as though my vision for an Eat, Sleep, Fish lifestyle is quickly becoming a mirage.”

And for the first time… Possibly ever… Sally had no response. She stood by the entryway, motionless, not quite believing what she was experiencing here on the island. This alleged Canadian fishing camp (Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters) was quickly becoming a place where everything that could possibly go wrong—will go wrong.

Her left arm remained in a sling, where she had previously taken a bullet (OK, maybe that wasn’t Rusty’s fault). And now her right shoulder, to the best of her knowledge, had just been dislocated when they piled onto the beach with a not so spectacular boat landing.

“What are we going to do?” she thought to herself… “What the hell am I going to do? Better yet, what am I even doing here in the first place?”

“Cos… This whole mess in a colossal gong show. You have two guests missing and now your TopGunSniper fishing guide has also disappeared. I gotta tell ya…” And before she could finish her thought, the cell phone in her front right jean pocket started buzz-buzz-buzzing.

“Cos,” she asked, “Can you come here and grab my phone out of my pocket? It might be Clarence, although I can’t believe he’d be getting any reception on the lake.”

          “Here, let me help,” he offered. Then, removing the cellular device from her jeans pocket, he recognized the name that was flashing on the caller ID: Ben T. Hook. “Do you want me to answer it?”

“Who is it?” Sally countered.

          “It’s your Outdoor Modeling Agent.” The only guy that Cos could ever remember meeting, that did not appear capable of dressing himself.

“Just let it go to voicemail,” responded Sally. Then immediately thought, “Thank god, a lifeline!” Ben was incredibly faithful to her—almost to a fault. Just the thought of him leaving a message gave her hope—while at the same time placed a remorseful pit in her stomach.

Just then Celine burst back into the lodge, “Look who I found! It’s the Ministry man!”

          “Um, excuse me,” said a strange gentleman entering the lodge on the heels of one overly excited camp chef. “I’m actually Minister Neville Thorne—local religious official—most folks in lake country call me Minister Nev.”

“And here we go again,” said Sally—mistakenly aloud for all to hear. It was Celine’s radio call, now bringing even more chaos to the island. “Somehow, she was talking to the Ministry Officer, and now we have a Pastor in our presence. God knows we could use a Hail Mary. Maybe you have some Catholic powers up your sleeve.”

          “Ma’am… I’m simply responding to what I overheard as a call for a Minister… You might be…” And then Minister Nev was interrupted by an abrupt pounding on the main lodge door.

“Good gravy,” perked Celine. “I hope it’s not another dinner guest. I fear we will be short on elk medallions.”

          “Evening everyone,” said a man dressed from head to toe in forest green. “I am Minister of Natural Resources Officer, Marlin Salty. Which of you might be responsible for the crisis call on Channel-16 of the marine band radio?”

“Sir,” began Professor Cosmoid Scale, “I believe I can be of assistance in making sense of this whole mish-mash.”

          “Good! Because right now I see wrecked boats in your harbor, a camp filled with silence—telling me your generator is down, our local Minister holding a wet squirrel, and in case you’re all missing it—a body laying here on the hardwood!”

Immediately the stakes had been amped up by the presence of the MNR Officer. The only person not on edge was Rusty Flathers. He was still horizontal with no signs of coming out of this fainting spell anytime soon.

“So, Nev… Let’s start with you,” continued Marlin Salty. “Why are you here? Some sort of wildlife blessing?”

          “That’s hardly the case,” rebuked Nev. Although petting the head of a wet squirrel may have been interpreted as some form of habitat baptism. Then he continued by saying, “Maybe it is you that is here, in need of a confession appointment!”

“What is this—religion versus government?” Sally muttered to no one in particular. And then as tensions continued to escalate between Thorne and Salty… The comatose camp co-owner on the floor (Rusty) twitched mid-argument and began to slowly wake up.

          “Minister Thorne,” Salty continued with pressure, “That squirrel is a protected animal you are handling… I might add, without a license.

“Protected?” questioned Minister Nev Thorne. “This auburn-colored creature of God found me, my good Officer. I consider him a member of my congregation!”

          “He’s no worshipper! He’s wildlife! And a gangly rodent at that!”

Nev now holds the squirrel overhead and inspects him as if he’s Simba from The Lion King. “This squirrel is under my spiritual guidance. You have no jurisdiction here.”

From the floor… Barely conscious… Rusty opens one eye and blurts out, “Are we baptizing Links squirrel buddies today?”

–To Be Continued–

DECEMBER 14

HEY SPORTSFANS!

Have you missed us? Because WOW—we’ve missed YOU!

We know you’ve all been counting down the days, watching the weather, and wondering when Mother Nature would finally give us the green light to get back out on the lake…

Well, guess what? The wait is OVER! 

We are beyond excited to officially announce that Lake of the Woods is ready for ice fishing! Our guides are reporting 10-12″ of ice where our fish houses are located (16-20′ of water).
As of today, Thursday, December 11, our very first ice fishers have officially hit the ice for the winter season! 

We kicked things off with an awesome group of guests and even sent out some of our own employees to enjoy that first ice of the season.

Get those rods ready… it’s time to fish! 

SEASON 4, EPISODE 11

Season Four—Episode 11 (Shut Up & Fish) 

The relentless winds pounded away at the floating docks as Rusty road a three-foot crest into the harbor at FSFO. He was unable to make the corner and turn the bow back into the waves—opting instead to stove straight ahead on shore.

Landing conditions proved challenging. There was zero assistance from the flood lights, normally casting lumens onto the beach near the boathouse and the sky proved to be darker than the inside of a black bear.

“Hang on Sally!” Rusty hollered from the stern. “I’m going to beach us!”

This was no truth or dare situation. There were no choices to be mulled. THIS was actually happening. This dire strait situation is what sir Rusty Flathers had unknowingly signed up for when he inked the bottom line on camp ownership life. Ready or not it was time for him to Shut Up & Fish.

          Rusty’s boat fought the swells and above the winds he heard Sally’s response, “Keep your nose pointed toward the beach—Can you see the two skiffs pushed up on shore?”

Rusty was coming in hot… Fighting the waves… Aggressive winds… And by the time he did get near… It was too late. The sunken camp boats were directly in his landing zone.

Sally braced for impact—as much as humanly possible. With her good arm holding Link and her damaged wing still in a makeshift cast—she lowered at the waist and prepared for an abrupt halt. The port side of their boat glanced off the beached tinner that was sunk to her left… And then came a scream from the outboard motor as it shifted into reverse (Rusty battling to slow their landing speed.)

Too little too late. Like a kid that shows up at the ballpark with 10-cents in his pocket. It costs 10-bucks to get into the game, and it’s already the 7th inning.

“Hang on!” Rusty cried out. But the forced landing was too abrupt, and he watched Sally exit the boat—not of her free will—launching over the gunnel and landing face down on the beach after completing a one and a half gainer that East German judges would have scored poorly. The Canadian rulers would have been more lenient—as a rule just a friendlier disposition for grading unwarranted landings. 

Cosmoid heard the roar of the fifty-horse engine just as he gave up on repairing the fuel line. With a flashlight in hand, he bound his way through the entanglement of fallen trees and made his way back down the generator hill to the beach.

“Good god, Sally are you ok?” queried Cos as he fell to the sand by her side.

          “It’s my arm… My good arm… It might be broken…” she winced.

“Keep still—Rusty—where’s Rusty?”

          “He was in the boat before we crashed ashore,” she replied.

Then another bombshell of thunder exploded… Followed by a near direct hit of lightning…

For a split second the night went to daylight and exposed Rusty’s whereabouts. His unsuccessful landing had him sprawled on the floor of the skiff with a gash in his forehead the size of a #5 Flicker Shad. There was crayfish red blood oozing down the side of his face.

“My lord… Rusty… Rusty… Are you ok man.” Asked Cos as he waded into the lake approaching his fallen friend.

          “Yeah—thankfully it’s just my head—how’s Sally?”

“She’s on the beach. Can you get up? She needs our help. Might be a broken arm or shoulder.”

          “Oh frick,” Rusty said and then pulled himself up off the floor of the boat, grabbed the side of the gunnel lending himself overboard, and rushed out of waist deep water to her location on the beach.

 “Sally,” Cos called out above the drenching storm, “let’s get you up—get you to the lodge. Can you walk?”

          “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine, just help me up. Where’s Link?”

To this question… There was no response… Other than, “Here, let’s get you on your feet,” from Cos. Then he and a silent Rusty assisted in bringing her up from the sand.

“We’re a wreck,” Rusty muttered, as they made their way in darkness across the beach toward the safety of the lodge. It was good to be back on solid ground, but his spirits were crushed with the possibility of Sally being further injured.

As the trio made it to homebase (the lodge), there was relief just as the last of the pressing rain turned into a drizzle. Hunkered inside was Celine Maple Cramshaw (chief chef and bottle washer) with one hand wrapped tightly around a soup ladle and the other grasping the marine radio mic. With the commotion of the storm, she was still unaware that any of her cohorts had returned to the island.

“Generator’s down,” Cosmoid reported flatly, as they made their way up the steps. “There was a poplar tree that fell through the roof, busted off the fuel line.” Then he stumbled up the porch steps and reached for the door—his jacket completely soaked through—holding more water than it repelled.

Inside there was a lingering smell of everything’s wet. And then from the lounge area, dimly lit by candles, a screech! A woman wrapped in wool sprinting uncontrollably in their direction—ladle in one hand—marine radio microphone with cord ripped off in the other. “Oh, thank goodness! Thank goodness! I called the Minister man!” cried out Celine.

She continued her bull rush toward the threesome, “And he said I was going to put someone into a soup. Someone named Sam. Or maybe SPAM. Or maybe it was me that said SAM. I can’t remember. Where have you guys been?!?! My supper is most likely cold by now!”

          “Whoa, Celine, slow down,” Sally said, pulling off her rain slicker with assistance from Cos and Rusty. “Minister? Do you mean Ministry? Like a Natural Resources officer?”

At this point Celine was embracing Rusty. Frantically, almost in a weird sort of way. “Do you like elk Mr. Rusty?”

Before anyone could respond… There was a scratch-scratch-scratch at the lodge door. Sally immediately ran to the entrance and peered down through the window. With her leg she kicked the door outward and held it with her foot. “It’s LINK! He’s here!” she shouted.

In fact, it was their waterlogged British Labrador puppy… Scuttling sideways… Apparently a bit delirious himself from the boat landing, but no worse for the ware! Into the lodge he pattered—accompanied with an island squirrel friend at each side. Straight to the fireplace they continued, only looking in the rear once they had reached their destination. Waiting for someone to gather a log, maybe strike a match.

“Where’s Clarence? We should have him round up some wood for a fire. Where is he?” asked Rusty to Cosmoid Scale.

          “I don’t know. We became separated during our search. He….”

–To Be Continued— 

SEASON 4, EPISODE 10

Season 4—Episode 10 (UNHINGED)

The windows of the main lodge shook with each crack of lightning. Sunset was 9:37pm, but the spring thunderstorm called it quits on daylight hours about an hour and change earlier. The winds in the natural harbor at the camp were gamey. The strong So’easter pushed rolling wave after rolling wave into the floating docks that strained boat lines that were attached to cleats. Every fourth current would crest and send a powerful spray into the rental boats testing the security of the skiffs tied up at FSFO.

From the confines of the lodge Celine watched in darkness as the storm continued to build steam. The camp generator had sputtered out about the same time the first bolt of lightning touched a two-hundred-year-old Norway Pine on a nearby island. Our anxiety-riddled chef stood statue still gripping the window’s ledge as if it were the countertop at a bank with a snooty teller refusing to give her owed monies. There were a half dozen candles lit like sickly fireflies dimly lighting her background in the lounging room. Intermittently she squeezed her eyes tight and prayed that one or both search party boats would return.

The next CRACK of lightning hit closer to home and Celine reached out to white-knuckle the portable marine band radio mounted near the exit door of the lodge. The stress of the storm combined with her hunger had her on the verge of unhinged.

“If Mr. Rusty and Professor Cos don’t come back soon, I’m going to house those elk medallions.” She whispered through pursed lips. “And that sanitation man…. If he shows up again, I’ll throw him into the onion soup.”

There was a beat of silence—another blast of thunder—and then an unsettled voice crackled in on Channel 16 responding to Celine’s mumblings. “Uh, this is field officer Marlin Salty with the Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources. Did the person on this marine line just say you were going to throw someone into a pot of soup?” Instantly, Celine dropped her ladle and the microphone of the marine band radio.

“Celine… Is that you?! Switch over to Channel 01. That’s zero-one,” instructed Sally from her handheld unit.

          “I tried but it’s stuck. Where are you? Is this Sally calling? Where is everyone? Supper is ready. Aren’t you hungry?” pleaded Celine followed by radio silence.

“Celine, do you copy? Celine, take your thumb off the transmitter button. Celine…” And then nothing but static. 

Sally sat mid-boat with her back to straight line winds and pounding sheets of rain… And tucked the handheld back into her waterproof slicker. The poor radio reception only made for unnecessary drama and Celine was obviously struggling to hold it together.

She then returned to securing Link by grasping him tightly to ensure his safety and watching the relentless rains wash down his coat. The sky would momentarily be lit with a bizarre and dangerous flash. It was during these moments that she could also see Rusty grasping the tiller handle of the 50hp outboard motor with one hand and using his free arm to hold a hand in front of his eyes to shield the sand blasting pellets of rain.

“Rain jacket”, was Rusty’s continuous thought. “The next time I get into a boat, rain or shine, I bring rain gear. Or a wetsuit. Or a submarine.”

Second most important thought… “Pay attention to the approach on these waves.” Which was no small task seeing how he was being pushed from the rear by winds that would qualify for small craft warnings, and the rain made it almost impossible to ride a wave and not crash bow first as you came downhill into the next roller. It would have been nice to be able to practice these maneuvers on a sunnier summer day.

Camp partner Cosmoid Scale was the first to return to the safe haven of the camp. Albeit safe, it was far from what it appeared. Two camp boats had broken loose from the floating dock. The bow and stern ropes had snapped… Setting one of the skiffs loose. The second appeared to have both cleats demolished by the force of the waves playing against the docks.

Thankfully the winds and rolling waters had pushed both boats ashore in the harbor, versus outbound to areas unknown. The sour surveillance of Cos was a telltale that there would be lots of bailing to do, and hopefully no motor damage as each skiff sank on the beach below their respective water lines.

Next came the association of no camp lights on, equating to what’s wrong with the generator. This is an ill feeling begotten by many a camp owner. One who returns to his property sensing no welcome back greeting with the subtle hum provided by a Cummins diesel genset—This in turn equates to the realization that everything requiring electricity to operate a remote fish camp is NOT running.  

If it weren’t for all the downed trees… Cos’s trip up the hill toward the generator shed would have been remarkably easier. As it stood… He ambled, crawled, stretched, and hurtled his way over no less than a dozen tree falls to reach his destination.

Once inside the generator shed his shone flashlight quickly produced the culprit. The limb of a Poplar tree that had gone through the roof line of the building, had effectively destroyed the fuel line that was connected to the injection pump. One plus one equals chaos.

Cos stood over the genset—hands shaking—more troubles on his shoulders than what he had signed up for. “At least it’s not raining,” he spoke out loud in an attempt to humor himself as the downpour continued through busted roof beams and ran down the collar of his jacket.

Unaware that anyone had returned to the island… Celine clutched the marine band mic again, “Minister man… Are you there? Marlin Salty… My people? They are missing… Am I alone?”

Then another KERR-BOOM sounded off—igniting the sky—and she jumped—dropping the mic that was connected by cord to its receiver. Peering out into the rain-soaked night she had thought she had seen a ghost. Or was it a boat? Was it Rusty’s boat? 

–To Be Continued—