SEASON 4, EPISODE 20

Season Four—Episode 20 (Of Mice And Men)

Rods, reels, bait, tackle, gas, ice, beverages, shore lunch kit… Rusty Flathers checklist was complete as he waited in the 20ft Lund Alaskan for his guests to arrive at the dock. If one of the Pikeannoli brothers shows up with a six-cell-Mag-Lite, this day trip will go sideways before the first cast is made.

Here they come… Rusty could see Alvin exiting the lodge, holding the door for Cy and Ted, motioning for them to head in the direction of the pier. Cy was wearing a tan L.L. Bean fishing vest. Vintage style—but hard to tell if the sales tag was still hanging from one of the three button holes.

Ted came next… More of a skip to his hop. He seemed jittery, almost nervous—like he had guzzled too much of Celine’s freshly brewed Timmy’s at breakfast. Or he was possibly anxious to get off the island. Because short of running, he was basically boatside on the dock in two shakes of a Fenwick fishing rod.

Finally, and rather cautiously, Alvin made his way down the steps of the lodge, stopped short at the storage container on the floating dock, and pulled out a floatation jacket. Eying the size of the safety vest he then placed it under his arm and continued toward Rusty’s boat.

“I have life jackets, to wear, here in the boat—if you’d like,” offered Rusty.

          “No, this one’s fine,” replied Alvin, and then proceeded to step into the jacket with both feet, pulling it up around his crotchal region as if it were an adult diaper, and zip up the flap securing a Pamper style fit.

“At least there’s no flashlight,” thought Rusty. And then offered, “You guys ready to rock? Let’s go pound on ‘em!” Super enthusiastic for a camp owner whose plan for the day was Of Mice And Men.

On the down-low, Rusty had been given orders by Tawny: A) spend the morning catching shore lunch. B) take them to MOOSE ISLAND at high noon. C) keep your head on a swivel—the rest of the crew will be running reconnaissance. D) do NOT do anything stupid.

“Quite the motivator,” he thought—slipping the boat into reverse—revving the throttle on the tiller handle. But the boat failed to move.

“What the…” went through Rusty’s mind. “More throttle? Is the prop slipping?”

          “Um… Mr. Flathers,” said Ted. “Would you like me to untie the bow of the boat from the cleat on the dock?”

“Yeah… Go ahead… That’d be great…” replied Rusty. And “Way to look professional,” he thought.

Then a door slammed at the lodge, and he looked up to see Celine exiting the side entrance of the kitchen, making her way toward the employee bunkhouse. She paused just long enough to stop and wave a shiny 6D-cell flashlight, approximately 20-inches in length, basically a baton.

“Good luck fishing today, guys!” she shouted from shore, and then continued on her merry way.

Backing out of the harbor it was time to regroup. “Focus on the fish,” Rusty was telling himself. Then he cranked the shift bar forward, aimed the bow of the boat toward open water, and raced off into the lapping waves.

His first stop was a bust—Flapjack Point. And it was flatter than a pancake. A warm-up he told himself. Anyone can catch fish—you just have to go to where the fish want to be.

Second stop…Hunter’s Point. Seemed fitting—he was most certainly on the hunt for walleye.

More of the same. Collectively they fired four shiner minnows (tipped on jigs) to the bottom and were shooting blanks (not a sniff). Tawny had told him the fish would be under the boat, but such was not the case at this location.

If they’re not deep, they’re shallow. Or vice versa. He thought he received this piece of advice from his father Doobie, during his teen years, growing up in lake country.  

Rusty’s first two attempts were deep points… Thirty to thirty-five feet of water. After two unsuccessful stops his three guests were looking at him like there were snakes coming out of his head. Time to go shallow.

“Find your groove and figure out a pattern,” Rusty told himself as they boated around the corner of Hunter’s Point and headed further north toward Four Blocks and Pelican Bay.

He wanted to try a shallow springtime shoreline. The sun was gaining strength, and the south side of Pelican Bay would have warmer water temperatures in 6-8 feet. His problem? There was already a boat working the shoreline.

From his location Rusty could make out the mostly silver AlumaCraft with the black stripe running down the length of the gunnel. He could also identify the man wearing the bright red cap that he had seen twice at his camp, a third time when he and Sally were almost T-boned, and the most recent—at Raker’s Marine.

The Lund Alaskan gained speed… Throttle cracked wide open… “Full speed ahead,” Rusty mouthed under the bill of his cinched down ballcap. “Let’s see what this joker is up to.”

All three passengers tensed as their captain took direct aim and raced toward the boat fishing the shoreline. Hands were clenched under their seats—heads swiveling—bow to stern—bow to stern.

“Do you know this guy?” hollered Alvin, who was seated closest to Rusty.

          “Kinda, I’m gonna see if he’s got a bite going,” answered Rusty untruthfully.

Then, at the last possible moment, he cut the throttle on the Yamaha, pushed the tiller arm away from his torso and slid the boat in perfectly next to SAM.

“Well good morning Mr. Flathers,” said the man wearing the Storm Sanitation logoed cap. “How are you gentlemen today?”

Rusty had no recollection of ever sharing his name with this man. Four encounters and he swore he had never ever officially introduced himself.

          “We got the can’t get ‘ems, SAM. How are you doing here?” asked Rusty.

“Hello Sam,” offered Cy, too quickly.

          “You guys know each other?” countered Rusty, without missing a beat.

An awkward silence overtook the crowd. Heads were moving—no one was making eye contact.

“Ummmmm. No,” Cy finally responded. “I just heard you say his name?” he murmured quietly.

          “There’s fish here in 6-8 feet of water,” Sam quickly changed the subject and restarted the conversation. “You guys are more than welcome to share this shoreline bite with me. Nothing huge, but good numbers of walleyes.”

“Thanks, I appreciate the offer,” replied Rusty. His mind was also racing with thoughts as to whether Sam was going to make mention of his alleged friends Oscar and Grover. But this did not seem to be the case.

“We just need to pick up enough fish for lunch,” he continued. “I’m supposed to be on the beach at Moose Island by noon.”

“UGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH,” Rusty screamed inside his own head. “Stop freaking talking! Why did I just tell this man what my double-top-secret-Tawny-plan is for today?”

          “Well, you guys should be able to catch ‘em here. I think I’m going to move on. Good luck,” finished Sam. And just like that he was around the corner and out of sight.

“Tawny’s gonna kill me,” thought Rusty. “And possibly Sam too?” Then to the three Pikeannolis, “Ok guys, let’s drop a line and see if the walleyes have disappeared.” He glanced back toward where Sam had vanished. Gone. Just like Grover, Oscar, and Clarence.

–To Be Continued– 

FEBRUARY 8

 

Hey Sportsfans, 

This past week has been a great one, highlighted by our first successful walleye connection of the season.

Now, on to the information you really care about. The perch bite is hot, which is crazy considering the time of year. Mer Rolin, who is coming up on his 30th year with us, says he has never seen this many perch.

Our houses were shifted around the northern bridges area during the middle part of the week to better stay on the fish and get in on the action.

The bite has remained consistent, just not quite as busy. Maybe if your as lucky as one of this weeks fishers you could even reel up a Northern.

For those wondering about ice conditions, we are currently sitting on 30 inches of ice. Be sure you have extensions for your LiveScope setups.

Set the Hook!

FEBRUARY 1

Hey Sportsfans,

Can you believe it’s already February?? The month of love, football championships, and winter adventures on Lake of the Woods!

Fishing has stayed incredibly consistent this week, keeping us posted up near Bridges Island and the surrounding reefs. That hour drive north… totally worth it.

Speaking of consistency, the perch are still loving the snacks we’ve been dropping down.

This week was another cold one, with temperatures dipping to -30°. (Good thing our houses and bombers are heated.)

Catching up on LOW tactics? Here’s what’s been clicking:

  • Colors: gold, pink, and red

  • If you’re a fancy fisherman, blinking lures have been producing great success

  • Jigging paired with live bait has been key

If you’re coming up soon, the temps might feel like a (Northern Minnesota) heatwave…but I guess that depends on where you are coming from. 
 
Set the Hook!

SEASON 4, EPISODE 19

Season Four—Episode 19 (Catch of the Day)

Dark clouds smothered the harbor at FSFO… Rusty lay awake in his bunkhouse with the company of one lone bullfrog, outside his window, mesmerizing him with its monotone droning. His thoughts were on tomorrow—guiding—actual clients.

Anglers who travel to Northwest Ontario expect an abundance of success measured by steady action and impressive weights. He would be pressured to produce limits of fresh wild walleye and then prepare them a Catch of the Day over an open fire with embers cracking, beans heating in a can, and potatoes frying in a shore lunch skillet.

“Where do I find the fish?” he asked Tawny earlier, just before sunset. This was an honest attempt at seeking advice after being told that he would be the one to take the Pikeannoli brothers fishing in the morning.

          Her response was blunt, “Under the boat.” Then she walked away.

He retreated to his bunkhouse seeking sanctuary—wondering where he would start his morning, what presentation he would use to catch fish. It was the bullfrog and the tic-toc, tic-toc, tic-toc of his alarm clock that kept him from sleeping. Along with the memory of her kiss.

Then there was a flash of light. A ray cast across the bay from the end of the floating dock. Rusty lay silent under the warmth of the Hudson Bay blanket peering out from his waterfront window. The light blinked three short flashes, followed by three long flashes, and then three short flashes again.

It was the universally recognized distress signal for YOU—ARE—IN—DANGER. But with his face pressed against the pane of glass he could not recognize the figure in the distance emitting this wave.

Link was now out of his bunk, pacing by the door, scratching the floor with his paws. The hair stood tall on his shoulders, and he produced a guttural growl, though not totally convincing due to his puppy age.

Another light… From the boathouse. More flashes… Two short flickers, one long cast of light, and three short blinks.

“Huh?” he thought to himself, “Who am I, Sam Morse?” having no idea what was just coded.   

Rusty swung his feet to the floor, tiptoed through the darkness of the room, and made his way toward the door. Reaching out he turned the knob ever so slightly, cracking the door open and immediately Link bolted.

“Link, get back here,” he called in a voice barely above a whisper. But there was no response. Even the bullfrog had gone silent.

“Who’s out there!” he now commanded with a more authoritative voice. But stillness remained. No light from the end of the dock and no glow from the dock house.

Rusty made his way to the beach and followed the shoreline to the last area he saw a flash. Link had joined him, nose to the ground, winding his way toward the entrance of the building.

“I should have brought a flashlight,” he thought as he followed the path of the dog. And then he stumbled near one of the skiffs pulled up on shore—an oar lying in the sand—bent at the waist he grasped it with both hands like a martial arts weapon—even though watching a Bruce Lee movie was the extent of his combat training.  

Continuing toward the boat house, the only sound he heard was the pounding of his heart in his throat. Then he reached for the knob, turning ever so slowly with Link’s nose peeled to the floor, snuffleupagusing the gap between the base and the door.

The building was darker than the inside of a clam. “Should I go and turn the generator on?” he thought momentarily as a mad rush of footsteps sounded on the walkway by the far exit of the building.

“Hello!” he sounded off. And then thought how odd it would sound if he were attempting to scare off this impending perpetrator.

He could not identify the shape as it ran behind the building and appeared to scamper toward the woods. Then he glanced across the harbor and witnessed the first flash of light he had seen earlier—coming to life—striding their way down the floating dock heading toward the main lodge.

“You! On the dock, who’s there!” Rusty called out.

The response was nil, and by the time whomever had reached shore, they killed the light and disappeared into the darkness. Two mysterious shapes—now gone.

A daring person would give chase toward the lodge, and thus Rusty retreated to the confines of his bunkhouse. Link tagged behind, nipping at his heels, doing little to challenge the course of his master’s path.

Behind the locked door of his shelter, he caught his breath—considering all options. Living to fish another day immediately came to mind. And not knowing who or what was out there, it seemed to be the most sensible choice.

The single croak of the bullfrog returned. Rusty and Link reclaimed their spaces under the warmth of the wool blanket. Tic-toc, tic-toc, tic-toc the alarm clock beat its drum.

The ceiling beams cast dark shadows like pine trees bent during a storm. Whatever or whoever had been out there—on the dock—near the boathouse—had not come for him. Not yet.

Tomorrow morning would start sooner than later as he continued to fight off sleep. His new guests, the Pikeannolis, would be anxious for adventure. Ultimately, he would have to play guide, husband, and chief bottle washer for everything all consuming at FSFO. The role of playing captain of the ship was a boat he was not sure he could float.

More clouds pushed their way into the harbor—he felt the lake shifting its momentum—just enough to fuel his insomnia.

Tic-toc. Tic-Toc. Morning was coming… And Rusty Flathers was already hooked… Catch of the Day.

–To Be Continued—