SEASON 4, EPISODE 6

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.”

Rusty strutted out of the bathhouse with the cockiness of a ruffed grouse during spring drumming season. He had on a fresh camp shirt—brown curly locks moist with water—a bounce in his step that spewed confidence. “It’s going to be a great day Link!” He greeted his labrador puppy by leaning over to scratch his muzzle.

Then, bent at the waist and continuing his forward motion… He missed the landing step at the base of the walkway and his right knee buckled under his own weight. Then it was the same stop-drop-roll momentum he’d perfected multiple times in his stumbling career that carried him into the yard and ended with a perfect ten-point landing—on his back.

Link stood overhead—tilting his chin back and forth—twisting his blocky frame. “Yeah, yeah, I know” muttered Rusty. “Stay grounded. I’m on it.”

Sally sat in the TV room of the lodge, with a great view of the sunrise, happy that Rusty was happy. But her mind was skipping like a record album that couldn’t move on to the next lyric. She couldn’t get over the encounter she’d had the day prior with “Random-Dude” who mysteriously appeared at the camp inquiring about their guests. And with Cos and Rusty having their hands full, literally, with the septic—she felt it best not to raise unwarranted caution.

Clarence was busy in the back of the lodge. He’d put Grover and Oscar on a banger walleye bite. Three fish over 28-inches… Century numbers by mid-afternoon… Shiner minnow scales plastered on his fingertips… Solid day! And now he was packing shore lunch supplies planning to impress them with a fresh meal of fish over an open fire, and quite possibly an afternoon of casting for twenty-pound northern pike.

At 6:32am Cos rang the breakfast bell outside the entrance door of the lodge and then joined their two guests for a meal. “Good morning, fellas.” He offered. “How was your day yesterday?”

          “This is new for us,” replied Oscar. “We really didn’t have anything to gauge the success of the fishing, based on our inexperience. But Clarence is great, and we believe he said, this is a solid bite.”

Rusty had also inquired about the fishing, and their guests, a few minutes prior in the back room with Clarence. Clarence’s response was similar per the fishing but added “These guys are big hats, no cattle.”

          “Ok,” replied Rusty. “First, what does that mean? And second, let’s remember that these fishermen are paying guests, so let’s watch how we place labels on our visitors.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything, as far as them being bad guys… It’s just that they seem a bit off. Like, as in, not knowing what end of a fishing rod to hold onto. Know what I mean?” concluded Clarence.

          “Well, they dress the part. Or at least they look like they try to.”

“Yeah…”  finished Clarence. “Straight out of a Simms catalog. And they have a bunch of mismatched gear that they brought along to try out. I mean, they did OK as far as fishing. But it was an absolute banger day of vertical jig fishing, and they didn’t seem overly excited about it.”

Sally remained tucked in her nook of the TV room, near the dining area, listening as Cos casually asked their guests, “So, what part of Chicago do you guys live?”

          “South side,” replied Grover. “You been?”

“Matter of fact, yes. I frequented the Museum of Science and Industry while teaching nearby in East Jesus, Indiana (EJU).

          “Hmmm. Don’t ring a bell,” answered Grover. “We mostly hang out at Cubs games.”

“Cubs games,” thought Sally. “These guys wear mismatched fishing outfits, seem overly new to everything we have going on here at the island, and hang out at Wrigley Field when they’re south siders?”

“Well, you fellas have a great day!” offered Cos and excused himself from the breakfast table. “I have some duties to attend to in the boat house. Got some mice thieving around in there, and they are playing hard to catch.”

          “Sounds like you have them on the run,” finished Oscar—he and Grover then exchanged glances and laughed nervously.

9:02am… Mid-morning… The black boat with gray trim reappeared near the dock. Wisconsin boat registration. This time Rusty was down at the pier, going through the rental boats, preparing for their second round of guests for the current week, which would be arriving the day after tomorrow.  

Random-Dude called out, “Good morning, sir, did the Wright brothers make it out fishing yet today?” He was wearing black field pants, a black turtleneck, and shiny mirrored sunglasses.

          “Hello. How can I help you? Are you talking about the Williams brothers?” replied a much-confused Rusty Flathers.

Sally heard the boat pull in, could feel the tension rise onto her shoulders, and was quick to be next to Rusty’s side. “This guy’s getting on my last nerve,” she whispered through a clenched jaw.

“Hey,” she shouted from the dock, “If you’re here again, looking for the Wright Brothers—Wilbur told me to tell you to catch the next flight to his ocean front property.”

Rusty immediately shot her a sideways look. “Sal… What the…”

          “What?” she shrugged. “He started this.”

“You know him?” asked Rusty, as Random-Dude remained idling out of earshot.

          “No, but he was here yesterday, looking for our guests, dodging truths.”

“Sir, this is a private camp. If you’d like to relay a message to one of our guests, I would be happy to accommodate you,” was Rusty’s next distant cast.

Random-Dude pivoted at the stern and hollered, “Sam—Sam’s my name. And no message, thanks. I’d kind of like to surprise them.”

          “Well, they should be back between 4:30 and 5:00pm. Or we can pass along a message.”

Sam chuckled… “No problem… No message… I’ll go fishing…” He finished by pushing the mirrored shades up on his nose and then pulled down a ballcap with a logo that read Storm Sanitation.

By the time the boat turned and began to motor away—Link had joined the party at the dock. He raised his nose to the wind and let out another deep, unnerving growl. Sally hissed her own growl, and it came out sounding more along the lines of, “Gone Fishing—what a crock, bait breath.”

–To Be Continued—

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—