SEASON 5, EPISODE 6

Season 5 – Episode 06 (Fifth Avenue Freeze Out)

The Squatsnfishes’ lake-country cottage included seven well-appointed bedrooms (all waterfront), a cozy two-bedroom guest cabin that featured a hand-laid stone fireplace, and ample accommodation for crews-quarters—neatly tucked away on the back-forty.

Sally’s mother, Sanda, was surprised by an earlier phone call. Forty-five minutes prior, to be exact. This was her daughter—her youngest—whom she had not seen or heard from in the past several months. Informing her, “I’ll be home today.”  

Father Glenn, with two n’s, was ecstatic about the news of his daughter’s surprise visit. Now, if he could just keep peace betwixt mother and daughter and avoid a Fifth Avenue Freeze Out.

Sally took a hard right at Fifth Ave… She was home. Five generations of Squatsnfishes lived, and or were currently living behind these gates.

In the rental car she peered through the fenced entrance and waited to be buzzed in. Behind the gate she could see Glenn clapping his hands and pumping his fists. Sanda stood next to him, arms firmly crossed.

Meanwhile, inside the boathouse at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters, there was also some arm crossing—complemented by head shaking—going on. “Rusty, you’re gonna need to pull it together. We have guests arriving,” said Cosmoid.

          “I know, I know,” replied Rusty. “But I found a flannel shirt in my bunkhouse this morning—one that belonged to Sally.”

“Rusty, here’s the deal… WE. Meaning, YOU, ME, LINK, EVERYONE here at this camp is moving on. And I’ll tell ya something else—if it’s meant to happen—she’ll be back. That’s how true love works my friend, and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.”

          “Alright-alright, Cos. You’ve got my word… I’ll do better.”

“Good! Now take your hand out of that bench-vise and let’s get ready to show our new visitors what true adventure is all about on Lac des Bois. Besides, what the hell do you have your hand in that vise for, anyway?” he questioned.

          “Just trying to feel something, Cos,” he replied.

It seemed as though Rusty was not the only one down in the proverbial dumps on this day. Minister Nev was called away for some actual parishioner duty and this had Celine spinning herself like a top on a Lazy Susan.

Nev left the island that morning at o-dark-thirty. Something about a Jesuit who needed assistance converting a Russian Atheist who was also an aspiring musky angler. According to the note left on Rusty’s bunkhouse, the Atheist was also illegally harvesting excessive amounts of northern pike.

The rumor mill stated he was claiming to witness hordes of pike purposely overtaking prime real estate. Specifically, long rock-rubble points. Allegedly he had assigned himself the job of thinning the herd and thus allowing the musky to return to their preferred habitation.  

Rusty was fully aware of Nev’s religious obligation requiring him to leave. It was one thing to be a non-believer. But it was unfathomable for a man to overharvest gross amounts of gamefish in God’s country. Celine could not have agreed less.

“He left me, Rusty… Rusty, he took off without my blessing,” said Celine.

          “Well, he did leave a note,” replied Rusty. He was tiptoeing on eggshells in this territory of being the comforter and not the previous comfortee.

Celine wiped a tear from her eye. The pointy end of the fillet knife she was using to dice peppers came extremely close to her left eyeball.  

“What time are the new guests arriving today?” Celine asked. “I hope they like cookies without sugar. I’m in no mood to sweeten anything. And they’d better not question my entrée.”

Rusty braced himself. As managing partner, it was his responsibility to make the ask. He could not allow Celine the freedom to sabotage meals, strictly based on her current mood.

          “Um… Yeah… I’m just making my way over to Raker’s Marine now. Our guests should be arriving soon. It’s a couples group from Indiana,” Rusty said.

“Indiana, huh. Maybe they like cake. I think I’ll make angel food. More than I can say for Nev. He’s the devil. But they are not getting sugar.”

To comfort… Rusty reached out a hand and placed it on Celine’s shoulder. She jumped eight feet in the air and screamed, “What are you doing! I have a knife in my hand!”

          “Whoa—whoa—whoa,” replied Rusty, “I was just trying to…”

“Try nothing, boss. I’m Nev’s girl. Back off, freak,” she blurted.

Then she continued, “But let’s say, for example, he comes back and he smells like pike slime—then maybe I would show you these…” and started to lift her double-breasted chef’s top.

          “Celine, NO! No—no—no. I was just trying to… Hey, what’s for supper tonight?”

“Oh, I’ve got some beautiful ribeye slayed,” she replied, pulling her chef’s top taut and twirling her shiny knife in the air.  

          “Great, I’d better be going,” Rusty stated.

On his way out the door he heard her mutter something about being lucky to find a fallen deer on the back side of the island. He quickened his pace away from the lodge.

Link was on board Hooked on Poutine before Rusty could even loosen the ropes from the dock. “Yeah boy, me and you, a little break from this island, eh.” It was Rusty’s first slip into Canadian vocabulary.

The word eh was a potential rabbit hole for new islanders and this was officially Rusty’s first experience. It was awkward for him. Like attending his first junior high dance, not knowing what to do with himself during the slow dances.  

“Here, let me help you with that, ma’am,” said Rusty, holding the boat near the passenger dock and simultaneously reaching for her waterproof Patagonia duffel.

The reach was arbitrary… Where it landed was to be rebuked.

          “Well, excuse me, Mr. Feathers,” said the middle-aged woman with Rusty’s right hand on her breast. “Just what sort of camp are you taking me to?”

After Rusty turned fifty-three shades of red, he said, “My sincere apologies, ma’am. I—I—I…”

          “I’m sure your girlfriend would be jealous,” the lady teased.

“I’m sure she would,” Rusty replied. There was now a dagger sticking in his back, right between the shoulder blades, exactly where he could not reach it.

Every which way he turned he seemed to be reminded of Sally. This was exactly how Cos had instructed him not to be. Then holding his chin high he bucked up, gave his passengers a glimpse of his award-winning innocent smile, and backed away from the pier.

With the boat barely on step the touristy questions came full force: How long you been doing this… Are those all islands… Do you ever see animals out here…  Do they catch fish on your island… Are you going to be one of our guides…

Rusty went into detail when speaking of his lead guide Tawny Bishop. “Each of you will get a chance to fish with Tawny. She was here when they put water in the lake and knows exactly where every fish lives. That’s saying something for one million acres of water. Especially if you want to catch the Grand Slam (walleye—musky—bass—pike). She can make it happen.”

Then suddenly, halfway back to the camp, Rusty leaned toward the boat’s windshield glass. At a distance there was a reflection coming from a bullrush weedbed. He steered the skiff toward the port side to get a closer look. “Oh no,” he thought.

–To Be Continued—

JUNE 7

Hey Sportsfans,

“We’ve been in the jigging program,” reports Captain Travis.

Fishing has been productive throughout the week, with several prime spots producing good results:

  • About 5 miles out in 30 feet
  • The north side of the Bridges in approximately 24 feet
  • The southeast side of Garden in around 23 feet

When fishing near the rubble and rocky bottom areas, anchor up in 24–28 feet. If you’re targeting the sand ledges, set up in 14–18 feet and work drifting jigs.

The weather has been excellent this week. Even on the cooler days, conditions have been comfortable and enjoyable on the water.

We’re also happy to announce that the pool is officially open for the season! The pool is private and available exclusively to our guests and the Ballard’s family, making it a quieter and more relaxing place to unwind after a day of fishing.

Set the Hook!

JUNE 1

Hey Sportsfans, 

Summer has finally arrived!

It feels like the Florida climate decided to make its way north, and we aren’t complaining. After a harsh winter and a cold spring, it sure feels good to see the sun shining.

Fishing has been pretty good lately. Some anglers are finding success by staying on productive spots all day, while others are covering water and catching fish in a variety of locations.

There’s no doubt about it—Lake of the Woods is the place to be right now.

The mornings can still be a bit chilly, especially with a one-hour ride across the lake, but the afternoons have been beautiful.

Fish are beginning to move out from their spawning areas and are transitioning to deeper water as they wait for the bugs to hatch. The most productive depths have been 20–28 feet of water. We haven’t seen large numbers of fish move out to the deep mud basins just yet.

A jig and minnow combination continues to be the top producer, but anglers are also catching fish on leeches and crawlers.

Set the Hook!

SEASON 5, EPISODE 5

Season5 – Episode05 (There’s No Place Like Home)

“Yeah, Ben… Uh huh… That’s right… Outta here,” said Sally as she made her way across the parking lot at Raker’s Marine. She was not stopping to bid farewell to Rod and Minnie Gills, she was not collecting two-hundred-dollars, but she was going to get past GO.

Her departure from the island took less than five minutes. Of which most seconds were spent hugging Link and scratching him behind his ears. She recalled the trip to Great Britain. She and Rusty—together—purchased the British Labrador as a sign of unity. Their Link to the future.

Beyond that… She and Tawny shared a moment… flipping each other off. This was somewhat in jest—somewhat in truth. Regardless, there was equal respect.

Then Sally went in search of Celine and Nev. They were in the back storage room of the kitchen with the door halfway open. She approached with caution.

Within earshot it sounded like some adult version of tag was being played.  She put her hand on the knob—knocked twice—no response—swung the door open.

Alarmed, Minister Nev shouted out, “She maketh me lie down in green pastures!”

It took a hot second for his words to register. His dog collar was swinging from the ceiling. Celine had labels—food labels—taken from canned goods in the pantry—covering private parts of her body. And what Sally thought was a game of tag appeared to be some altered version of twister.

With bulging eyes—Sally gasped—stepped out of the room—slammed the door closed. She would never unsee that colossal entanglement of body parts.

From behind the door she could hear Celine say, “Guess she’s not a fan of floor games. I’m hungry. Hey Nevvy, my pasture’s not green. Want a goose pâté sandwich, with extra sweet and spicy pickles?”

And then the only one left was Rusty. He was sitting on a bench over at the boathouse. Hunched over—elbows and forearms resting on his thighs—head hung low refusing to make eye contact as she boarded Hooked on Poutine for the trip to mainland.

Link had now joined him—wearing his weathered aviator cap—also sitting with his muzzle aimed down. He was either parroting Rusty’s posture or peering through the slats in the dock watching his friends the crayfish chase sand flies along the edge of the shore.  

Even her conversation with Cosmoid on the ride over had been less than audible. Matter of fact, after unloading her gear, “I won’t miss this place,” was her cold, castoff response to Cos after he had said safe travels. Then without so much as a parting nod, she unhitched the line from the dock cleat, tossed it over the length of the bow, and marched away.

“There’s No Place Like Home,” she said. Then continued her conversation with agent Ben T. Hook. “Right now, my plan is to go to the nearest airport, get upstate to my parents’ cottage—finish planning this KITFT. I’ll call you back once I cross the border.”

          “How’d you leave things with Rusty?” quizzed Ben. “Did he…”

“I gotta GO,” she responded, tossing her bags into the back of the JEEP CJ-7 hardtop. It was a little beat up on the sides. So was she.

The motor growled when the engine fired. She skipped first gear—popped the clutch—spun gravel under the posi-traction wheels.

Cos remained in the captain’s chair of the passenger boat watching her create separation from Lac des Bois. The rocks had long since settled in the parking lot, but the dust of Sally Squatsnfishes hung in the air. It was a cloud of doom and gloom, along with a fair amount of anger.

Meanwhile, the cedar-built lodge at the Gold Rope Ranch in Montana was abuzz. “Yes, Ben, right away… No, Ben, of course…  Wire the money, got it… Yes, he’s available… Ok, thanks, my best to Sally… Goodbye, Ben,” were Ron Heimburg’s words as he returned the phone to its receiver on his desk.

Jackie Loonsuckle was the first to take the call from Sally’s agent Ben T. Hook, but as the proverbial bankroll for the fishing tournament was being discussed, it became prudent for Ron Heimburg to handle the financial details. Something Jackie never had to deal with or contributed two cents toward.

Ron on the other hand was a Jewish financier. High finance to be exact. The man could rub two wooden nickels together and make a dollar. That and the fact that his wife Michelle was a Cardiothoracic Surgeon at the prestigious Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. Her position included an endowed chair with a research portfolio. Just what the doctor ordered when it came to rounding up a cool million for an entry fee to a fishing tournament in Africa.

Rounding up the money was the right away portion of Ron’s phone conversation. This, and the of course, meant there would be total discretion per whom was actually putting up the fee for Sally’s team. No need for the press-world to second-guess her financial portfolio.

Wire the money would be a bit tougher—logistically speaking. The Gold Rope Ranch was more than off the beaten path. It was a euphoric hunting and flyfishing destination that could only be located by GPS, and one would also need the ability to travel a two-track dirt path for thirty-eight miles from the nearest gravel road.

Yes, he’s available was a two-fold response to Ben. First, Ron had decided quickly over the phone to take Jackie with him to this tournament detail. He was tremendous with a fishing rod… Could hold his own in most any back alley or tavern… And God knows the kid had the spare time.

Second, he trusted his godson to travel to town with 10 neat bricks of banded hundreds. The one million dollars would come from the slush in Ron’s vault. He just needed to crack the safe—phone his friends at Glacier Bank with a heads up the kid is coming in—they would wire the money.   

Could Jackie make it down the thirty-eight-mile two-track getting him near Twin Rivers, then another one hundred thirty-two miles to Kalispell, all without complication? Yes, without doubt.

Jackie Loonsuckle by nature was a world-traveling flyfishing bum—sponsored by his beloved father Geoff—railroad transportation mogul and co-owner of The Gold Rope Ranch with Heimburg. The Loonsuckle lineage ran deep through the historic valleys of Montana. Their five generations had traversed every square inch of the state with good looks, athleticism, business intellect, and generational wealth.

Was Jackie dominating by nature? YES.

Was he capable of not offending people with his brashness? NO.

Did he stick an arrow through the hand of Rusty Flathers and pin him to a bison? YES.

Had a week gone by that he had not thought about Sally Squatsnfishes and her adventure to the ranch two years ago? NO.

With a million dollars’ worth of bricks stuffed into a Simms wet bag, Jackie climbed into his K10 Stepside four-wheel drive and slammed the door. The sun was blazing in the Montana sky, casting vibrant rays off the two-tone Apache gold and white truck, and his generously handsome shoulder-length blonde hair.

He turned the key and the straight pipes barked. Just like he had heard Ben telling him about Sally’s growl with Rusty. Sounded like their days of playing house were over.

“Guy might be able to land two trophies in one trip,” he thought. Then dumped the clutch and toasted the tires.

–To Be Continued—