AUGUST 5 FISHING REPORT

Hey Sportsfans! 
 
BOOMING! That was the word I heard describing fishing today… 
 
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What’s happening on Lake of the Woods?
 
– Fish are being found in the middle of Big Traverse Bay and around the islands. (#MUDBITE)
 
– Spinner fishing has been all of the rage! Hot ticket colors have been Gold and Wonderbread.
 
– Crawlers have been superior to frozen shiners.
 
End of July/early August bites have remained steady, which can be attributed to the consistent weather (mid 70s) we have had the past couple weeks.
 
Fishing Tale Of the Week — Mumbles of a 25″ crappie were floating around the Jefferson City/Columbia Walleye Connection group. Fact or fiction? Only the Capt. can confirm.
 
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BOOMING! You better book your reservation today. #SETTHEHOOK

SEASON 3, EPISODE 30

–Season 3 Episode 30— “Stalemate” 

With the Cessna 185 float plane finally void of passengers…. The bush pilot determined it was her turn to escape the melee. She unhitched the floats from the dock, spun the bird on a dime like a Vegas showgirl, then blasted the brawl enthralled crowd with water spray from the prop—accompanied by some straight pipe engine roar that could have registered on the Richter scale.

Now out of the water both Rusty and Cos hurriedly marched their way toward Sally and Tawny who were locked into a Greco-Roman lock with hands knotted together down to bare bone fingers. Neither of the gals could work a gut wrench, suplex, arm throw, or body lock. It was a stalemate.

          “Sally! Tawny! That’s enough!” screamed Rusty. And that’s when he witnessed the improbable.

His peripheral vision told him the two figures emerging from the water near the crib dock next to the boathouse were not friendly. Matter of fact their frog suits and Mk 1 underwater defense weapons were significant giveaways.

Now, you the reader, I want you to start considering Rusty an excellent judge of character. From his opposite peripheral, the non-smirking non-blinking Hazel who was previously positioned behind Ellie Waylayer and whispering in her ear—was once again locking eyes with Rusty, but this time doing so while she removed Ellie’s Glock 19 without expressed written permission.

          “Ellie! She’s got your gun!” he shrieked. And in that split second the first volley of shots came in waves from the direction of the boathouse.

Tawny felt the momentum of Sally push toward her before she heard the blasts from the muzzles. Then, with Sally in her arms, she heard her choked breath say, “I’m hit.”

With instinct pegged, Tawny let herself go backward off the dock with her former bass partner; current wrestling foe held fiercely in a bear hug. To get off the floater and into the water was to get away from the pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop of the sniping attack.

It was more of a back-dive than a Nestea Plunge. Two people as one—hanging on to each other in effort to disappear like a lake sturgeon seeking bottom. And for a moment they did.

The gunfire ceased when Sally went off the dock. Clearly, SHE was the target. Ellie, Cos, and Rusty were expendable, but Hazel holding them at gunpoint with their hands in the air was satisfactory for a ceasefire.

          “You rotten bitch,” Ellie gritted through her teeth. And quickly the pieces came together in her mind. More so when she witnessed Too Tall and Shorty Short emerging from the iron ore colored water and removing their neoprene snorkeling hoods.

From the second they tumbled into Australia; they were unknowingly leading Hazel and her shadowy counterparts straight toward “destination Kraken eggs”. This explained the interception at the first Safehouse…Then the chase, like fish from a barrel, that ensued from the marina…The needless killing of their poor boat guide at Safehouse #2 on the Caye…The trip to the submarine that would have made James Bond raise an eyebrow…And now HERE—somehow back to FSFO Ontario Canada. In short: she and Sally had been completely outplayed by an Aussie. Potentially one with better taste in beer.

Tawny’s clock on holding her breath had expired. She had no option but to surface. Fifteen feet below the waterline she released Sally and fought her way to the top where guns were waiting.

          “Where’s Squatsnfishes!” barked Too Tall. “I swear I’ll spray you with lead!”

“She’s gone,” replied Tawny, hands above her head while treading water with her feet. “Check the bottom for yourself, asshole.”

Then, like the great spotted woodpecker…. Rusty sounded off with a “Kik Kik Kik—You killed her!!”

He was breathless, under the ice, being pulled to the bottomless depths of a lake by the mangrove killifish. Then he was on the hump of a ten-thousand-pound bison being carted across the foothills of an endless mountain landscape. And now she is gone.

Death, and or the idea of death was not a new concept or personal experience for Rusty. There had been family pets, elderly relatives of the Flather’s family, and even one close friend from his teenage years.

His Catholic connection played a significant role in the processing of death. Even painful ones. But his present experience hurt beyond recognition. Shock waves were blocking his ability to process what was happening in real-life-time.

          “Alright Flathers…. You and your posse (Cos, Tawny, Ellie) are going to need to move off this floating dock and grab a seat over by the fire pit on the beach,” instructed Shorty Short. Obliging, they moved along, and Ellie concentrated from a distance on words being exchanged between new bitch Hazel and apparent partner Too Tall who were now ahead of them waiting on shore.

Prior to her special op assignment, Ellie participated in an eight-week intense government training program, kept highly secret by being buried several depths below the basement vault of national security. This program was designed to transform individuals into experts. It wasn’t a course you could take online through LipReading.com

          “You didn’t need to shoot her,” was roughly what she was seeing Hazel mouth. “She led us to the jackpot, didn’t she?”

“I wasn’t taking any chances with her,” was Too Tall’s reply. “Eliminating her as a target was not part of our mission, but I’ll deal with HQ when the melting pot gets hot. Besides, you said she was thankless, always micromanaging something or other—what’s it to you?”

          “Whatever…. Let’s get to the boathouse and see what we come up with. We’ve been at a stalemate long enough, trying to figure out where your mother hid the Kraken eggs.”

–To Be Continued–  

SEASON 3, EPISODE 29

–Season 3 Episode 29— “Under the Boathouse”

Tawny’s voice cut through the engine noise of the Cessna 185 float plane like an eight-inch Rapala filet knife through a walleye. “What the hell is she (Sally Squatnfishes) doing here, Flathers?!”

          “Wait—what—you two know each other?” was his immediate response. And then his previous night with zero REM sleep put his head into a serious tailspin.

“Yeah—we do—just ask her about the Lac des Bois mega bass tourney, eight years ago!” Tawny hollered.

          “What is happening?!” exclaimed Rusty, pressing his fingers on his temples and manually turning his head from side to side. This, as he watched Ellie Waylayer disembark from the float plane and step down to the main harbor dock falling in line with Sally. “I have to be hallucinating—Ellie what are you doing here—too much caffeine!”

Even Link the British Labrador puppy wasn’t making sense. Rusty could see him from across the yard, but instead of barking he swore he could hear him speaking French Canadian. Something about one of his squirrel buddies and a black pearl Under the Boathouse.

Eight years ago…. The final fish (Tawny & Sally) needed for their bag of five, on day three of the smallmouth bass contest came out from under a boathouse. Tawny herself knew the fish weighed at least 6.8 pounds—she’d seen the bass two and a half weeks prior to the tournament. The fish had been hiding out at Rowell Island where she’d discovered it while doing some underwater scuba work on the proprietor’s crib dock.

“You fish the back half,” was Tawny’s command to Sally as she idled down the 300hp Yamaha engine on the Ranger 621 and eased the Minn Kota bow mount trolling motor into the water.

          “Seems I’ve been doing just fine all day!” retorted Sally. And in truth—she had.

All four of the smallmouth bass in the live well today…. Were from Sally’s production. These fish were coming straight out from the back of the boat and parallel to the shore. The fish had moved off the bank early that day and her deep diving rusty-cray-colored jerkbait had been productive. So much so, that under protest, an infuriated Tawny would not speak a word of praise.

“Look, we’re going to need at least a 30.8-pound bag to win this damn thing,” Sally sounded off. “That means we need a fish close to seven pounds. Are you sure we should be chucking baits inside a boathouse to find one? They’ve been off the deeper shorelines all day, hey.”

          Tawny broke silence just as she fired a yellow, size 8 Yo-Zuri popper, into the first stall of the boat garage, “I got this Stinksatfishing.”

The following explosion rivaled the Chernobyl disaster. First, Tawny’s lure exited the boathouse with the projected 6.8-pound bass in hot pursuit. Next, Sally had a hold of the thin end of her fishing rod and was swinging the butt handle directly at the back of Tawny’s noggin.

Most folks refer to it as getting “crazy eyes”. A thousand times confirmed, Sally had them. And with the purposeful mispronunciation of her last name, she officially erupted, having had her fill of what she considered an unappreciative Tawny.

When the handle grip of the fishing pole struck paydirt, so did the smallmouth bass on the Yo-Zuri popper. Problem was—the ensuing scrum taking place on the bow of the boat betwixt Sally and Tawny—gave neither angler the opportunity nor the wherewithal to SET THE HOOK!

The crowd went wild back at the weigh-in ceremony. Cameras were flashing. All eyes were on the heralded local Tawny Bishop and this new Yankee angler—Sally Somethingoranother.

Bright lights blasted on them as they rode the Ranger 621 to center stage—Tawny with a mangled bushiness of hair snarled up with 20# Super FC Sniper Line and a 2/0 treble hook pinned through one ear lobe holding it all in place—Sally with a left eye taking on four shades of black and what appeared to be a portion of custom cork handle from a fishing rod stuffed into her right ear.

Head to toe both women were soaked clean through. Yep, this duo had literally gone overboard.

If it were a well-attended wet T-shirt contest during the 1970’s, they’d have won hands up with applause. As it stood—four fish in the box drew cat calls and booing from the raucous crowd. These sophisticated fans of fishing wanted to see trophy bass, not prize busts.

Sally attempted to politely explain their “lost the big one” woes at the microphone while Tawny once again had to be restrained by the weigh-in judges. It was an effort in futility as she attempted to get her hands around the amateur’s throat one final time. Allowing Canada versus the US with gloves off on nationally viewed bass television would not be allowed. After all—this isn’t hockey, it’s mature—it’s fishing.

Now it was Rusty’s turn to separate the two…. This time gloves off…. Toe to toe on the dock….

His first of many mistakes was an ill-advised move to get between a crouched and fearless Sally and a hard charging Tawny. A plan that required a man of both strength and wisdom. He maintained neither now.

Epic failure. Best way to describe it. Someone may as well toss a Molotov cocktail into a fireworks warehouse. Rusty was the first to go into the lake, and this before the prop of the airplane had even ceased to spin.

“Let ‘em work it out!” Ellie shouted, with Cos and now Hazel Brown who also departed the plane, making their way to the middle of the fracas. “Just—no hitting each other in the face—ladies” was her shout above the squall request to the two combatants.

But Cosmoid couldn’t stand the chance of violence and insisted on attempting to squash the quarrel by intervening with calmer words, “Now ladies—please—let’s sort this….”

And before his sentence was finished, he found himself floundering in the same pool as Rusty, neck deep in ice cold spring lake water, treading for shore and higher ground. It may have been Tawny or Sally that body checked him out of the way and into the lake. It’s tough to tell from a distance when the claws and the hair start flying.

Though Rusty saw it differently—potentially it was this New Gal Pal (yet to be introduced as Hazel Brown) who was the culprit. This unidentified third party was clearly looking to see some action. And he also noticed she wasn’t too hard on the eyes—relative to Sally-Ellie-Tawny—not that he was making quick and calculated comparisons. Dammit Rusty….

Scratching his way out of the water, shivering and gasping with very little manliness left in his core, Rusty glanced back toward the dock—again in the direction of Hazel Brown. It wasn’t the violent storm of Sally locked with Tawny in a fit of flailing limbs and raging hair, he was locking eyes with this newcomer to the party.

Hazel Brown did not flinch. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t blink. But she did lean into Ellie’s ear and whisper, “If he’s chilled now, just wait until Sally tells him what we think is Under the Boathouse.”

–To Be Continued—

SEASON 3, EPISODE 28

–Season 3  Episode 28—  “Fish your own waters, it’s a big lake!”

 Day three of the tournament and the top five weights were tight. The girls were sitting in the five spot, and they both agreed it would take a thirty-pound bag to boat away with the championship.

This was no fishing derby—no siree—this was the Canadian mega bass tournament of the year. Two hundred and eighty teams were gathered on Lac des Bois for the Pro-Am’s most exclusive event of the summer season.

With so much competition, Sally Squatsnfishes found herself lucky to be paired with a local professional guide who was hard nosed enough to intimidate the fiercest opponent with a laser glare that screamed “Fish your own waters, it’s a big lake!” Meaning? I find you so much as pre-fishing my spots, there WILL be hell to pay! Again, in this situation and with a $500,000 purse at stake, Tawny Bishop was an excellent partner draw.

Tough stik—Magic wand—High hook setter—Eat—Sleep—Fish—Sexy as a smallmouth bass on a spawning bed—Tawny was THE GOAT when it came to fishing her local waters.

For those of you in the know—Pro Am’s are run as a random team selection. During the week or pre-fishing, you have one Professional who is paired with one Amateur for the week. Practice together, hang together, fish the three-day tourney together.

Most pro’s ask little of their amateur status partner other than… Stay out of the way—Don’t ask stupid questions—And when I say, “get the net!” you’d better already have it in your hands. Not exactly the sort of adventure Sally Squatsnfishes is accustomed to, but her agent urged her to participate in this event to expand her international notoriety.

“Keep your ego and your overly competitive nature in check,” were his exact words. “Your demeanor may fly in the states, but our friendly neighbors north of the border tend to be a bit more reserved.”

August was a tough smallmouth bass bite. Many anglers would compare it to chasing isolated trophy musky. You fish a very specific location—deep submerged bolders—soupy weeds—offshore reefs—or shoreline treefall. And it’s in these areas that you search for ONE fish. One smallmouth bass that will contribute to a limit of five in the live well per day. Yes, you’re looking for a six-pound average per fish to win. Tough competition—tough tournament.

As an up and comer in the outdoor fashion industry, and relatively unknown in the province of Ontario, Sally was just another name on the list to Tawny Bishop. When Sally was busy playing with dolls, running lemonade stands in the local neighborhood, and spending long afternoons on the family lake house beach building sandcastles—Tawny was running around Lac des Bois in a fourteen-foot tin skiff with a 10-hp Evinrude two stroke, chasing piscatorial dreams and flipping boats in rough water just for the fun of it.

Learning curve—this is something innate that you can’t teach or coach—something untouchable—something (fishing) that is more less ingrained in your soul. And this is Tawny Bishop. aka THE GHOST (you will never see her on the water, but you will feel her presence, and you know she is catching fish). Arguably, at a very young age she was a modern-day fish whisperer. Reserved, yet intimidating. Calm, but aggressive. Quiet, but speaking volumes with a fishing rod.

It took the entirety of day one of the tournament during pre-fishing for Sally to ask all the WRONG questions to Tawny:

–Where are we going to find the bass?

          In the water…

–What technique will we be using?

          I’ll be using what makes them bite…

–How do you know where to go?

          I go where the fish want to be…

–Is it always this windy?

          Fish the wind…

–How far is it to the next spot?

          When we get there…

–Do you eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day?

          They’re my favorite… And you have officially passed my daily allotment for questions. And you need to be quiet or you’ll scare the fish.

Prior to takeoff on day three of the fishing tournament, Sally was repeatedly reminded by Tawny, “When we get to a spot, you remain at the stern of the boat, you fish the middle water to the back of the transom—I have the middle to the bow at a forward forty-five degree angle and I’m always the first to cast. Always. Got it?”

          “Yes,” Sally replied with a deep sigh and a roll of the eyes from behind her green tinted Costa Del Mar sunglasses. “I’ll stay out of your way.”

“Welp, it’s got us into fifth place with a shot to win, hasn’t it?

          “Yes, fearless leader, it has.”

The insistence for Sally to remain a noncompete onlooker became unbearable. Their first stop of the morning had Tawny pitching jig-n-pigs at a sunken tree while Sally sulked in the back, bit what was left of her tongue, and aimlessly casted jerk baits off the back of the boat.

Then lightning struck and a miracle happened! Like a spark to a dry twig. But this time it was SALLY breaking the proverbial ice with the first bass. The bright sunny sky with a cloudless ceiling had pushed the fish deeper off the edge of the banks. Water clarity was excellent, and so was the five- and three-quarter pounder that took her Rapala for a ride down the Reading Railway. One cast—one twitch of the jerk bait—one fish in the livewell of which required Tawny to man the landing net. This was new territory for someone accustomed to calling the shots.

“What…. No, nice fish…. No, good job partner….” Sally taunted.

          “Even a blind squirrel finds the occasional nut,” was Tawny’s response. Followed by a thirty second stare down, a raised eyebrow, and tilt of the head as if to say, “You want some of this Squatsnfishes?”

“Ok, but the last time I checked, this IS a two-person tournament, so whatever.”

          “Exactly…. Let’s move on….”

One fish in the box, next stop the floating dock at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters. When the amphib bush plane landed and taxied toward them, the pace of the construction project dwindled. From a distance—when Tawny Bishop watched Rusty and Cos greet the plane—the arrival of Ms. Sally Squatsnfishes brought the entire project to a screeching halt!

Immediately, Tawny unbuckled her tool belt, marched across the lawn of the camp and began screaming, “Fish your own waters, it’s a big lake!” over the roar of the Cessna 185’s prop engine.

Sally practically shit twice—could read Tawny’s expression a mile away like a doomsday explosion—and instinctively felt for the pistol on her hip. “Unadvised, but potentially necessary,” she thought to herself.

–To Be Continued—