SEPTEMBER 15 BALLARD’S RESORT FISHING REPORT

SEPTEMBER 15 FALL FISHING REPORT. LAKE OF THE WOODS.
SEPTEMBER 15 FALL FISHING REPORT. LAKE OF THE WOODS.

SEPTEMBER 15

Hey Sportsfans –

It’s been a couple of busy weeks on Lake of the Woods… so let’s catch up. 

Capt. Joey Buckets continues on his westward adventure… pulling crawlers to fill up the cooler.

Fish in the RED TOP and you won’t have far to go… Capt. Brian is finding fish right away in the morning in 12-16’ on the south shore. As the day goes on, you might be better off to bump it out to 25-29’.

Talk to Capt. Mer, and he would tell you to plan extra time to clean fish, not only are you going to catch your limit of walleyes… but you could also end up with a bucket full of perch too. 

The wind has been working in our favor recently… you don’t hear that very often. With a moderate wind, stirring up the perfect “walleye chop”, the jig bite has been productive. Use the classic jig and a frozen shiner, or switch things up and use a half of a crawler, both have resulted with a walleye on the end of the line.

With the predicted temperatures cooling off and the shiners creeping into the river that can only mean one thing… a fiery river bite is about to emerge.

That’s all for this week… SET THE HOOK!

 
KEEP UP WITH RUSTY THIS WEEK
The Ultimate Canadian Fishing Adventure - Ballard's Black Island

SEASON 2, EPISODE 6

Season TWO – Episode 6 – “There is no sun.”

Rusty exited the tavern, beer in hand, and headed across the south side of the veranda to rejoin the evening dinner party. The crisp autumn air of Montana allowed him to catch his breath, and he was no longer “lost”. Matter of fact he was quite the opposite.

When he had become disoriented mushroom hunting that day in the hills, with Boo Boo aka Beeby Haywire… He had crawled from the grasp of that multi flowered rose bush… Gathered his confident senses, faced the darkness, and marched his way to the west putting himself back on the map and on his way home.

Boo Boo was clearly pissed, for leaving his pail of mushrooms behind in the bush… But the two would return the following day (lots of sunshine) and enjoy a successful harvest.

“Find your own sunshine,” is what Rusty Flathers was now telling himself. “Something that makes you happy.”  Because right now… “There is no sun when you live in the shadows of Sally Squatsnfishes.”

Nature calls… Exciting the veranda he made his way through the darkness toward some privacy bushes to relieve himself. The beer was refreshing, but on an empty stomach it was going directly to his bladder.

Upon completion he stood erect, shook it twice and was just getting tucked away when a long-ago voice softly spoke, “Rusty… Is that you? It’s me… Ellie… Ellie Waylayer.”

     “Son of a… OUCH!!!” he shrieked.

Her voice ignited an internal alarm forcing a hand jerk reaction that placed the foreskin of his “you know what” within the grasp of the original Levi 505 denim steel clasped zipper. From what he could immediately make out, there was no blood, but the piercing pain was immeasurable.

     “Oh my god!” he exhaled. “Ellie come here. Come here and help me, please.”

     “What is it… What’s the matter…”

     “I was taking a leak… You scared the shit out of me… Now I’ve got my “you know what” caught in my zipper!”

Wincing in agony he hunched halfway forward as the gag reflex at the back of his throat started to tingle. “Please – Please – Please help me Ellie… I can’t get it unzipped,” he pleaded.

     “Dude there are cameras everywhere on this property,” she thought to herself. “The last thing I need is for someone to see me down on my hands and knees doing something that might appear as, YOU KNOW WHAT.”

But the tears were real as Rusty begged for assistance… And so… Being the kind and gentle sort that she was… Ellie Waylayer went down on her hands and knees in the shaded darkness of the privacy bushes and caught a glimpse of the “one-eyed-snake”.

“This is un -_ _ _ _ _ _ _ -believable,” she cursed to herself. “How the hell did he find his way to this ranch? And now this?! There better not be a fricken camera watching!”

Short of sobbing… Rusty gasped for air and stood motionless. Any slight movement spelled disaster toppled by more excruciating pain.

The constant discomfort reminded him of his post-junior-year of college. A molar removal incident set new precedent to his list of “madcap things I’ve done in my life”. The dentist in charge later referred to his situation as a “classic case of dry socket”. And coincidentally for Rusty… At the time… He had TWO! One on each side of his mouth.

Now normally this wouldn’t be a problem… Unless you’re Rusty Flathers planning to go on a weekend float trip with Beaureguard Dick (friends called him RED, because it partially was). Anyway, Red Dick insisted on Friday night beers at the Two Harbor Tavern before departing the next morning, and the carbonation (Rusty drank a thousand Miller High Life tap beers) wore away the protective covering of his molar dental procedure.

Waking the following morning… He suffered unbearable pain with traces of blood running down both corners of his mouth. The much-anticipated float trip would have to be postponed. His immediate decision was to gather his hungover bearings, pick up the phone and call Red.

     “Hey dude… I’m out… Seriously… My teeth are killing me… I’m gonna have to see a doctor.”

     “Bullshit, let me make a phone call… Stormy might be able to sneak you some pain pills,” Red replied.

Turned out he couldn’t get her to pull the trigger on the pills… At least not in the manner he anticipated… But Stormy Day Slaughter was able to convince her dentist father to see Rusty on the side and look at the pain causing problem.

“YES!” It was confirmed by Doc Slaughter, “Rusty you have TWO dry sockets… And you have obviously not been following post procedure rules given by your dental surgeon.”

     “Um, if you’re talking about chewing copious amounts of leaf tobacco and consuming excessive levels of carbonated beverages that contain alcohol… Then yes sir, epic failure for me on both counts,” Rusty replied while clasping the arms of the confessional dentist chair.

     “Is there a Hail Mary in regard to repenting dental sins?” he despondently pondered.

At 21 years of age Rusty was FINALLY “legal” to indulge in manly prohibitions. To him, a consistently wadded mouthful of Beechnut leaf blend tobacco, complimented by a considerably long line of Miller High Life tap beers, was SOP (Standard Operating Procedure) for a college student’s daily existence.

     “Young man… You need to pay attention. You will NOT heal properly if you continue to ignore doctors’ orders. That’s why we call them DOCTORS ORDERS!”

     “OK OK I understand. Can we do something for the pain? This is killing me.”

     “Yes, I have painkillers to take care of the current situation. At least enough to get you through the weekend,” Doc Slaughter responded. “And then you’re going to have to go back and see your surgeon.”

     “Thanks sir. I got a big float trip planned with Red Dick, I mean Beaureguard, today. But anyway, super thanks for seeing me!”

And just like that Rusty was out the door… Down the road… And on his way to a weekend of floating and fishing with his pal Red.

He made it until 1:13pm on that same day before cracking his first beer and having a big ‘ol chaw. The painkillers seemed to be working… So why not?!?!

As it turned out… Not the greatest of ideas… He and Red pitched a tent that night, and when he awoke at approximately 2:37am the pain had gone to LEVEL-HOLY-SISTER-MARY-MARGARET!

Without missing a beat Rusty opened the pill bottle… Popped in two pain killers… One more than advised… And promptly grabbed the first bottle of water he could find.

Oddly, there happened to be one (half-full) just outside the tent within arm’s reach… It sat innocently on top of the well iced beer cooler and offered a smooth ride down for the horse-sized pain meds.

The next time he woke up was due to the distressing voice of Red blaring at the top of his lungs, “What happened to that bottle of water that was on the cooler!”

     Barely audible… Rusty responded from the depths of his sleeping bag, “Uh, I drank it.”

     “You dumb ass! My CONTACT LENSES were in that bottle.”

Result… Super tough for Red to tie a fishing knot, bait a hook, make a cast, navigate his way down the river, and basically manage any fishing related task for the remainder of what became an extremely quiet Sunday morning (church mouse silent).

Days later… After a brief inspection… Rusty confirmed with Red that both lenses, in contrast to the two dry sockets, had successfully passed with minimal (for the most part zero) pain. There were no future float trips scheduled.

Rusty didn’t so much as flinch while Ellie surveyed the situation. He could hold statue still, but in Ellie’s presence, he was needing “it” to do the same.

She tweaked a bit and tinkered around gently for an easy solution.  But each time she touched it, and tried being calm, the consequence was the same (pain with the slightest touch).

For sure the zipper couldn’t go up… But what would it take to get it down? That was the pending question. And one that Ellie had the answer for.

     “I’m gonna need you to hold very, very still,” she cautioned after taking another up-close look at the impending situation. “The only way to get this racehorse back in the barn is to pull hard on the reins.”

     “Now hold your breath… I’m gonna count to three… And on three I’m gonna… But she had already done it before she got to one and the immediate sensation of pain relief was overwhelming for Rusty.

And there he stood… Pants down around his ankles…

And there stood Sally Squatsnfishes… Far in the distance… Rain day teardrops turning to flood waters on the cedar planked walkway of the veranda.

There is no sun bright enough to break through the ominous clouds of this situation.

–            To Be Continued – 

SEASON 2, EPISODE 5

FALL WALLEYE FISHING. LAKE OF THE WOODS. BALLARD'S RESORT.
FALL WALLEYE FISHING. LAKE OF THE WOODS. BALLARD'S RESORT.

Season TWO – Episode 5 – “Where the big fish live.”

The Day One photoshoot for Sally Squatsnfishes was an enormous success. Helly Hansen had come out with a new line of waterproof big game hunting apparel for women, and from head-to-toe Sally’s camouflaged wardrobe was extravagant. This was cutting edge camo-pattern imaging. You become a ghost-like figure when you wear this suit.

The secret was twofold. First…There was a bushman from Zimbabwe who had learned to create untraceable patterns by templating a combination of elephant skins and water buffalo hides. Secondly, there was a goat herder who’d been recruited to extract milk from goats at exactly 1874-feet above sea level in the Himalayas.

The frothy milk was used to start a (never-before-heard-of) synthetic coloring process for thread production. When you mixed in the bushman’s patterns with the herder’s goat juice, the clothing became very close to invisible to the naked eye.

Helly Hansen had the bucks to see this project though… But it would take a niche market and Sally Squatsnfishes to move these outfits at the extravagant rack rate of $12K per suite.

All necessary still shots had been captured by the camera team on day one… Teasers were prepared for immediate social media release… And soon her mass of followers seeking the latest in outdoor fashion design would see Ms. Sally peacocking the latest and greatest in high tech women’s hunting wear.

This project was a new pinnacle for Sally… Her highest paying contract to date! With her current win streak, she continued to be THE FACE of multi-million-dollar ad campaigns, swimming WHERE THE BIG FISH LIVE.

Plans for Day Two were being bumped up a considerable notch… True to life action filming… Sally scheduled to chase a two-thousand-pound bison with her custom Bear Archery RTH Adapt 2 mainline compound bow (draw weight 70 / 320 feet per second).

Presently… Evening happy hour had started early at the ranch. The princess of the ball was fenced in by ranch hands in the Ropers Lounge… And Rusty, awakening from his sleep-coma, made his way from the lodge bedroom to the party lounge.

     “Well, there he is!” exclaimed Sally. “How are you feeling dear?”

     “Ah… Yeah… A bit out of sorts,” Rusty returned. “But I’m coming around. Just tired I guess.”

The corral of cowboys parted as formal greetings were made, more frothy beer mugs were poured, and chatter about tomorrow’s BIG hunt continued. “Sally… Tell us what your plan is to stalk this massive bison,” they all queried for details.

     “Rusty… Come meet Jackie Loonsuckle… His father is part owner of the ranch, and he spends his time fly fishing from here to across the globe. You need to meet him.”

     “Sure, just give me a hot second and let me grab a beer.”

Standing 6’4” and chiseled from granite… Sally led him toward this mountain of a sun kissed man. His outstretched hand was half-again the size of Rusty’s, and when they shook, he momentarily thought his paw was caught in a conibear trap.

Jackie’s grin was the size of Montana when he let go of the meet and greet. His razor-sharp look said “don’t even think about messin’ with me pardner. I play for keeps.”

Flawless… That’s what Rusty saw… Flawless… As the blood flow returned to his right hand.

After niceties were exchanged… The crowd moved toward the dining hall in preparation of the great feast. There were 24-ounce Montana grass fed elk steaks, fresh 18-pound saltwater lobsters flown in that day from Maine, and enough mashed potatoes that the silver serving platter they were piled on darn near reached the ceiling.

     “At toast to our guests,” Jackie Loonsuckle announced, by clinking the side of his beer mug with a table fork. “We’re gonna put Sally and… I’m sorry, what was your name again? Oh yes, Dusty. We’re going to put Sally and Dusty on the hunt of a lifetime tomorrow. Cheers to their success!”

As the applause and boisterous shouts lifted the ceiling… Sally sat glossed over and starry eyed. Rusty (pissed that Jackie referred to him as DUSTY) couldn’t tell if she was half-in-the-bag, or ogling her damn self at this newfound cowboy, fly fisherman, big game hunter, master of all, whatever the hell he was!

     “I’m gonna grab another beer from the lounge,” Rusty needed air and pushed himself away from the table.

While he sat alone at the bar… Thoughts of joining Professor Cosmoid Scale and taking him up on his offer to start up an abandoned fishing camp in northwest Ontario, became a focal point.

“Maybe it’s time to get off the coattails… Start my own gig. I wish I knew what Sally was thinking,” he mulled over while swishing an olive in the bottom of his mug.

Rusty had never been a good decision maker. To the point of oblivion, he could never make up his mind.

In his younger days, his father (Doobie Flathers) had proclaimed him to be “lost”. And there was more than one occasion when he literally was.

Rusty had joined Boo Boo aka Beeby Haywire on a mushroom hunt on Wallbanger’s back forty when they were teens in middle school. The ‘shrooms were prime for the picking, and the boys could get three-bucks for a full ice cream pale at the local vegetable market.

It was suggested by Boo Boo that money could be made faster if they separated in the woods, and each sought out their own bounty… To be combined and cashed in later.

Rusty headed east across a ridge… Boo Boo disappeared down a valley toward the west.

Riding their bikes out to Wallbanger’s after school on a Thursday gave them an already late start to their task. And when you’re thirteen with money making on your mind… Who has time to think about sunset.

Rusty was about seven-eighths of a mile into the bush when he hit paydirt. There was an absolute grove of mushrooms on a heated knoll that he spotted near a stand of poplar. His bucket wouldn’t be big enough!

The clock ticked and the sun set. Yes, he had his pail of mushrooms (and then some), but his path back to the west and across the ridge was gone.

“Panic… Don’t panic if you find yourself in the woods after dark,” he could hear his father’s reminder. “Excellent reminder,” Rusty thought… “If you have a flashlight!”

Rusty was not panicking. He was at a dead sprint, in the WRONG direction. And he had also left his proverbial pot of gold behind.

Then he heard a wolf howl… And double timed his pace…

Luckily, in his delirium, he hit a patch of multi flowered rose the size of a semi-trailer… Felt its thorns snarl their way through his clothing… And slam him to the ground.

It was a gi-huge-ic snare trap… The more he fought the more entangled he became. He then chose to lie still like a sloth, catch his breath, and allow the howling timber wolf to eat him like a bacon double cheeseburger.

     “None of my business, but you seem a bit lost.” Rusty snapped out of his trance when the bartender asked him if he was ready for another go.

     “Sure… I’ll take one for the dining room,” he replied. “Time for me to get back to WHERE THE BIG FISH LIVE. I can navigate my way.”

-To be continued-  

SEASON 2, EPISODE 4

Season TWO – Episode 4 – “In too deep.”  

6:02am… The sharded Willys Jeep Wrangler 4X clamored its way through the gates of the Gold Rope Ranch as a first-rate Montana sunrise percolated in the rearview mirror. Rusty, Sally, and River Jon made their final approach… Silent… Steaming… Emotions spinning… The weary travelers (mainly Rusty) were IN TOO DEEP to dare break the quiet among them.

 

The rear passenger tire, but a distant and not-so-fond memory, was somewhere back in sage country. A handy-man jack (no longer handy) was wrapped like a salty pretzel around the frame of the Jeep. As the vehicle crept along, the impending length of the jack stand sounded off with an incessant grinding, that continuously worked against the side of the cab… Wearing off both paint and metal.

 

At this point… There were no sparks between Rusty Flathers and Sally Squatsnfishes. The only flashes were coming from the Jeep, when the jack would lose its positioning and find its way to a more precarious position against the tireless, chrome plated rim. There, now you have sparks!

 

At long last, the Willys came to rest at the main lodge of the ranch… Sally quickly excused herself and headed for the main office to register. “Professional, Sally. Professional, Sally,” she coached over and over, igniting her core fashion model momentum for the day.

 

Rusty glared to the back seat as River Jon had also quickly escaped… Unseen by “someone” (potentially the boss man) making a cowboy-gated-saunter toward the new arrivals.

 

“Damn snake just slithered off…” Rusty thought. “I’ll catch up with you later River Jon.”

 

     “Hello sir! Welcome to the Gold Rope Ranch,” beamed a broad-shouldered man announcing himself as Ron Heimberg (Jewish Financier). “I’m one of the partners here at the ranch… Super excited to meet Ms. Squatsnfishes… Are you her personal assistant?”

 

     “Um… Well… Sorta… I’m Rusty Flathers. Thanks for having us. Sally’s inside getting checked in.”

 

     “Great. Let me help with the luggage and we’ll get you going in the right direction,” obliged Mr. Heimberg. “Sounds like the film crew is anxious to get started.”

 

Mechanically grinding… Rusty exited the Jeep by perching on the running board, stretching his weary sole… and then dismounting ass over tea kettle with a proper face plant.

 

Fortunately… By clipping the top side of his front foot inside the crease, between the Jeep and the running board, he was able to carry the momentum of the tumble into a more formal log roll… As he hit the dirt face first.

 

Many youthful summer hours, near Rabbit Lake Park, had been spent perfecting the intricacies of the “log roll”. So much so, Rusty had once taken a blue ribbon at the county fair. His friend and fierce competitor Axel (log rolling perfectionist) had collided with a stump near the finish line… Thus, paving the way to his blemished victory. There was forever an asterisk next to his name in the record books.

 

It was one-hundred-thirteen-yards down the lakeside hill.  Incredible amounts of speed were built with the rolling-rolling-rolling. Unfortunately, the accident drew more attention than the victory.

 

Axel (later nick-named Stumpy) was carted away to the county emergency… Treated for bumps and bruises… And then had a rectangular metal plate implanted into the forefront of his cranium.

 

There were future travel issues with metal detectors at airports… He would never competitively log roll again… But Stumpy eventually got his wits about him and wrote a collegiate thesis on the art of log rolling.

 

In addition… He went on to TEACH first responders the effectiveness of log rolling (made $$$ loads) as a means for the “STOP-DROP-AND-ROLL” procedure… Thus, saving millions of students’ lives, who were in constant threat of catching on fire.

 

“Mon-funckin-tana” Rustly grumbled… Picking himself up and dusting himself off. “Welcome to the Gold Rope Ranch.”

 

Ten suitcases later, strategically mounted on the back of a stout thoroughbred pack horse, they made their way toward the entry as Sally bounced out the door and down the steps. “Here she comes,” motioned Rusty.

 

     “You must get in here and see this magnificent lodge. Absolutely breathtaking,” as she approached. “And you must be Mr. Heimberg?” Sally queried.

 

     “Yes ma’am… But please, call me Heim. We’re all about faith, family, and ranchin’ here at the Gold Rope.”

 

     “Wonderful!” she replied… “Rusty, let’s go. I told them inside, that you’d take care of all the luggage. We have two rooms on the top floor (three full flights of grand lodge steps) overlooking the veranda.

 

   “Yes, wonderful,” Rusty agreed under his breath. “Too bad they didn’t have an eight floor.”

 

Sally and Heim made their way toward the breakfast dining hall, while WHO NEEDS COFFEE ANYWAY Rusty ventured into the lodge and approached the main desk in the lobby. Standing behind the counter, with her back to him, was a tall athletic build of a woman.

 

Her long-straight-natural-flowing blonde hair fell mid-length, toward the small of her back.  She stood promptly on two-inch boot heals and was cutely outfitted in a modern-day cowgirl stye that stated, “I belong in the west.” From behind… With her hourglass figure… Short of the blonde hair… She could have doubled for a stand-in, for a Sally Squatsnfishes outdoor photo shoot!

 

With tired eyes pried open with toothpicks, he inhaled the presence of this natural beauty. There was a sixth sense (goose bumps on his forearms) potentially indicating more to the eye than what one could see.

 

Quietly clearing his throat, he cautiously ticked the bell on the counter. Then… He instantly forgot how to breath.

 

As the woman casually turned to face Rusty… He hit the hardwood floor and collapsed in a pile before she could say, “How may I help you sir?”

 

The curtains were drawn, and the room was dark. He came to, scratching the sleep from his eyes… Slowly regaining consciousness. 

 

“Is it day? Is it night? How long have I been out?” questioned Rusty.

 

And MORE importantly… Was that Ellie FRICKEN Waylayer that I just bumped into… A woman ten thousand miles from nowhere… THE woman ten years removed from my amazing (one and only) high school summer romance! It couldn’t be!

 

In hyper-speed a tidewater of memories hit Rusty more like a tsunami. Post grad senior high school summer… Jensen’s quarry… A flirty blonde and breasty Ellie Waylayer (#SmokeShow) choosing HIM from a crowd of would-be courters. And then… An all-ensuing and all-so-innocent teenage romance.

 

It was apple pie and ice cream: Endless summer nights with beaches and roaring campfires… Infinite summer days walking wooded trails and holding hands… Never-ending summer mornings with fishing adventures…

 

Rusty and Ellie had become inseparable for days… Carrying on with the harmony of cicadas sounding off across the region. Their entire scene had been completely, utterly, and unforgettably magical. And then one day it ended.

 

Rusty packed his bags and headed to East Jesus University to study fisheries biology under the tutelage of Professor Cosmoid Scale. Ellie chose westward, landing in Boseman at Montana State University. She earned an athletic scholarship for volleyball and complimented it with an academic scholarship (high school valedictorian) to be applied toward a Hospitality and Tourism degree.

 

Neither regretted their decision, nor held ill manner toward the other. It was a mutual parting of ways… One that led them geographically and passionately in opposite directions.

 

A gentle knock at the door… “Uh-Yeah-Sorry-Who is it?” Rusty sounded off in reply.

 

     “Mister Flathers, this is Geoff Loonsuckle (Railroad Transportation Mogul)… Co-owner of the ranch with Heim… The two of you met earlier today… He wanted me to stop and check on you. Is everything OK sir?”

 

     “Uh… Yeah… Come on in. (And potentially keep me from losing my mind!)”

 

Geoff entered… Flicking on the overhead light… Rusty remained vertical from sleep deprivation, shock and disbelief.

 

If this WAS Ellie Waylayer… HERE at the Gold Rope Ranch… Bless his sole, he was IN TOO DEEP.

 

–            To Be Continued –