APRIL 12

Hey Sportsfans! 
 
With predicted highs in the mid 60s by the middle of the week, and reports of open water nearing Bayview, we hope to see open water in front of the resort within the next few days. 
 
After seeing a group of fishermen shoveling snow out of their boat from our window on Thursday, we are eager for warmer weather. 
 
Heading up to fish the river soon? We hope to have you join us for lodging, food, or both!
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HOURS
Thursday–Sunday: Drinks, bar baskets & daily specials (11 AM – 10 PM)
Monday–Wednesday: Drinks & pizzas (11 AM – 7 PM)
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SPRING BAR SPECIALS
Thursday: BOGO FREE Burger Baskets
Friday: BOGO 50% OFF Rib Baskets
Saturday: 99¢ Wings
Sunday: Rotating Specialty Pizzas 

SEASON 4, EPISODE 29

Season Four—Episode 29 (Applesauce)

“FSFO to Eagle Four… FSFO to Eagle Four… Hey Tawn, this is Celine. Do you copy? Over.

Silence…

“Taw… Seriously… At least do me a solid, and let me know how many to expect for dinner?”

Silence…

“Tawny… Hey, c’mon… Are you ticked because I hooked up with Minister Nev… Is that why you’re giving me the silent treatment?”

Silence…

“Ok… So that’s how we’re playing it, huh? Because I’m not apologizing! Not to you, Tawny Bishop! He’s been using the word God a lot—and plenty more GOOD GOD’s, when he’s with me.”

Silence…

“He also told me that the Lord works in mysterious ways… I told him we could both pray on it. So, we did… Two more times.”

Silence…

“Good God… This squirrel stew has been on the stove for so long it’s starting to reek. I probably should have gutted Cracker Jack before I threw him in the pot. Oh well.”

Silence…

“Is this Wednesday? Card night… Is anyone playing Canasta tonight?”

Silence…

If it were not for the fact that Tawny had previously torn the handheld receiver mic and cord loose from the marine band radio, bashed it into a million pieces, and then chucked it into the lake—Sam Doright may have been able to respond to one of Celine’s many requests. Or at least cut her short before anyone and everyone on the lake, who monitors channel-16, learns first-hand the level of craziness happening with Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters.

“Hey Tawny… I’m sorry… Come in pleeeeeease… The squirrel stew, oh my GOOD GOD, I’m beginning to think I’ll never get off this island,” Celine continued.

          “She’s not the only one,” the shocked body in the bow of Sam’s boat whimpered. It was Alvin Pikeannoli—survivor of the Moose Island shore lunch. He had remained aboard (almost forgotten), in the fetal position, fitted in his flotation diaper, clinging to three more life jackets while the rescue attempt per Sally and Link was happening.

Together, Sally and Tawny were making their way toward the gunnel of Sam’s boat. Link was in tow—belly up—nonresponsive.

“Here, hand him to me,” offered Sam Doright. His full-on government training had kicked in and thankfully he was prepared for pet CPR.

The women gently lifted the British Lab over the port side and remained there grasping the boat, watching Sam’s next move.

“Hurry,” Sally pleaded. “His name’s Link.”

Sam had the dog laying on the length of the rod locker—tapping his paw. “Link, can you hear me? Link,” he said.

There was no response. Zero. Zippo. Nada.

He then shifted the dog flat. Laying him on his right side.

“Try pumping his stomach,” offered Tawny.

          “That’s not how you do it,” replied Sam, and then tilted Link’s head back—pulling his tongue out and checking for anything that might be blocking the airway.

“This isn’t where the phrase dog breath came from, but I’m going to give it my best shot,” he continued.

Sally and Tawny gazed over the gunnel—not a blink—not a word—each holding their respective breaths.

Sam Doright closed the dog’s mouth with his hand, formed a tight seal over the nose with his mouth, and proceeded to give ONE noticeable puff of breath to Link. He then waited for a three count and repeated the step. It was not a full human-sized breath. More of a short, puppy puff, let’s get some air into your lungs type of breathing.

Sam had been well trained. Link had come to the surface belly up, which told him the dog’s heart was likely still beating. Was he conscious? NO. Was he breathing? NO.

This distinction saved Link’s life. Sam just needed to jumpstart the breathing and that is exactly what happened next. “Breathe, Link!” he encouraged.

Two puffs later the gag reflex was triggered, and poor little Link was coughing and sputtering like a Sears push mower coming out of winter storage. The amount of Lac des Bois water that came out of that dog was surprisingly disproportionate to his body size. Bloated—gross—but necessary.

Two breaths and Link was back!

When the first shot was fired from Biggy Pescatore’s boat—Marlin Salty immediately cut the throttle—banked opposite—away from the danger—and unholstered his Canadian MNR issued Smith & Wesson .40 caliber semi-automatic pistol.

“You can’t fire randomly at his boat!” shouted Nev, hanging on to the starboard gunnel as they banked hard toward the port. “He has innocent passengers on board!”

          “That’s not my plan, but I do intend to defend myself,” replied Marlin. “Hang on!”

Meanwhile, back at the beach with the Cessna A185F Skywagon bearing down on them, Clarence Bishop dove for cover while his boss Rusty Flathers stood flat footed, as if his feet were stuck in quicksand. Or were they?

Truth be told, Rusty had had quite enough of this B.S… Enough already with Wendigo. Enough with guests disappearing from his island. Matter-of-factly—he could have given two hoots if there were two M2 Browning .50 caliber machine guns mounted on the wings of this Cessna—and pointed directly at him. Plausible? NO. But he was choosing to make a statement nonetheless.

And quite possibly… He had a feeling about who might be grasping the W-shaped yoke of this flying machine. Was it a pilot that was very much familiar with how to push, pull, and turn his controls? Just maybe…

Standing straight as a statue—staring down the barrel of a float plane cruising at 138mph—Rusty’s mind went to Applesauce.

Two weeks prior to the Fourth of July he had been invited to a pool party with cousins Skip and Scoop. Normally, a frog-filled farm pond would have been most suitable, but seeing how this was an area-wide co-ed gathering they felt hoppingly propelled to attend.

Up until now, Rusty’s high school career had been rather uneventful. Uneventful, meaning he had never been on a date… And uneventful, in that the nearest he had been to an unclothed co-ed was… Let’s check… NEVER.

Until today. Today was Applesauce…

By late afternoon the pool party was beginning to wrap up, and Rusty was three shades redder than any dermatologist would have recommended. But, if we are being honest—this was during an era when teenage girls were using Johnson & Johnson Baby Oil as their go-to for sunbathing.  

Anyway… As his memory continued scrolling and the plane showed no signs of slowing down… Skip or Scoop, or possibly both, had requested a previously offered container of homemade applesauce “to go”. Turned out the host’s mother (Maisie) was a tremendous maker of the sauce.

“Rusty, go fetch us that applesauce, we’re starving. Hurry up,” Skip and Scoop ordered.

And then obviously, Rusty obliged. Or get stuck to the bottom of the pool with one or both of his cousin’s butts on his face.

Into the guest’s house Rusty tiptoed. “Hello, I’m here for the applesauce. Is anyone in here?”

Searching high and low in the kitchen, he felt a bit obtrusive as an outsider but continued the search. Nothing. Nothing on the shelves, nothing in the pantry, nothing in the cupboards.

Then he heard a noise down the hallway just outside the kitchen. “Is there someone here? That sounded like voices,” he thought.

Not knowing the layout of the house, he marched out of the kitchen and peered down the albeit brief hallway. “Is anyone…” he began. Then barely audible, “Ap…ple…sau…ce.”

THERE she was… Straight down the abrupt hallway… Bedroom door wide open… SHE was standing directly in front of the shower in which SHE had just exited. Reaching for a towel… Presumably washing off the baby oil… Most certainly, fully figured, unsuspecting, and impressively naked. She—was—perfect.

They (Rusty and his teenage co-ed host) locked eyes… One count—two counts—she screamed—Rusty screamed—then he ran. Ran right into the door jamb, cracked his walnut near the temple, bounced off the floor, regained his footing, and sprinted outside through the pool yard and down the street.

Legend has it… There was an unofficial sixteen-hundred-meter record set that day as Rusty raced by block after block. Neighborhood dogs barked until their voices became hoarse and strutting stray cats scattered to the safety of treetops.

The plane grumbled and spit power out the exhaust pipes. Its oversized camshaft was flexing as she taxied the float plane toward the beach and coaxed its rudder pedals. Behind the gold framed Ray-Ban Aviators, hidden by the brown B-15 lenses, were a laser pair of Jetstream blue eyes.

Same eyes… Same woman… Same Rusty Flathers. Still no Applesauce.

Sally and Tawny, both hearing the echo of a distant gunshot, flutter kicked, then blasted themselves out of the water—over the gunnel—and into the shelter of the boat.

Link, now alert, scampered toward the bow and barked twice, “Let’s go get Cos!”

Sam hit the throttle—heading toward what previously was a circling Biggy Pescatore’s boat—then a second shot rang out—Marlin’s boat stopped.

–To Be Continued—

APRIL 5

Hey Sportsfans, 

Here’s our Quick River Update!

The ice in front of the resort is now covered by the weekend snowstorm — but don’t let that fool you. Some determined anglers are already hauling their boats up and taking advantage of spring river fishing as the ice begins to break apart.

Local reports say the river is opening up quickly, and Frontier Landing (less than 30 miles from Ballard’s) is now accessible. While some ice still lingers along the shoreline, trailers have already been spotted in the parking lot. Use of the landing is possible, but locals advise doing so at your own discretion.

We will continue to share details and updates with you each week. For more up-to-date information, be on the lookout for our Facebook posts.

Spring Bar Hours:

Thursday–Saturday: Drinks, bar baskets & daily specials (11 AM – 10 PM)
Sunday–Wednesday: Drinks & pizzas (11 AM – 7 PM)

SEASON 4, EPISODE 28

Season Four—Episode 28 (I’m Too Sexy for My Shirt)

“Thirty-seven feet, drop the anchor,” Tawny shouted as she clicked the save button to lock their coordinates on the Lowrance GPS unit. She had done her magnificent best at stopping the boat on a dime—pinpointing the nearest location to where she felt the plane was last afloat—ramming the Yamaha into reverse—holding steady for a rescue attempt.  

Tawny Bishop and Sam Doright were the first at the scene as Sally and Link disappeared below the surface of Lac des Bois. Staring into coffee-stained water, their naked eyes saw little besides bubbles rising to the surface.  The bomber plane had literally gone under, a brief five count, before these two potential saviors arrived.

“Thirty-seven feet… Gives us roughly forty-eight seconds before she hits bottom,” Sam stated, peeling off his Gore-Tex jacket and Helly sailing bibs. “I’m going down!”

          “Bullshit,” replied Tawny. “I’m too sexy for my shirt.” She was already stripped down to her sports bra and a pair of athletic boys shorts, diving over the gunnel with a red, five-pound, B-I type U.S. Coast Guard approved fire extinguisher held high above her head.

“Can’t imagine there’s much fire danger below,” thought Sam. “But DAMN that woman’s hot!” Then, as instructed, he sat tight with the proverbial ship, and clicked the timer on his Rolex Sea-Dweller marine wristwatch. Clearly, this was a government issued apparatus. Sam Doright was too frugal to spend that sort of jack.

“I’ll give her a full 90-seconds,” he murmured under his breath. “Based on the stripped-down version of what I just witnessed—she’s impressively fit. At the buzzer—if she’s not back—I’ll hit the water for backup assistance.”

Inside the cockpit of the water bomber conditions were less than ideal. Weight forward, the nose of the plane was going down first, and through the windshield Sally may as well have been inside the belly of a cow. The water was dark, which messed up her equilibrium as they descended.

Instinctively she counted in her head—calculating a one-foot drop per two seconds—while swirling in circles in the ever-growing darkness—searching for something to bash through the windscreen of the plane.

At this point… She was upside down… Feeling for what she hoped would be a fire extinguisher located near the lower sidewall. Her left knee would have practically been rubbing against it before getting thrown during the barrel roll.

“No… That’s not it. GOD… Was that Link?!” She pulled back after feeling something that felt fleshy. It certainly was no metal canister.

Then suddenly, near the front of the plane, a noise that sounded like direct impact, CRUNCH. A fraction of a faction later, another disturbance, but this time from the tail, BOOM.

“This can’t be right,” Sally thought. “Two sounds almost simultaneously, one from the fore and one from the aft.”

          “What the?” questioned Tawny. “I can’t be more than six feet below the surface.”

“That first noise… That’s IT,” Sally connected the dots. “Get yourself to the front of the plane and find that extinguisher!”

          “She must have crashed over a mid-lake reef,” reasoned Tawny. “That’s the only way I’m bashing into the rear of the plane with this extinguisher, this close to the surface.”

“There it is! Dammit, wait, is that Link again?! Wait—no—that’s it I’ve got it,” Sally confirmed.

          “Nice park job, Squatsndoesit. Now let me work my way along the fuselage and get to your bow.”

“She’s been down… Thirteen seconds,” counted Sam, taking his eyes off his wristwatch only long enough to greet Marlin Salty and Nev Thorne with a nod, as they pulled alongside his skiff.

          “Where’s Tawny?” shouted Nev.

“Down below with the fish. I’m giving her a 90-count before I hop over myself,” replied Sam.

          “Should one of us go in, right now?” offered a less than enthusiastic Salty, slowly bending over with a hesitant attempt to remove his boots, per chance he would get the nod.

“No, but look to the northeast,” countered Sam. “You guys see that boat racing in a thousand circles? I’d bet the farm it’s Biggy Pescatore!”

          “Biggy Pesca-who?” replied Nev.

“Mobster! Dude that’s been making people disappear around here… I was trying to get a lock on his facial ID through my binocs earlier, but between the waves and the distractions caused by Sally divebombing his boat, I couldn’t get firm visual confirmation.”

          “Hang on, Nev,” Marlin Salty hollered. He was putting two and two together to make five.

Relax… Remember that Salty is an MNR officer who deals in wildlife enforcement. He’s no mathematician. Specifically, one who may or may not specialize in factor problemization. But all things considered… Sam’s words were enough for him to turn the boat about, crack the throttle, and chase off to the northeast. Nice hustle, Salty.

“Great,” Sam thought. “One guy can check his fishing license, and the other can give him a blessing.”

BOOM—BOOM—BOOM. Sally swung full-send with the barrel of the fire extinguisher glancing off the acrylic pane. She needed to bust through half an inch of polycarbonate. Certainly not impossible, but it would take a perfect swing.

THUD—THUD—THUD. Tawny had quickly made it to the bow of the aircraft and was instantly countering this effort. Even though—in her competitive mindset—Sally’s hits were not useless—just ultimately and exponentially less impactful.

“Someone’s out there!” Sally swung harder. BOOM—BOOM—BOOM.

THUD—THUD—THUD came the response.

“If this is Rusty, I’ll tear his clothes off when we get back to the island!” BOOM—BOOM—BOOM.

THUD—THUD—THUD. “What the hell does this musky want? Get out of my face!”

BOOM—get—BOOM—me—BOOM—outta here!

THUD—she—THUD—has—THUD—always been a pain in my ass!

Both strikers skipped for a two count. Both thought of Albie Einstein: Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

In the next instant, Sally and Tawny swung their respective fire extinguishers simultaneously. Sally from the port corner—down low on the windshield, and Tawny from the starboard side—up high near the corner.

BOOM/THUD—BOOM/THUD—BOOM/THUDDDD!! And then the window popped… Just as though they were both employees of Speedy Glass.

Too dark to see anything, Sally pulled herself through the space of where the window had been and then stopped to at least go through the act of looking behind for Link. It was no use; with the smudgy water clarity it would be easier to find a needle in a haystack.

Tawny froze once the window had been removed. She was listening—like a fish with its lateral line—listening for movement.

At first, she sensed it… Then she heard it… Then felt it. “Yep, that was Sally’s flutter kick,” she confirmed, “kicking me right in the side of my face.”

“You can instantly lose your breath when you panic toward the top,” Tawny thought, while grabbing Sally’s pantleg just before it was out of reach.

This was a reactionary attempt to slow down Sally’s momentum. “Shallow water blackout is a deadly sort of seriousness, Squatsndork,” Tawny murmured while holding tight.

Then Tawny clasped one of Sally’s flailing hands… Pulled herself up to where they were face to face… Gripped the back of her neck with her free hand, and the thrashing stopped.

For the briefest of moments, they clung together, and then Tawny put her mouth over Sally’s and gave her a five-second burst of scuba buddy breathing. It was enough to give Eagle-One an additional fifteen seconds to safely reach the surface.

Sally was the first to pop, she rose like a bobber—when a fish spit the hook—then she gathered herself. A cold blast of air charged into her lungs, boosting her wits. Tawny was a beat behind… Getting to the surface right on her tail kick.

The air never tasted so good. And the flavor lasted for a whopping five count, before both knuckleheads (Eagle One vs Eagle Four) started arguing over the rescue.

“Bishop! You crazy person. You could have drowned me down there!” claimed Sally.

          “Me? What! Are you high right now? Is there no oxygen, getting to that fashion model—pea sized brain of yours?!” coughed Tawny as she spewed the remainder of Lac des Bois from her lungs. “I’m the ONE that saved YOU!”

“You call stopping me mid-stroke, and trying to gag me with your bait-breath, a technique for survival?”

          “Ladies… LadIES… LADIES!” shouted Sam, while extending an oar for either of them to grasp a safer option near the boat.

Nothing doing… It was too late. Tawny had already dolphin kicked herself halfway out of the lake and landed with hands on top of Sally’s head. In a fit of rage, she attempted to push her back down to where she had come from.  

And then there was Sally. Former water polo defenseman. Keen to the art of counter dunking.

Sally used Tawny’s momentum in her favor—executed an eggbeater kick—pushed down on the aggressor’s shoulders—grabbed her wrists—and spun away from the attack.

“You ungrateful…” Tawny growled and then beat her arms on the surface of the water preparing for round two.

          “Me? I never…” And then there was total silence.

The two combatants, these overly competitive, water treading, mental wack-a-doodles, each closed their proverbial traps. Link the British Labrador puppy had surfaced. He was belly up—tail down—and his aviator cap was missing.

Meanwhile, Rusty Flathers and his top-gun fishing sniper (Clarence Bishop) also stood speechless, mouths draping wide, at the edge of the beach on the south side of Moose Island. Earlier… That obvious roaming clap, of what sounded like approaching thunder? It was a Cessna A185F Skywagon. An airplane that sports a hopped-up 300 horsepower Continental engine. And yes, be damned, because it was screaming across the lake—bearing down on their location.

Speaking of locations? Marlin Salty and his preaching padre pal Minister Neville Thorne had also just arrived on site of the circling boat festival. Although festive it was not. Or maybe it was.

Their first attempt to pull alongside the vessel—Nev quickly ducked his head. Someone lying on the deck of the opposite watercraft had stirred long enough to get their wits—pull a gun—and shoot a hole through his well-worn bucket hat that had been through a thousand Sunday morning fire and brimstone sermons.

Everyone was holding their breath. Except for Link.  

–To Be Continued—