Season THREE – Episode 17 – “A Fish Whisperer”
No breakfast today—except for Link. Otherwise, Rusty and Cosmoid needed to get their proverbial butts in high gear—no clutch. With twelve days remaining until their inaugural ceremony, it was time to get back to the mainland to seek (PLEAD FOR) help.
The camp boats with the 40hp motors, except for the one they had destroyed the day before, were well stocked on the island. The men went fast in pulling another skiff off the beach—to slap another 40hp Yamaha from the boathouse on the transom—Rusty tried to look confident.
Tightening the mounting bolts, the adjustable wrench slipped and busted him in the knee. “Heavens to Holy Canada!” he yelped, while the reverberating pain shot down his ankle to where the crayfish had feasted the day prior.
Link went belly flat on the beach and covered his ears with fuzzy paws. Cosmoid bit down on the right portion of his lip and held back a burst of laughter, then countered in effort to lighten the mood, “That’s really not a proper prayer.”
“Yeah, I guess I was improvising,” Rusty muttered, and then wiped sweat from his forehead with a fuel rag.
Cos went to work on one of the Hummingbird GPS units, placing it to the bracket and wiring attachment along the gunnel of the boat. This was something he realized they should have done the day prior before aimlessly leaving the island in search of Hooked on Poutine (their passenger boat).
“Island lesson learned” was the image now branded in his mind. It’s easier to navigate your way on a one-million-acre lake if you are following a reliable electronic device. Particularly one that maps out boating hazards.
“Got it buddy,” Cos alerted Rusty. “Looks like we’re powered up here, GPS good to go.”
“Cos, when we get to the mainland, we need to seek out “A Fish Whisperer,” Rusty suggested. “Someone who knows tons about camp work—along with the intricacies of navigating and catching fish on this lake.”
“Well, let’s find our way back to the mainland first, and go from there,” responded Cos. “And I don’t want to rain on your spirits, but we might be making the impossible ask.”
Five minutes later—beyond sight of camp—it started to pour rain. Neither man possessed a weatherproof jacket. More camp life lessons. Seemed the only one with sense was Link who remained back at the main lodge under the deck with his loyal entourage of geese and squirrels.
Standing inside the entrance of Raker’s Marine both men shook with the veracity of a Newfoundland dog. Enough so that it caught the attention of Minnie Maple who was occupying herself behind the counter organizing invoices.
“You fellas forget your rain gear?” she queried. “Ya know, some say Lac des Bois shoulda been named Lake of the Rains, eh.”
“No, yeah,” Rusty replied. Wanting to fit in as a local by recalling his brief orientation to Canadian language when they had received their work permits at the border. “My pants are soaked through to my passport.”
“Hmmm, that’s not just rain you’re soaked with Rusty,” Cos sniffed. “I’m smelling motor oil. From your backpack?”
“Looks like you sprung a leak there Rusty,” observed Minnie Maple. And then, following her gregarious belly laugh, she offered each of the men a towel. This gesture was much appreciated by each gentleman, albeit each towel appeared to have been exhausted by boat engine work and post tinkering slimy grime hand washes.
Rubbing his face and shoulders Cos attempted to spin some comic positivity into this awkwardly wet situation. “Rusty and I often choose to suffer like good Catholics (even though neither of them was). It tends to build character. We’re both big on growth. Isn’t life truly about the suffering?”
“Good to know,” Minnie countered. “You fellas let me know if you need a couple pairs of emotional support flip-flops for the summer. Now—how can I be of service?”
“Actually, and maybe you’re not surprised, but we’re looking for some camp help,” Rusty admitted. “Someone from this area, you know, someone who has experience with camps, knows their way around the lake, is like the person who you would want on your team.”
“That’s a big ask fellas, let me think for a sec,” Minnie replied. “Ya know—there is someone—but they haven’t worked the lake for four or five years. Still fishing in some tournaments mostly. For a long time worked out at Jack Thorton’s place on Little Narrows Island, ‘til Jack went sideways and pretty much lost all his clientele.”
“This person still around?” asked Cos. “Any idea how to get a hold of them?”
“Name’s Tawny Bishop. For sure the one person I’d want on my team. Absolute sniper—best worker on the lake she is—I mean was,” finished Minnie. “Last I heard she was pitchin’ part time at the local Anishinaabe school.”
“You have a cell number? Or a home number?” Rusty asked—The word SHE is propelling him to trade glances with Cosmoid.
Tawny Bishop, age 34, is a First Nations Ojibwe (Anishinaabe). Her home base is a solar-powered cedar cabin on the shores of the largest peninsula on Lac des Bois. She is the complete package: fishing guide, camp specialist, boat builder, accomplished tracker, and life coach for elite clients willing to give up modern comforts for a trek into her unforgiving wilderness.
Rusty had her on the phone in a hot second. “Yeah hi, is this Tawny Bishop? Yeah hey, my name is Rusty Flathers—oh yeah—that’s us—so you heard—yep—yep—we are. Anyway, we’re looking for some help this season. Would you be interested in meeting with us? Oh, OK, well I appreciate your time, thanks.”
“Not interested,” said Cos with raised eyebrows.
“Actually, she’s at Tremblay’s General Store right now, and said she’d give us five minutes if we could hustle our way over,” responded Rusty. “Let’s go!”
Tawny Bishop was born and raised in the eyes of her Nokomis (grandmother). Summer months were spent living on the lake, learning how to tend fishing nets and plant sustainable food sources. Winter months they retreated to the mainland, where she was taught how to supplement fishing income with fur harvest, and track deer to complement their canned or pickled summer veggies with fresh venison.
Rusty wheeled into the parking lot and thought to himself “that HAS to be her,” before he could even get the pickup in park. No guessing necessary. The person sitting on the bench of the walkway at Tremblay’s General Store was a thunderous goddess: the kind of beauty that Ontario lake country dreams into being, when no one is looking.
“What if she doesn’t like men who smell like wet dogs and outboard motor oil?” Rusty spouted toward Cosmoid.
“Here,” Cos held up a bottle, “take a spray of this,” and handed a pressurized green can to his camp partner.
Rusty grabbed it—took a five-count blast to the face—gagged. “What is this…DEET?!”
Cos shrugged and dropped his chin, “You weren’t supposed to spray it in your mouth—it was just to repel the odor on your clothing.”
Rusty approached the steps and held out an introductory hand—his eyes met hers—a deep bronze of wet cedar bark. She carried a confident stillness—that of someone knowing, yet unreadable.
Positioned to the rear, Cos breathed with the professionalism of a ventriloquist performer, “You, okay?”
Rusty froze in his tracks—thinking, “I’m in love. Or possibly sunstroke. But it’s been raining.”
“Not good symptoms,” returned Cos with a firm audible. “You might want to keep these inner thoughts in their original place. Internally.”
Clearly, Rusty has verbally slipped and spoken aloud. But to who’s fault—he was smitten with this goddess—woman.
A sudden breeze at the back of his neck pushed her long raven-black hair and cast it past her shoulders. She stood to extend her hand and introduce herself. Removed from the shadows of the walkway her sun-kissed glow echoed years of piney air, sunshine, and countless campfires.
“You must be Rusty,” she proclaimed, as he gaped seriously speechless, looking at something both wild and sacred. “I’m Tawny Bishop. Locals call me A Fish Whisperer.” Then she winked.
Meanwhile—Hazel whispered, “I’m going to check it out,” winked to Sally, opened the hatch by pulling on the hidden panel and let herself down to the walkway of the tunnel. She was now below the surface of the ocean bed.
“Pass me your light Sally, and let’s see what Mayday Modracek has for us in this hidey-hole,” she offered.
“Hey, be careful. I’m going to give you five minutes and then we are both going back to check in with Ellie. Sunrise is coming quickly—The tide should start working in our favor.”
Then with a deep exhale she continued with another thought: “Rusty must be having a picnic compared to what we’re dealing with. Wonder if his snacks are illuminated?” And she picked up a glowing package of Hostess Cup Cakes (circa 1946) from the desk of skeleton man.
–To Be Continued—