Season THREE – Episode 09 – “Catch me if you Canuck”
With Rusty at the helm, Link perched on the dash, and Cos in the copilot seat—Hooked on Poutine made her way safely from the confines of Hensen Bay and set course for FSFO. The location of their newly purchased property was eighteen miles northwest through a passage of islands. It was unnamed, but previous proprietors of the island included an Illinois businessman who originally deeded the ten-acres for private use with a rare purchase opportunity from the Canadian government.
Years later it was sold to a couple from Minnesota who raised their children there during the summer months—at least until the kids got older. Ever try keeping teenagers remotely isolated from their friends and modern conveniences for three straight months? Shortly thereafter, the island sold again.
The third time it went to a well-established real estate gentleman from Wisconsin who had the wherewithal to go through the hoops to get it zoned commercially—gifted the island to his newly wed daughter and son in law—gave them the reins to a startup fishing camp biz—watched it last for one season—drank himself sober after their divorce—and then sold the island for 28.5% less than what he had paid.
A traveling band of circus gypsies from Oregon became the next proprietors. They held the deed for the longest of any of the owners but spent very little time at the property. When discussed by historic local color, it was generally agreed the business had been used as a front to wash frothy amounts of unclaimed cash from countless Ferris-wheel and Tilt-a-whirl rides.
International laundering, if you will—was never confirmed when Canada Customs sent Ontario Provincial Police to inspect the island for business proprietors. The only thing they found was the entire island becoming an overgrown mass of vegetative growth. Mother Nature was slowly retaking what was originally hers—Government Canada took the rest with records of delinquent property taxes—Key the microphone for Rusty and Cos.
The fifth owners of the soon to be famous Flather’s & Scale’s Fishy Outfitters aka FSFO—the fishing camp that hooks you for life—throttled down the passenger boat and idled their way into a semi protected harbor exposed only to an east or south easterly blow. Rusty stuck the bow of Hooked on Poutine on the beach—turned the wheel and forced the stern to the dock on the starboard side—land ho!
The horse weeds and cackle bur bushes that greeted them at the end of the dock caused a minorly obstructed view of what appeared to be a path to the main lodge. More unwavering were the goose and gander unwilling to give way to the newly arrived guests. Link had attempted to reach shore on multiple occasions but was promptly sent in retreat after some verbal scolding by ma’ and pa’ goose along with some hissing and pecking. At eight weeks old he was in no way a match for this duo.
The rain continued while Rusty and Cos transferred supplies from boat to dock. Unbeknownst to either of the partners they were each silently running numbers to calculate the number of times you had to touch one item from its original location to its place of storage. Rusty was at four—Cos was one ahead of him. Example: case of water carried from the grocery store to the bed of the truck, then transferred from the truck to the mainland dock, dock to boat, boat to island dock, dock to storage shed. That’s five—but let’s not forget that once the refrigerator is up and running, we will now jump to SIX for final transport.
And one could go even further adding once the bottle is drunk, placed in the garbage, garbage is hauled back to storage, back to dock, back to passenger boat, back to mainland dock, and off to the landfill just east of the town of Jackfish—both Rusty and Cos had lost count.
Five guest cabins—two bunkhouses—one boathouse—the pumphouse—a generator shed—the central bathhouse—a main lodge with kitchen and dining area. Each building seemed to be accounted for, and none was prepared for use. With arms full Rusty made his way past the hissing geese and hoofed his way toward the lodge sludging through muck. The trail would need some gravel. First things first, he wanted to check out the lodge and get out of the rain.
Cos was two steps behind him—his newly acquired Brigham Pipe clamped firmly between tops and bottoms—full to the rim with fresh Canadian rainwater. “Are we sure this isn’t Lake of the Rains” he uttered from beneath his Filson Tin Cloth Bush Hat.
“What’s that?” replied Rusty. “Can’t hear you over the rain.”
Exhaling—Cos blew a spout of water from his pipe and entered the lodge on Rusty’s heels. Even the geese were now on the covered walkway and wanted to get out of it.
“Three weeks to the opener” commented Rusty as he knelt to the barrel stove in the main lodge and struck a match to kindling. “Do you think we’ll have time to get everything ready to go?”
“Hard to say—we just got here—we’ll just have to go building by building and get everything opened up” replied Cos. On the plus side it appears as though the roof in the lodge is airtight. I’m not seeing any watermarks on the hardwoods.
On the fourth ring someone on the opposite end picked up, “Catch me if you Canuck—fish wrapping experts.”
Sally raised her eyebrows and responded, “This is EagleOne—I’m looking for some fresh salmon—do you have a charter available for late this afternoon?”
“Copy that EagleOne. What’s your ETA?
“Forty-two klicks to Sand Point Beach. We’re going to need rods—reels—bait—tackle—the works.
“Roger that EagleOne. Other than the salmon we can put you on mulloway, squid, skippy, flat head and sand whiting.”
“Thanks, Catch me if you Canuck—see you in twenty.” Sally returned the phone to her backpack, tossed it to the rear seat and hammered the accelerator to the floor. The Corolla came out of the parking lot sideways shooting gravel to both sides and the rear.
“Hey Hazel—I’m assuming we have a gameplan—How about you?” mused Ellie from the back seat.
“That sounds fair EagleThree. I’m guessing the same.”
Sally pushed her mirrored sunglasses to the bridge of her nose—watched the speedometer climb from 55mph to 95mph—and inadvertently allowed a smile to crease the corners of her mouth. “Next stop, Bremer Bay ladies. The approaching tides appear more favorable.”
– To Be Continued –