Season Four—Episode 15 (Gone Fishing)
Rusty trailed at the rear of the power boating regatta and took one final glimpse at where they were escaping. His father, world renowned angling enthusiast Doobie Flathers, had once hung a Gone Fishing sign on his place of business and then ventured to Northwest Ontario to assist some Indigenous friends that were rumored to be under attack by a Wendigo.
Did such a preposterous event occur? According to legend and lore spread upon Doobie’s return, Rusty’s response would be, “ABSOLUTELY”.
His father told him of a creature four times the size of a normal man. An absurdly large cannibalistic creature with a bony frame and skin wrapped tighter than a stuffed Thanksgiving turkey.
It was the spring of the year, very similar to now, when Rusty’s father had gone to aid his Ojibwe fishing guide friends. Their winter had been long and harsh and supplies had run out.
The matter was then complicated by excessive spring snows which made hunting for wild game virtually impossible, and thus you had the perfect storm for a potential fallout among tribal members. With no food for survival both elderly and young alike would famish. And even though no one likes the idea of eating their mother in-law… It was the belief that committing such an act of cannibalism, especially during starvation—would lead to a monstrous transformation (you become a Wendigo).
Rusty was unaware of any starvation currently taking place at the nearby First Nations Reserve on Lac de Bois. But the possibility of a Wendigo could also be brought on by breaking tribal taboos or being cursed by shamans. Regardless, the result would be more of the same—a skeletal frame with glowing eyes and an insatiable taste for human flesh.
Tales would confirm that Doobie Flathers was successful in destroying the Wendigo during his confrontation with the use of fire to target its heart. In this instance the heart was made of ice, and it had to be permanently destroyed to defeat the creature.
Who had possession of a post war flame thrower? Doobie Flathers. This was a legit U.S. Army military grade M2 model with dual olive drab tanks that were also dual purpose. A) they could be filled with a thickened petroleum based fuel for casting a flame. B) the tanks could be rinsed out and filled with your favorite malt beverage to rain long range moisture clouds of beer onto unsuspecting crowds of Fourth of July parade spectators.
Who then smuggles this said “thrower” across the international Canadian border inside the pickup box of his 1968 Chevrolet K-Series 4×4? Doobie Flathers—better to claim ignorance—if he was caught, he would simply claim the weapon as an angry industrial backpack used to ignite dampened wood at fresh wild walleye shore lunches.
Who capped off such a courageous feat by finishing their visit to Northwest Ontario’s lake country catching ten-pound walleyes through the thickest of spring ice to help feed his favorite band of Ojibwe friends—after extinguishing the Wendigo? Yes… Doobie Flathers.
Rusty grew up beneath this ultimately large shadow of his father, and when he looked back in the distance toward Moose Island, toward the misty fog that rolled out of the turbulent winds… He thought to himself, “Is it too early to put the fishing camp up for sale?”
One—two—three—four boats raced back to the friendly confines of Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters. “We haven’t even had a chance to sample my Beaver’s Tail with maple toppings,” exclaimed Celine to clergyman Neville as he secured the boat to the floating dock.
“Well Celine… Would you not agree that Moose Island was not offering the most favorable conditions for a group shore lunch?” he sincerely replied.
“I guess you’re right… But all this talk about Wendigo’s is making me hungry for protein.” And then she finished the statement by pulling back the edges of the waxed paper and biting off a hunk of meat, chased by a sprinkling of maple.
To Nev it appeared as though the tail was slightly undercooked. At least that was the impression received as he watched Celine wipe the cold—red—blood laden juices off her face and onto her jacket sleeve.
All search party members, with boats now secured in the harbor, collectively moved as a group toward the main lodge at the camp. “I suggest we light a fire, warm up a bit and potentially come up with the proverbial plan-B,” suggested Stash McGivern. “Clearly the prospect of landing on the beach at Moose Island was ill-advised.”
Rusty was the last in line to make his way up the stairs of the lodge and onto the deck near the main entrance. As Cos held the door for him to enter there was a signaling “bark—bark—bark bark!” from Link who stood at attention at the end of the floating dock.
“Hey Cos, look,” pointed Rusty. “Eagle-Three has returned.” (The golden eagle—compatriot to the two existing baldies that call the harbor their home.)
And then there was a distant hum of an outboard motor. Distinct. Fifty-horsepower. Yamaha. It was conspicuous that only a cowling wrapped in Duct tape and dreams could make such a sound.
The echo then turned visual. From far away you could make out the prolific yet faded blue color that ran the length of the boat’s gunnel. The bow of the boat raised effortlessly with each wave and cast itself down into the troughs.
Then Tawny Bishop rose into full view… Left arm on the throttle commanding the skiff up and down the ridged waves… Cutting through the chop with her long black hair pulled back by the wind.
She was just there. Her dark hair is the color of wet cedar bark. Her articulate frame—balanced—at ease—shaped by the lake and its surroundings.
Both Rusty and Cos did a direct turnabout and marched back down to the docks as Tawny pulled her boat into the harbor and slid the motor into neutral. There was a calming that swept the shoreline. Link’s barking turned into a dancing, prancing, and circling celebration.
“Hey Flathers,” she called out. “Why don’t you grab my bow rope and make yourself useful.”
Rusty immediately obliged by kneeling on the dock, reaching for the bow rope, and then missing fully—let his momentum carry him ass over the tea kettle into the front of the skiff.
“Seems as though not much has changed, in the hot second that I’ve been gone,” she winked to Cosmoid. “So why don’t you quickly bring me up to speed with the happenings concerning my uncle.”
–To Be Continued–
Rusty Flathers 