Season Four—Episode 7 (Circle the Wagons)
By 10:02am Rusty was finishing up his boat prep (nervous energy makes for extremely clean boats)… Sally was trying to piece together the puzzle with Storm Sanitation (storms and garbage don’t mix)… And Cosmoid was running circles in the boathouse constructing makeshift traps for mischievous mice (because even the smallest chaos in his world needs catching).
His forensic investigation involving the mice had produced the need for a peanut butter swimming pool—inviting—potentially lethal—pending your preference. First, Cos found a five-gallon pale with a faded British American Oil (B/A) label on the side. Then he dug in a scrap pile and came up with an aged, tinplate steel, flat-top Molson beer can. Progress.
Next… He found: a wire (metal clothes hanger) to run the diameter of the pail… Peanut butter (does Celine make homemade) … White Rose Oil Company yardstick (perfect for a ramp) … And a Zephyr handheld drill to punch a couple of holes.
“Cosmoid Scale, are you fixing up a swimming pool for these pesky mice?” asked Rusty.
“My profession disallows me from purposely drowning captives—though my patience occasionally applies for an exemption. I’m setting up a formidable bait station. Somewhere in the middle of catch and re-release.”
“How do you figure?” continued Rusty.
“They will attempt to get a meal by walking the tightrope to the peanut butter plastered beer can… The can spins on the wire. When they lose footing, they will freefall to the bottom of the pail. Instead of water for a definitive landing—I will use worm bedding for cushioning and crumble some meal portions of Christie Premium Plus crackers in the mix to hold them over—with the ultimate end goal of moving them safely to another island.
“Well, if nothing else, you’ll be relocating and confusing the heck out of them!” added Rusty.
Out on the lake… Guide Clarence Bishop was putting together quite a morning for his guests. The springtime bite for walleyes can be tricky, fish can be alternatively deep or shallow, but this particular day there was a shallow shoreline bite. And it was game on!
“Today, let’s look for smaller rock rubble boulders with a mix of sand,” was Clarence’s instruction for success with his (maybe from Chicago) guests. “These walleyes like to be shallow, and I like to use these ¼ oz Snack-Shack-Specials—tip them with a Double-Down split tail plastic minnow—pitch them toward the shallows and pump them along the bottom as you crank ‘em back to the boat.”
This presentation takes patience. More so on behalf of the fishing guide. You must pitch your jig into a veritable landmine of snaggleupagus rocks and then have the wherewithal to sense the difference between a walleye bite and a rock I’m snagged bite.
Grover led the charge with snags… He went seven for seven on their first shoreline stop… Massive hooksets on gihugic boulders that were hidden below the surface of ore-stained water. Not a record, but a heck of an effort.
“So… Mr. Clarence… How is it again, when we know if it’s a fish?” asked Grover.
“Fish move, you’re catching Canada, every cast!”
“Maybe he should try reeling faster?” questioned Oscar.
“Listen… Rocks don’t bite. Fish Do. You have to keep swimming that jig…” responded Clarence. And then he mumbled under his breath, “These two slappies are testing my fortitude.”
The seven snags, accomplished by Grover, were then multiplied by X 3. This is the number of deep breaths it took for Clarence to break the line… Retie the bait… Hand the rig back to his guest.
Clarence was not overly fond of incompetence but held fast with the patience of Job. Do not abandon faith—a fish will eventually bite your lure.
Back at camp… Sally’s most recent encounter with stranger danger SAM, was pushing her to open a notepad in an attempt to decipher the label on his cap that read Storm Sanitation. “What, if anything, do they have in common?” she pondered while opening a notepad. “This guy is clearly fishing for something when he stops by the camp for two consecutive days asking about our guests.”
“Step One”, she wrote on her paper. “Oscar and Grover claim to be from Chicagoland. Garbage Boy claims they are all friends from Milwaukee. One plus one, does not equal two.”
“Step Two”, she continued to write. “If he’s using a false name… Sam rhymes with SPAM. Maybe he’s actually from Minnesota. Which reminds me—Celine said we’re out of bacon—I’d better let Rusty know.”
By lunchtime the Williams brothers were even between the number of fish caught and the number of snags lost. Our fearless guide? His worldly profession had turned into a full-time Lamaze class (hee-hee-hoo, hee-hee-hoo) with multiple cleansing breaths. “I’m going to need a different presentation for the afternoon bite,” Clarence thought as he idled down the boat and pulled into a back bay near Moose Island.
High-Noon. “Guys, it’s time for a shore-banger. Let’s take a break.” A pause he needed more for himself than did Oscar or Grover. On his fish clicker—he’d touched 43 walleyes—felt like the total number of rock rubble hooksets (you’ve caught Canada) he’d dealt with was similar.
Regardless of the snagfest… It had been a perfect morning of fishing, and now they were in a perfectly secluded spot to enjoy a fresh Canadian walleye shore lunch. “You fellas gather up some wood for a fire, and I’ll get these fish wacked out,” was Clarence’s instruction.
Both brothers exited the boat, with Oscar adding, “Where do we find wood?”
“Behind you—in the bush—look for smaller tree fall and branches,” replied Clarence.
“Perfect, we can stretch our legs,” added Grover. “Are there animals on these islands?”
“You’ll be fine. Maybe the odd bear, ha ha. No worries. Just stay close.”
Five minutes later, with Clarence standing on the beach cleaning fish over the bow of the guide boat, he heard an echo off the trees of a distant boat. Moose Island was small. Maybe twenty acres. It sounded like the boat was going around the backside of the island.
Ten minutes later, when he was done cleaning fish, he turned to start prepping the fire—Grover and Oscar were still gone. “I suppose I’d better find these knuckleheads,” he thought. “Before they get themselves full of wood ticks.”
There was a patch of trampled weeds marking the location of where they had entered the fringe of the forest. Then suddenly, a wind came up, with dark storm clouds blowing directly into the protected bay where their boat was parked. “Perfect” muttered Clarence, his sarcasm for the wind and potential rain so heavy it could have anchored a boat.
Taking a few cautious steps into the bush (island entanglement of hell), “Something doesn’t feel right” was his next intuition. The Williams brothers were nowhere to be seen.
Twenty minutes later, again, the sound of a distant boat. Only this time it was more difficult to pinpoint with a swirling wind. Briefly, he sensed this time it was going away from him. Clarence was halfway across the island—deep into the treefall—calling out—rain coming down in sheets—winds gusting—nothing.
1:02pm. The springtime squall began to pass, and the ominous clouds that brought moisture began to part. He could see portions of the sun though the canopy of the timberland and realized he’d been walking, crawling, whistling, hollering, calling out (to no one) for close to an hour. No sounds. Not a peep. Not even Tweety Bird sitting on a limb humming a northwoods tune.
“Time to backtrack” was Clarence’s next move. “CIRCLE THE WAGONS on the way back to camp.”
–To Be Continued—
Rusty Flathers 