Rusty’s first pass down the shoreline in Pelican Bay was nothing short of phenomenal. Of the Pikeannoli brothers… Cy struggled a bit, but both Alvin and Ted were quick learners when it came to setting the hook!
“How time flies when you are catching fish,” Rusty thought (dreadfully). In the two-plus hours they had been working the shallows, over fifty walleyes had come to the boatside. And now the queasiness in his stomach had increased—level ten—I want to puke but I can’t.
Nowhere to Run—Tawny’s plan called for shore lunch at Moose Island—high noon—and the incredible churning in his stomach was not being generated by hunger. This was that special sort of sauce in the lower portion of your abdomen. The resolute moaning of a vintage barn door swung open, except that noise was coming from deep within his bowels, and the idling Yamaha was barely enough to mask the alarm.
“Don’t screw this up,” was another one of Tawny’s teambuilding orders. It was the one command requiring Rusty’s utmost attention as they reeled in lines, put the boat to full throttle, and raced out of the bay around the Four Blocks islands.
Traveling west and now north the Lund Alaskan scooted along with its passengers bound for a shore banger. How loud would it get once they reached Moose Island… If the crack of lightning that just ignited in their direction of travel was any indication… Baton down the hatches.
A perfectly calm, bluebird morning, filled with rainbows and unicorns on Lac de Bois had quickly turned to a purplish-black and green cauldron of clouds rolling in from the north. And with it came the winds. Steady at first. Enough to create more than the obligatory walleye chop desired for fishing. Then it went full send, unlike anything our shore lunch bound adventurers had ever witnessed.
The gales of May came hard—hard enough to blow the tops off the oncoming waves. The water now looked as though it was capped by a sheet of ice.
But there was no moisture in this storm. Quite the opposite. As Rusty held tight to the throttle and raced toward the leeward beach on the south side of Moose Island, he could feel the temperature rising.
Fifty yards to the beach, Rusty’s cap had long since blown off, and the impenetrable wall of wind was suddenly… GONE. They had somehow punched their way through a wall and now only the unseasonable heat remained. Moose Island was waking up, and they were inside its bubble.
“Wow, it sure got warm,” noted Alvin as Rusty putzed his way toward the sand with the bow of the boat.
“Yeah,” responded Rusty. “Downright balmy.” And he used his shirt sleeve to wipe away the flow of sweat on his forehead, undecided if it was brought on by the heat or his fear of Wendigo, or both!
Once the bow touched beach, he trimmed the Yamaha motor and ground the boat further into the sand. “You guys can go ahead and hop out, and I’ll hand you the shore lunch gear.”
“Reconnaissance,” he thought. “I hope to hell Tawny or Stash or Cos is somewhere nearby.” He had his own plan in place—to alert them if fresh wild walleyes cooked over an open fire were to go sideways.
“Careful when you get out,” Rusty mentioned to his guests. But it was already too late as Alvin lifted a leg over the gunnel and went ass over teakettle with his lifejacket diaper pulled up to his armpits.
“Nice move!” chirped the younger Ted. “You can probably go ahead and take that off, now that we’re on shore, HA HA.”
“Here Ted, climb out and I’ll hand you the shore lunch kit,” Rusty jumped in before any brotherly confrontation might arise.
The wooden box was super heavy and contained all the essentials for lunch. Pots, pans, utensils, the works. AND it also held the orange Orion flare gun that Rusty had secretly packed away for alerting his trusted FSFO posse. Or worst-case scenario… Something to fire at the stone-cold heart of a Wendigo.
“I’ll start on the fish cleaning if you fellas want to gather up some firewood,” instructed Rusty. “Make sure you get plenty of kindling, and don’t wander off too far.” Great advice considering they were on the same island that inhaled his previous two guests and his one fishing guide.
Rusty then whacked out the fillets as wood was gathered by the Pikeannolis. The 9” Rapala blade in his hand tore through the walleyes in short time and soon there was a fire being built.
“Dammit,” he thought, as a match was struck to the kindling. “I forgot to grab a shore lunch grate to put over the fire.”
Shore lunch 101… Don’t forget your campfire cooking grate. Lest you prefer to place the frying pan (of which most guides do not) directly into the burning inferno. Of which currently, uncomfortably near the bow of the boat, Rusty had a raging fire going on the beach of Moose Island.
The heat was intensifying beyond comfortable just as he asked, “Hey Cy, can you grab the cast iron skillet out of the shore box for me?”
“Absolutely,” responded the elderly gentleman. “And what’s this?”
But before Rusty could turn… There was a CRACK of gunfire… Followed by a long and sustaining HISSSSSSS that ended with a violent gurgling.
In a split-second Cy had held up the flare gun for inspection, accidentally touched its hair trigger, watched the flare launch from the barrel—ricochet off an oak tree, and bomb across the stained waters of Lac de Bois.
The only thing left was an oily orange residue on the water surface and three wide-eyed Pikeannolis (one with wet pants) who scattered like startled geese and stood staring in disbelief.
Then there was silence. Albeit brief. Sixty-seconds to be exact. That was how long it took to wake the Wendigo monster and bring the HEAT!
–To Be Continued—
Rusty Flathers 