Of fish and of men.....and the ones that got away.

Wednesday morning arrived early at Camp Rolling Hills Resort. We had to be at Garrison Sports by 7.30am to obtain our fishing licences and to pay for the morning’s fishing trip. So James had set his iPad for 6.30am to give us enough time to shower, get our fishing outfits on, have coffee, and be off. 6.30am on vacation? For fishing? The things I agree too…. Still, once showered and with a cup of coffee in front of me, I wondered why it was still dark outside. I could have sworn that when I had been up early the day before it had been sunrise by now. So I look at my watch. It was 5.40am. Ouch. It seems that James’ marvelous iPad was not capable of picking up and synchronizing the time. NTP Apple? Ah well, at least it meant that we could enjoy coffee and the sunrise, which was still 30 minutes away…

At 7.30am we rolled up at Garrison Sports already for a mornings fishing. James was a little nervous about the whole affair, still remembering his childhood experiences that had seemingly scarred him for life. I was wondering what the other people on the trip would be like and would we be sharing a boat with some thundering, loud, obnoxious, fishing people, bedecked out with hats, fisherman vests( all covered with hooks and feathers) while all the time talking about the one that got away (ran away, more likely). My worrying was in vain. Accompanying us on the trip were a bunch of middle aged ladies and their husbands, a father and his young son, and Bette, the famous lesbian daughter mentioned in a previous post. It would, at this point, be an appropriate moment to mention that, with the exception of Bette (for obvious reasons), nearly all women that I have seen in Minnesota seem to have the same hair-do. It’s a sort of short thing, all clipped, bobbed and curly. It looks a little like a bathing cap pulled up over the ears and lifted at the back. The curly aspect is a little reminiscent of a water spaniel, and, I must be honest, It is odd how many people have it. I think it is a cult thing really, sort of like the masons but with hairdryers and a shampoo and set thrown in for good measure. Anyway, I just thought I would mention that….

Once we were all on the boat, Bette whisked us up to the front and handed us our rods. She introduced us to Greg, her brother in law, who would be the captain, and also explained that we would be heading out along the lake shore. We’d be looking for the “weeds” as that is where Northern Pike hang out. Super, I thought. Here I am, again likely to be thrashing around in the weeds. It would be just like returning to corporate America in so many respects. Still, the engine turned on, we turned into the breeze and off we went, a motley and rag tag collection of fisherpeople all intent on landing the big one. Or, in my case, hoping that James would land at least one fish so that we could move past this particular paternal scarring event.

After about 10 minutes, Captain Greg decided that we were in a suitable place and parked the boat. Now it was time for action! Bette informed us that she would bait our hooks (such a quaint expression) and with that she plunged her hands into a bucket and pulled out two live and thrashing fish. “Minnows” she proudly proclaimed. These “minnows” were about 9 inches long! I always thought that minnows were small little fish, but it seems that I was wrong. These “Super Minnows” were to be the bait that would catch our Northern Pikes. At this point I started to feel a little uneasy over what we were going to be doing with our bait. Swiftly, Bette grabbed my hook (hey now…) and shoved it into the mouth of the minnow and out through the top of its head. With that, she threw it over the side of the boat, and told me to let out some line. I, an ever obedient and instruction driven person, did as I was told and flicked out a hefty amount of line. My minnow, thankful to have been returned to the murky depths of the lake, swam off into the weeds, presumably where the Northern Pike were waiting to gobble it up, hook and all. And so began the long processing of waiting. I was waiting for my poor, defenseless, little minnow to be devoured by some big hungry monster fish that I would then haul (in a manly way) into the boat. I felt a little like I had gone to the zoo with a bag of pork chops and was just dangling them through the bars of the lion cage. It didn’t seem particularly sporting to me. But one look over at James, who was staring intently at his “bobber” (float for the euro zone), almost as if he were willing all the fish in the lake to just hurl themselves at his hook in some sort of aquatic hari kari, told me that I should just sit there and keep my mouth shut (a tip that would have served my minnow well if you ask me).

And so we sat, and sat, and sat. Periodically we would pull our line in to make sure that the minnow was still there and alive. Then the poor thing would get thrown back into the drink again to wriggle itself attractively. And so we sat, and sat, and sat. In fact we sat for four hours straight. Apart from Greg moving the boat to a few different locations, the only movement was that of the little kid down the other end of the boat catching the only fish. He reeled in a 24 inch Northern Pike (with the help of his proud dad), and that was it. Clearly the fish were unimpressed with my minnow and had either all gone shopping or had decided that they were too smart to fall for that old bait on the hook routine. So we headed back to shore with nothing to show for our 4 hours other than a credit card slip.

As we had dreams of glory in our heads, what do you think we did dear reader? Did we slope off into the distance to lick our wounded pride? Or did we jump into the car and go and kick some kittens around in frustration? No, like lambs to the slaughter we went back inside Garrison Sports and signed ourselves up for the afternoon fishing trip instead. Never let it be said that we are without either ambition or perseverance for we were determined to empty the lake of fish that day…or go broke trying. With that, we went and ate pizza and drank beer, something that all successful fishermen do, or so we thought.

At 2pm we returned to the dock to be greeted by Bette and her wife, Lisa. We were also joined by Shelley, Greg’s wife, and Greg himself, who was still in charge of the boat. I gave Greg a stern look as we boarded, which just made him smile broadly back at me in an alarming fashion, and, with a roar of the engines, we headed back off to find a fishing spot. This time we went to the other side of the lake and it seemed that we were heading for Canada before Greg stopped. Our minnows were retrieved from the buckets, re-speared onto the hooks and hurled over the side over the boat to strut their stuff in front of the predators of the deep. And we sat.

In fact, we sat for only about 10 minutes before James’ bobber disappeared. Bette instructed him to pay out some line to see if the bobber would come back up. Apparently if the minnow has decided to go for a snoop around the weeds, as they are wont to do, the bobber will come back up again. But it didn’t. Aha! It seemed that James had caught something…or rather his minnow had. I tried to put the vision of the minnow fighting for its life in a fight to the finish with the demon of the deep out of my mind and instead reeled mine in, stowing my rod and minnow out of the way, and reached for my camera (of course). Meanwhile, James was being instructed to pay out more and more line which would allow the fish that he had caught to retreat off with the minnow in his mouth. This he did and we waited with bated breath for about 3 minutes which, we were assured, was all it would take for the presumed monster on the other end to swallow both minnow whole and hook.

When James felt the line tighten, presumably when the monster had eaten the minnow and had decided to work off dinner by taking a little swim, Greg yelled out “STRIKE!” James whipped his rod up, creating a beautiful arc while in the process scaring the pants off me and everyone else and began to frantically wind his line in. The rod bent over, and James, now a man on a mission, hunched over his reel like some possessed maniac engaged in the battle of his life. “WIND IT IN” yelled Greg, and James wound faster and more manically. I wisely stood to one side, a little perturbed at the change in my husband into mad fisherman, and Greg reached for his landing net. By now, the bobber had resurfaced and was speeding toward the boat. Behind it was a trail of foam and sputum, giving the impression of a surfer being towed upside down. Closer it came, everybody watched, and waited, and then Greg stuck his net into the lake at the appointed time. He hauled out this massive Northern Pike (26.5 inches long), removed the hook from its mouth, and dumped the whole thing into James waiting arms. We named the fish Don, after James’ Pa.

Like a duck to water, James knew exactly what to do next. He broke into this big smile and thrust the fish out in front of him, eerily reminiscent of the creepy monkey holding Simba out at the opening of The Lion King. Everybody roared, clapped, and I pressed the button on my camera like a stage mother happily capturing her infant prodigy’s proud stage debut. Suddenly the fish gave a shudder, jerked a little, and a dead, slimy, and very chewed minnow shot out of its mouth and landed on the floor in front of us. Nice. With that the Northern Pike was carried off by big burly Greg and dumped into a holding tank to presumably reflect on the error of its ways, not to mention the stupidity of not noticing that the Minnow had a hook through its head.

Did you think that was it, dear reader? No, of course you didn’t. A demon seemed to have been awakened in James who, with new minnow on the end of his hook, threw his line out once more. About 10 minutes passed and James’ bobber disappeared again. Yes, he had caught another one. Over went the rod, manic winding James re-appeared, Greg roared, and another hapless Northern Pike was hoisted from Mille Lacs Lake into the holding pen. This one kept his lunch down and was carried off scowling to join his new friend in the sin bin. Then it was my turn. But I am sad to say, dear reader, that I was not quite as successful as James. My bobber went down, I paid out my line, but my strike was too nellie it seems. My fish just laughed and swam off with his free lunch. When I reeled the line in my hook was bare. Do you think I learned? No, because an hour later the same thing happened again. I lost my fish once more. Ah well. Who wants a big old slimy thing flopping around in their hands anyway I said, shrugging off defeat with ease. James was bringing home the “bacon” so what did I care? I was happy that he was finally dealing with the past. We named his second fish Darline in honour of his mother.

To add insult to injury only moments later James did it all again. I sniffed disdainfully as James and Greg hoisted a Bass over the side of the boat. Everyone cooed and clucked appreciatively. The bass was 20 inches long, which meant that it had to be thrown back (Bass,it seem, have to be 21 inches or longer to keep, proving once and for all that all fisherman are size queens). But Greg informed James that it was one of the most beautiful fish he had seen caught. It seems that not many people catch bass any more on the lake so it made James even more proud of his achievements. We named this one Kate, after James’ eldest sister, and throw it back into the lake where hopefully it will have learnt that in fish land there really is no such thing as a free lunch.

With that, Greg turned the boat around and we headed back to port. I dutifully took pictures of James holding his prizes on a string and then we delivered them to the sport shop for cleaning and preparing. In no time at all they were handed back to us in a large plastic bag. Dinner for the evening was assured….well for the next four days in fact. We actually ate it for two nights and donated the rest to Orin, the resort owner who seemed very honoured and pleased with his gift. For the epicurious amongst you I provided the cooking services and that night we ate fillets of Northern Pike, sautéed in butter with garlic, diced spring onions, a small chopped chilli, and a white wine reduction, served with potatoes, and carrots. It was delicious, even if I say so myself.

And with that, our day of adventure was over. We polished off the wine, did the dishes, and headed off to bed. James slept the sleep of the master fisherman, no doubt dreaming of his Pa, proudly patting him on the shoulder (and then demanding to know why he only caught 3), while I dreamt about the ones that got away…..sniff.

Big love to all,

D&J