Up North

Up North

It had been a rainy, humid day and the closed-up cottage took on the smell of old seaweed. The four of us were seated around the small kitchen table eating barbecue sandwiches for supper. Mother wasn't exactly a domestic goddess, but she did manage to keep body and soul together. In her world, cooking took a back seat to more erudite things like her interest in the school board, city government, and church. She was pretty in a plain sort of way. She had large, soft eyes, a warm smile, and fixed her brown hair in the flip style that was all the rage in 1953.

Talk around the table turned to the plan for the following day's activities. Dad was always in charge. He told us that he would be fishing on Lake St. Germain in the morning. I noticed that his wavy brown hair was nearly curly from the humidity and the need of a haircut. His only concession to the fact that we were on our annual summer vacation was the absence of a tie and a three-day stubble. Otherwise, he looked the same as he did when he went into the office, dressed in pants and white shirt. I'm not sure he owned any casual clothing.

My little sister, Jeannie, and I looked forward to these vacations each year. Jeannie was seven, four years my junior, but was tall and slender. She was a blond and I, brunette. I was short and pudgy, so we were not unlike Snow White and Rose Red. We had our disagreements, like most siblings, but tried to get along when the weather kept us cooped up in the cabin. Jeannie would spend the next day swimming and playing on the tiny sand beach, and Mom would be her lifeguard. I talked Dad into lending me one of his old fishing rods so I could practice casting from one of the resort's row boats.

Dad took the family up north on these fishing expeditions each summer when I was young. While he was on his quest to catch a musky, we visited a different northern Wisconsin lake each time we went. His thinking was that if one lake failed to yield results, he would try a new one. The scenery changed, but the general routine was always the same. Dad spent the days in a boat somewhere trying the new lures he had accumulated since the previous year. The rest of us entertained ourselves with whatever was available. It was pleasant enough, but got rather boring after a time.

The next morning, I strapped on a life jacket and pushed off alone in the little dingy that was provided for the resort guests. I took along Dad's old casting rod and a beat-up lure. The sun was shining and I was happy to be out of the cabin.

I rowed until I had rounded a point and could no longer see the cottages, the beach, or civilization, as I knew it. Flush with a sense of independence, I rested the oars in the boat and snapped the chewed up old lure onto the fishing line. There was a large bed of tall weeds well off to the side of the boat and I began to cast the lure in that direction. Alone with my thoughts, it was a somewhat boring exercise and after about twenty minutes, I'd had enough of that activity. I really wasn't paying much attention to anything. . .just mindlessly casting the lure.

About the time that I was ready to quit and go back to the cottage, I glanced down at the water as I reeled in the bait. To my alarm, a fish had followed the lure to the boat! Not just any fish: It was Dad's prize musky! It was in no hurry and gazed directly at me as I was staring at it. It was the size of a telephone pole and probably measured more than four feet long. It was huge.

It eschewed my woody, barbed morsel and, in no hurry whatsoever, slipped silently under the boat. It disappeared in the murky depths. My thoughts raced to Moby Dick and I expected it to ram my little vehicle any moment. I dreaded the thought of floating in the water with that thing swimming below and thinking that my toes looked particularly appealing. The whole encounter from start to finish, probably didn't last longer than five or ten seconds, but it seemed an eternity as I gazed helplessly at the critter.

The face-off induced an adrenalin rush that left me trembling and feeling quite alone and vulnerable in that little dingy. What on earth was I doing anyway? I was only eleven years old. My mind raced. What if the thing had latched on to the lure? I had visions of this fish towing me at eye-popping speed around the little lake, me clinging helplessly to Dad's fishing pole, and my feet braced against the hull of the boat. I was alone, in the middle of nowhere, and had no net, no club, nothing with which to combat the 'little' fishy. I could have hollered until I was blue in the face and no one would have heard me. I quickly concluded that any further pursuit of such a fish was folly. I collected my wits, laid the fishing rod in the boat and, thoroughly shaken, started to oar toward my home port.

When Dad returned from his day's fishing, I recounted my adventure with genuine excitement. He seemed unimpressed. Either he thought that I was imagining things or he was quietly envious. I think it was the former. He never tried the spot that I described to him. What does a eleven-year old know about musky, anyway?

Two days later, Dad and I noticed a small crowd gathered around the resort office. We wandered over to see what all the fuss was about. We pushed through the circle of onlookers to see two wooden planks supported by a pair of sawhorses. Lying in state on the bier was a fish--a big one. A man from one of the other cottages was telling the crowd how he had caught it just that morning. His ruddy complexion deepened as he provided an animated description of the difficulties he had landing this fish.

He was repeating his story as new audience arrived. "I was fishing on the north end of the lake, near that big weed bed, when he hit my lure." he recounted in a squeaky voice. He continued, gesticulating wildly, "Gave me one hell of a fight. I thought he'd pull me in the drink. Damn near a record!" I looked away from him and down at the monster fish lying on the boards. Dad's eyes followed mine momentarily. Then he turned and, with his hands in his pockets, he silently walked back to the cabin. He never spoke of the incident again.