“Yow!” Nick screamed and backed up. Forgetting where he was, he stepped back so far he went right off the dock and into the water. Hitting flat on his back, he went under and came up sputtering. Staggering and flailing, he stood up in water just above his knees.
“Holy shit, what was that?”
“A small northern,” said Ray calmly, picking up the rod that Nick had dropped on the dock.
“That was a monster,” said the kid. He was scrambling up on the dock as if he thought the thing was after him.
“I’ve been trying to tell you, Nick. Fishing is a challenging sport.” The dry tone in Ray’s voice told Osborne he was tickled to death that a fish had struck at the lure. “Nice looking fish, huh? Tough to clean, but good eating. Up here we call that fish the wolf of the north.”
“I believe it,” said Nick. “Whoa.”
“Small potatoes. A muskie is ten times that size. We call her the shark of the north, queen of the freshwater fish. This is what I’ve been trying to tell you, Nick, you haven’t fished until you’ve fought a muskie. That’s when you get hooked.”
The boy stood dripping and shivering as water streamed from his shorts. The slouch was gone.
“A muskie is ten times as big as that one?” He was awestruck. “But that thing was huge. The mouth, the teeth!” Osborne was delighted. The kid had obviously gotten a full frontal view of the arcing fish.
“You betcha. You’ll get used to it.”
“Where’s my rod? Did I catch that thing?”
“Nope. That’s what we call a strike. And if you see the fish, but it doesn’t strike your lure, we call it a follow.”
“So how do I catch it?”
“That’s the next lesson. I’ll teach you how to set the hook … but we need to get you a towel and some dry clothes.”
“No, no, I’m fine. So I really can catch a big fish just standing right here?”
“That’s why I bought this place. That weed bed, this whole lake, is rich with trophy muskie. But the muskie is a wise and wary fish. We may know they’re out there, but we can’t see them in this dark water.”
“Can they see us?”
“Oh yeah, and they are always watching. Y’know, Nick, men have paid me a thousand bucks a day to help them hook one of those magnificent fish. I can never guarantee success, because even I never know for sure what’s under the surface. What I can guarantee is the thrill when they hook one. It thrills the soul, Nick. The soul. Life just doesn’t get any better.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Nick, “I’m never gonna swim in this lake. Not with those things in here.”
At that, Ray threw his head back and laughed. He laughed and laughed. “They won’t hurt you, Nick. Don’t worry about that.”
The boy reached for the rod. “Let me cast just a couple more times, then I’ll go up, okay?”
Osborne could tell from his tone that Nick was both frightened and happy and close to being hooked on fishing. Not that he would admit it, at least for a while. And it crossed Osborne’s mind as he watched Nick’s casts that seeing a youngster raise their first big fish was almost as good as watching them take their first step. Both are moves that can take you out into the world and lead to great happiness.
“Doc!”
Startled, Osborne swung around, tripping over the tackle box at his feet. “Oops! Don’t fall into the boat lift.” Lew grabbed him by the arms. She held on, too; she didn’t let go. “Steady there. I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
“I didn’t hear you coming,” said Osborne. “I was concentrating on the fishing lesson Ray was giving young Nick over there.” They looked over to see Ray and Nick staring at them. Osborne was suddenly aware he was standing so close to Lew that with her still holding on to him, they must appear to be embracing. Taking his heart in his hands or maybe it was Erin’s advice, Osborne decided he liked the image. Ray would razz him anyway. So he took his own hands and placed them at Lew’s waist. He was very pleased to find the pose seemed incredibly natural.
“Now I’m very steady, Lew,” he smiled down at her. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she said looking up at him with a pleased smile as she took her hands away. Osborne let his linger just a moment longer. He resisted the impulse to pull her closer. Something told him she might not resist if he did. A happy calmness settled over him. Not yet, he thought to himself, not quite yet.
Lew had changed from her uniform into a pair of dark-green fishing shorts and a burgundy T-shirt. As she stepped away from him, Osborne touched her right arm just below the elbow with his finger. It was the spot where her skin changed from a warm brown to a much paler shade. “Fishing tan, huh?”
Osborne felt an instant charge of electricity as his hand grazed her arm. Again, she didn’t move away. It was almost as if she lingered, even enjoyed being so close to him.
“Where’s your gear?” he asked, his voice low so he wouldn’t break the spell.
“Right there.” She pointed back to the front of the dock. She walked over and knelt to pick up her rod and open her tackle box. She turned to him with a lure in her hand. “I was planning to fish with my Bobbie tonight, Doc, but I don’t think it’s right for this lake. And I’ve got an ounce weight in front of the bait, too.”
“That’ll drop way too deep, Lew. Now you know why I like the Mud Puppy. This lake is so shallow, I use a surface lure in most places.”
“I can see that. I didn’t think you could get a big fish in two and a half feet of water. How deep does this lake get, anyway?”
“Twelve, fourteen feet.”
“Jeez, that is shallow. Good structure?”
“Excellent structure. We’ve got a long sand bar that runs across that southern end.” Osborne pointed in the direction of the sand bar. “And a very rocky bottom with some huge boulders, most of them marked. You’ll see three, four fishing boats anchored around those locations almost every morning. But that weed bed in front of Ray’s dock is one of the best places to hook a muskie on this entire chain. I’ve seen some forty-five to fifty-inchers taken out of here. Lew, I thought you fished this lake the year you won the Hodag Muskie Tournament over in Rhinelander. Ray told me you got first place.”
“Yep, but I was fishing Lake Thompson. I’ve never fished Loon Lake. This is a first.”
And not your last, thought Osborne. Not if I take Erin’s advice. And with that, he handed over his bright-orange mud puppy. “Give it a try, Lew.” He didn’t tell her she was the first fisherman he ever let use the prized lure.
“There’s magic in this mud puppy,” he said, “I’ve caught more than a dozen muskies with this lure over the last thirty years, including one that measured a whopping forty-seven inches.”
Osborne watched her tie it on, his heart happy, his trophy for the evening not a fish at all but a lovely woman named Lew. The mud puppy was magic indeed; it worked in reverse!
twenty
“Muskie: the fish of 10,000 casts.”
Anonymous
The storm was moving in fast. Lightning lacerated the western sky. Dense clouds silhouetted the tamarack spires on the far shore and masked the early evening sun. The temperature had dropped, too, from the low eighties to nearly sixty, a summer cold front.
Soon soft, warm pellets of rain began to drift toward them. Osborne lifted his face, letting them fall like a sweet shower against his eyelids and cheeks. He looked over at Lew. She had that unmistakable gleam in her eye that said she knew what he knew: This was exactly the kind of rainstorm that pulls lunker muskies—huge muskies—up to the surface. They love warmer water. They may hide deep, they may fight deep, but they love to tease the surface when air and water temperatures are colliding.
Ray’s dock was empty. He and Nick had retreated into the trailer with the first raindrops. In fact, all the docks within sight were empty, and only two of the fishing boats remained. This was typical. Osborne had learned years ago that only a select few muskie fishermen would brave a thunderstorm.
Actually, only a crazy few. But at the end of the season, if they were still alive, the storm guys would have seen a lot more muskies than the wimps. Ray usually fished storms. Osborne figured he must be trying to keep Nick happy; otherwise for sure he would be out.
Now the only sounds to be heard between the wind gusts were the soft whir of their casts, the burble of the lures spinning through the water, and the suck as the lures were swirled and lifted to be cast again.
Lew was comfortable in the silence between them as she always was. And Osborne marveled, as he always did, at how easy she was to be around. Serene was the word that came to mind as he launched a cast as smooth and long as any he had ever made in his fifty years of fishing. She made him feel serene.
“Give me erratic weather any day,” said Lew ten minutes later as she let fly a long, long overhead cast that landed at the very edge of the high weed bed. “The minute that surface goes through a change, that’s when I have my best luck. Now …” she paused as if making a point while teaching a class, “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Doc, but I’m switching to a bucktail in five minutes if I don’t have a follow or a strike on this lure.”
“Okay, okay,” said Osborne, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “You’re just too set in your ways, Lew.”
“Come on, Doc. I’ve fished muskie so long, I know in my bones what I need when I need it. And I’m not too set in my ways, okay? I am not an old lady, okay?”
She grinned at him. ‘Trust me, I’ll try anything, so long as it’s exciting.” He wanted to think the grin she threw his way was seductive, but that was too much to hope for. Or was it?
Osborne looked away and changed the subject. “Hey, I tested when I walked down here tonight, and the water was right around sixty-four degrees.” He laid his rod down and reached into his tackle box for a thermometer. He knelt down and thrust his arm into the water. “Holding,” he said. “Perfect for the big girls.”
“Speaking of girls … darn, I wish I had more on the Herre murder,” said Lew. “Sandy’s family is calling every few hours—”
“Lew, you know you’re doing the best you can. Now stop thinking about it. You need a break.”
“Yes, I do. Thanks, Doc.” She grinned over at him.
The dusting of rain proved to be the front end of a downpour. Before they got soaked, Osborne and Lew reached into their respective tackle boxes for flat envelopes that unfolded into rain ponchos. Draped in vinyl, the fishing continued, the two anglers working parallel rhythms in silence: cast, reel, swirl, and cast.
“Wind just switched to northwest,” said Osborne. The chop grew rougher.
“Any wind’s a good wind, west wind’s the best wind,” said Lew. She bent over to unhook the mud puppy and replace it with a hairy bucktail. “Now what I think …” she paused as she sent her lure skyward, “… is at this temperature, a muskie loves a fast retrieve. Sometimes I don’t think I can reel in fast enough, y’know?”
Osborne stopped to watch her bucktail skitter along the surface, making gargling noises as it moved. “Yep,” he said, “I agree. Ray tells me that noise turns ‘em on. You put that together with the high weed bed and this warm water and—
“There! Lew, you got a follow.”
Feet apart, Lew bent her knees slightly to brace herself as she swirled the lure along the edge of the dock.
“Get ready for a fight, Doc. It’s a big one.”
A long, black shadow followed the lure just below the choppy surface, close enough so they could see it through the dark, tannin-stained water. Osborne’s heart beat faster. The fish was a good forty-five inches long, and it had a huge head. “She’s a monster,” he said softly. He held his breath.
Could Lew handle it? No other freshwater fish fights as hard as a muskie. A fish this big would test her strength and her skill. More fishermen lose a muskie after it’s hooked than before. As Osborne watched, he remembered Ray’s words to a boatful of clients: “The muskie is just plain brilliant, fellas. That fish can throw a lure and snap a line like no one of you bass fishermen would ever believe.
“Dammit,” said Lew with a snort as the fish swirled suddenly and disappeared. “She invites me to the party, then she leaves. Damn. These fish are just plain mean, Doc. Why do I fish these suckers, anyway? I can catch a mess of walleye or bass for all this time and effort.”
“You know why you fish ‘em.”
She looked at him with a sly smile. “Of course I know. I’m just disappointed. God, I’d love a big one like that in my net. Have you raised her before?”
“No-o-o,” said Osborne. “I would remember that one. I swear that fish had a thirty-pound head on it.”
“Yep, I think so. Well, it was a thrill to see her. Hey, Doc.” Lew looked over at him as she checked her line for nicks. “I’m sure glad we’re doing this. I get so wrapped up in my fly-fishing, I forget what a challenge it is to fish muskie.”
“Shark of the north,” said Osborne, repeating one of his favorite phrases.
“Funny,” said Lew. “Big muskies are always females, but we insist on calling ‘em king or big boy or big guy. Now, why do you think that is?”
“What do they say about a tough woman?” said Osborne. “She’s got balls.”
“You consider that a virtue?”
Osborne looked over to find her eyes were fixed on his. Waiting, teasing.
His heart moved. Even though they were standing there exposed, with rough water at their feet and the wind and the rain lashing at their faces, he felt like he was in an intimate space, a very intimate space.
It wasn’t until the lightning split the sky directly overhead that the two remaining fishing boats finally pulled anchor to buzz for the safety of the public landing directly across the lake.
Lew, as resolute as Osborne in the accelerating gusts, refused to quit until her casts were blown back and the lightning had become a serious hazard. Only then did they nod in agreement, unhook their lures, grab all their tackle, and hurry up the stone stairway toward shelter.
The heat of the day lingered in the house, making all the rooms feel cozy. Osborne was pleased. He couldn’t have prayed for a better evening to entertain Lew. In spite of her long day, she looked relaxed and happy, the quintessential fisherman, satisfied to have seen a big one, whatever the outcome.
They puttered in the kitchen together while the summer storm pulled out all stops, drumming on the roof and filling the house with the wonderful fragrance of moist pine needles.
“Excellent taste, Doc,” said Lew on opening the refrigerator after volunteering to assemble the salad. “I love this peppercorn-buttermilk dressing. It’s the only one I use.”
The venison chops cooperated, too, searing and broiling to perfection on the grill outside the kitchen door. Osborne was forever thankful he’d taken the time one summer to extend the roof out over the small patio so he could grill in bad weather. Mary Lee had argued against it, saying the new roofline would destroy the integrity of the architect’s design, but he had persisted. After all, he was the one who always got stuck grilling outdoors.
The final detail was the potatoes. They emerged from the oven perfect, flaky and white under a fat pat of yellow butter.
The setting sun broke through the clouds long enough to send shimmers of violet across the dark lake just as Osborne pulled out a chair for Lew. He had set the small, round table on the porch, using a tablecloth that he’d bought Mary Lee for her birthday one year. She had tried to return it, as she did most of his gifts, and was disgruntled when she learned she couldn’t because he had purchased it on sale. She never did use it.
Just as well, thought Osborne as he pulled it from the drawer. He liked it: a thick, creamy cotton weave with a border of dark-green firs, and napkins to match. His forest-green earthenware, a Christmas gift from Mallory, looked quite handsome on it, too. And candles, of course. He had set out the two sterling silver candlesticks with the beeswax candles that usually decorated his piano. Simple in design, the can
dlesticks were tall with flat, round bases. They had belonged to his mother.
“Where on earth did you get this butter? It’s real!” said Lew.
“Erin gave me that,” said Osborne. “She buys it from the Mennonite farm in Starks … non-USDA approved but absolutely delicious. She gets eggs there, too.”
“I didn’t think you could buy butter like this anymore,” said Lew, savoring her potato. Then she looked up from her dinner and focused her alert, good-natured eyes on his. “Now, Doc, what is this malarkey about Ray having a son?”
The candles had burned less than an inch, the venison chops were half eaten and Osborne’s recounting of Ray’s dilemma had just ended when he heard a knock on the kitchen door.
“Who could that be?” Osborne jumped up from the table, napkin in hand, and started through the living room entry only to see Ray coming toward him in sections. From a certain angle, Ray’s six feet five inches appeared to be structured in five separately movable parts. The kneecaps and the lower torso always struck Osborne as entering a room ten minutes before the rest of Ray’s body. Tonight was no exception. Only tonight, Ray’s happy-go-lucky grin and his stuffed trout hat—the usual toppers to the five-part symphony of movement—were missing. Ray was distressed.
“Sorry to interrupt, Doc, but Nick’s driving me nuts. I need help. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Come on in,” said Doc, trying to sound pleasant. In fact, he was thinking, Dammit. He reminded himself that he owed Ray. He would always owe Ray.
twenty-one
“A jerk on one end of a line, waiting for a jerk on the other.”
Classic folk definition of fishing
“Oh, Chief, sorry. I didn’t know you were here,” said Ray, ducking through the doorway as he walked onto the porch. If he noticed the candlelight and the intimate dinner, he said nothing.
Dead Water Page 13