Our mother had enough experience of her own to remove the hook and slide the fish onto a stringer that, for lack of a better place, she secured around the oarlock, which allowed the newly caught fish to swim alongside the boat.
Around midday, we broke for our picnic lunch back on the “Three Bears” porch, a pleasant spot to rest in the shade and enjoy the birdsong of the forest. But then it was back to our mother’s agenda, and we regrouped for the afternoon outing. Nancy and I took Mary along with us in the canoe, glad to be relieved of our “learn-to-fish” duties.
Falsely assuring Mary that there was a worm on her line, we instructed her to watch the bobber while we basked in the sun and grumbled to each other about what our friends were probably doing back on Big Spider.
The second boat, immune to our hormonal pessimism, continued to haul in fish after fish. My mother was happy, my brothers were happy, and surely Elmer was happy, having freed himself from female teenage apathy.
In the late afternoon, our mother signaled for us to paddle in to shore. At last! I don’t remember catching a single fish. The only thing I brought back was a sunburned back.
Still, we were curious how the others had done.
I’m paddling at No-Pi-Ming while my sister Mary attempts to catch a fish. Even with Elmer’s good guiding, neither I nor Mary nor our sister Nancy (not pictured) had any luck fishing from our canoe.
“How many fish did you catch?” I hollered.
My brother reached over the side and hauled out a long, wet rope laced with dozens of good-sized fish on the stringer’s white plastic hooks.
“We’re set for an island picnic fish fry!” our mother said, beaming at her success.
I dared not ask who was going to clean them for fear of eliciting a new “goal.”
Pulling up alongside the half-sunken wooden dock, we began to unload our gear, occasionally glancing down at the ghostly glimmer of the white stringer hanging from the oarlock with its numerous fish swimming in watery unison.
Everyone was in a merry mood, including my sister and me. Glancing up at the sun’s slant, we figured there still might be time to catch a swim with our friends. The boys had some good fish stories to tell, and our mother surely was beginning to happily calculate an island fish fry guest list in her head. She knew these fish could feed a crowd.
Elmer, no doubt, was ready for a brown-bottled cold one.
Hurrying to make an exit and get back to our friends on the lake, we uncharacteristically, and without being asked, scrambled as fast as we could to haul up our gear. In minutes, the shore began to fill with our paraphernalia from the day: life jackets, fishing poles, bait buckets, oars, towels, and suntan lotion.
Each of us grabbed a load and started up the hill.
“Who’s got the fish?” Elmer asked.
Suddenly, we all stopped and looked at one another.
As if on cue in a silent movie, our small fishing party made a sweeping slow-motion turn and looked back at the boat. The oars that had secured the stringer of fish to the gunnels lay tumbled on the shore. The oarlocks sat eerily empty, their sockets now naked.
Somewhere in the lake’s murky depths swam a ghoulish cadre of fish strung together like some freakish Northwoods version of the Loch Ness monster.
A chorus of shock, disbelief, and “Oh, no’s!” rang out like crows startled from a tree.
Even Nancy and I felt sorry for the fish. And because we had rapidly removed all the gear from the boat like a mass of swarming bees, no one knew or admitted to having grabbed the oars. Like the slippery backs of the fish on the stringer, the secret still rides in the deep, dark lake.
Elmer just shook his head.
Thankfully, like I said, he was a man of few words.
Eddie Calls the Shots, Circa 1963
No one messed with Eddie.
With a gun in his belt and a knife in his boot, he was the quintessential fishing guide. He was a man’s man and a woman’s man, and to us kids he was as fascinating as a character straight out of a Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew adventure book.
Lean and muscular, he walked with a sauntering strut that emanated a hint of cockiness. It was long before the days of macho gold chains, but he didn’t need any. He was the real thing.
He wore his shirtsleeves rolled up, revealing sinewy forearms; he kept his shirt halfway unbuttoned, exposing a profusion of golden curls; and he tilted his hat at a rakish angle, shading his eyes from view, which only added to his mystery.
Guide Eddie Ostling, who often sported a gun on his belt and a knife in his boot, strolls past the lodge at Moody’s with his fishing poles, circa 1960s.
When he slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses, his rough, rugged persona of tough confidence was complete. The fact that he rarely spoke (at least to us kids) only furthered his mystique.
As a fishing guide, he was in high demand. He knew his stuff, and he wasn’t afraid or intimidated by anyone or any situation.
When you fished with Eddie, you fished hard and long. Action and adventure were never far from his boat. Anyone who went out with him came back with a story to tell.
As a bachelor without the responsibilities of a family, Eddie stayed at the top of his game by continually testing the waters. When he wasn’t guiding, we often spotted him from our dock, skimming slowly along in his boat as he peered over the side searching for signs of a new fishing spot.
Sometimes he’d be banked off an island, his powerful cast flinging water droplets into the sunlight as he tried out one of his original lures. Aptly named after himself, “Eddie’s Bait,” the most popular one, was heavy and huge with a series of sharp, three-pronged barbs that made strength a prerequisite to casting it. Any musky hooked on that thing was in trouble.
Eddie Ostling, resort owners’ son Doug Seitz, and a friend share a joke over their various catches, circa 1950s.
Courtesy of Dick Seitz
Frequently, he’d be down at Moody’s long, L-shaped log boat dock casting away for hours to an exact spot time and time again.
He rarely missed. In fact, his casting precision was legendary.
One summer when I was fourteen, my best friend from home, Martha, and I were out on the lake paddling around in our green Grumman canoe. It was a blue-sky day and the lake was smooth as glass. We had spotted some friends down on the boat dock—a place where we kids often gathered to check out the day’s action—and had canoed down to say hello.
Eddie was casting away and, as was his usual manner, just nodded his head in silent greeting.
Known as a teaser, he kept aiming his lure in our direction, where it dropped with a splash very near to our canoe. The kids and other adults on the dock were getting a kick out of how close his cast was landing without actually hitting us.
Each time the lure plopped down nearby, we let out a holler of shocked surprise as a cold spray spewed over us. Everyone got a good laugh.
Thinking we would soon be drenched, we changed course, said goodbye to our friends, and began paddling across the beckoning waters. Chatting happily away, we had gone about 50 yards before we realized we were not making much progress.
Digging our paddles deeper into the water, we pulled harder. Oddly, especially since there were no big waves to overcome, we discovered we were going nowhere.
Puzzled, I asked Martha to put more oomph into her strokes. She swung in with gusto. We went nowhere.
“We must be stuck on something!” I said.
Although I knew we were in clear, deep water, I nevertheless peered over the side of the canoe to see if we had snagged a floating log or some mysterious boulder that I had not seen before.
From behind us erupted a burst of laughter. Turning around from my stern seat, I could immediately see that Eddie was the culprit. He was standing on the dock with the line of his fishing rod stretched tautly to the back of our canoe, having hooked his lure directly onto the canoe’s stern sprocket.
Eddie had purposely snagged our canoe like one of his big muskies, such
was the accuracy of his casting. No wonder he had been practicing so near to us!
To make our embarrassment complete, there was no way to become unhooked except to paddle backward until Eddie, with a mischievous grin on his face, set us free. Our escapade offered a new version of “catch and release,” and I’m sure we provided quite a fish story at the kitchen table during the lodge dinner that night.
Juxtaposed to Eddie’s competence as a fishing guide was his reputation as the caller for the legendary square dances at Moody’s Camp. Holding court with a Leinenkugel as scepter, he anchored the band’s corner of the dining-room-turned-dance-floor with kinglike authority. Without his trademark hat and sunglasses, a different Eddie persona emerged from his fishing guide guise.
With his now visible wavy blond hair combed neatly back, the knife and gun missing from his belt and boot, and a half-unbuttoned clean white shirt and pressed slacks as his attire, he suddenly transformed into a kind of sexy backwoods rock star.
Rain did not dampen the spirits of this successful 1955 musky outing for Lucile Seitz, guide Eddie Ostling, and a Moody’s guest.
Courtesy of Dick Seitz
Ruggedly handsome with penetrating eyes, he called out the words of each square dance with the same flair that he executed his fishing cast.
“Grab your partner and do-si-do!” he commanded, his articulation fast and smooth.
For one who was mostly taciturn in public, Eddie suddenly became a flowing fountain of words.
“Now duck for the oyster!” he sang as we swung through our paces. “Now duck for the clam!”
Eagerly following his orders, we danced to the commands of his clear, confident calls. Accurately and precisely, he ticked each movement off as our dancing feet followed with flying steps.
Everyone loved it when Eddie called. And whether you were on the dance floor or contentedly watching all the action from the sidelines, you were in for a good time.
For many, his contributions as a fishing guide, square dance caller, and jack-of-all-trades around the lodge added greatly to the charm and ambience of the resort community during those happy, heyday years.
But then, like the last dance of the night, the beauty of the show came to an end.
With the Seitzes selling the resort and the new owners ending the American meal plan, the curtained closed and the lights went out on many of the camp’s traditions, including Eddie’s many jobs. Different clients with different needs now filtered through the resort, and although Eddie continued to guide, he lacked the venue and exposure of the more structured resort days. Even the square dances were no more, sadly silencing his role as caller.
Over the years, we private cabin owners rarely saw Eddie again. As young adults, my siblings and I occasionally ran into him in the smoky haze of a local bar where he was holding court with other fishermen. But sadly, rumors of drinking problems, health issues, and other personal struggles replaced tales of his legendary guiding.
Late one August afternoon many years later, when the ending summer light paled to an amber glow in a faded aquamarine sky, I sat as a young mother at the end of our dock absorbing the lake’s peaceful beauty while my three sons and husband played games up in the cabin. Somewhere off in the distance, the lone sound of a puttering motor on the otherwise empty lake caught my ear. It wasn’t long before I spotted a familiar old wooden fishing boat motoring ever so slowly down the shore.
At first, I didn’t think anything of it. Perhaps it was just some fisherman looking for a good spot to drop anchor. But then as I watched a little longer and the boat came closer, the silhouetted figure against the light began to take shape and the first thing I recognized was the hat.
Like a ghost emerging out of the hazy mist of the past, here came Eddie around the bend heading down our north shore. I blinked several times against the water’s shimmering radiance, thinking perhaps I was mistaken as it had been years since his presence had dominated the lake.
But then, like Rip Van Winkle coming down from the mountain, he came more fully into view, and I knew it was Eddie.
Because it was late summer and the resorts were waning in existence, there was no other activity on the lake, and so it was easy for my attention to be focused on him. But more than that, I was fascinated by the pace of his boat. It moved along at the languid speed of a funeral dirge.
Oddly, Eddie was not looking down into the depths of the lake for a fishing hole as in days of old, but instead was gazing up at the north shoreline, studying each well-known cabin as he passed by as though remembering long-lost friends.
As he drew closer to our dock, I debated whether or not to acknowledge him for, having not seen him in years, I did not think he would recognize me as a young woman and, if the truth be known, he still intimidated me. Furthermore, rumor had it that his drinking problem had gotten significantly worse, and I wasn’t sure what condition he was in. I wanted to remember the old Eddie.
Nevertheless, because he was so close to our dock, it was impossible not to acknowledge each other. As he cruised slowly by—his hat angled, his eyes screened by his sunglasses—he respectfully tipped his head in a silent hello and I waved a greeting back to him.
For a moment, time stood still and the past floated between us in a recognized tribute to an era gone by.
Then without breaking the cadence of his motor’s sad song, he ever so slowly continued down the shore at a steady, snaillike pace. Passing by the haunts of his heyday, his gaze intent on the specter of all that had been Moody’s Camp: the guest cabins on the hill, the lodge, the swimming beach, the sundeck roof capped with dwindling sunlight. Here, once upon a time, many a resort guest and lake friend had waved and called to him as though he were a returning Odysseus trailing a monster from the deep.
It seemed as if he were searching for and perhaps seeing all the familiar faces he had known over the years. At last, he passed the spot where the bustling boat dock had once been, its missing logs a final reminder that his days as king of its fishing arena were long gone.
The camp and all the private cabins along the north shore of the lake had been his home—the place where he had reigned as fishing guide, square dance caller, and friend to many. A life and times, like his own legend, now only a ghostly vapor riding on the wind.
As the sun went off our dock, the chill of the shadows replacing its warmth, I gathered my things to head up to join my family. With one last look, I glimpsed Eddie’s boat continuing its slow tour, the sound of his motor fading into the distance like a lonely requiem, his gaze focused on the north bay shore’s intimate details as though he were committing them to memory.
It was the last time I saw him.
Not long after, we heard Eddie was dead. He had collapsed in a tavern and died shortly thereafter. He was only in his mid-fifties. Ironically, much of the resort era of the Northwoods was also well on its way to its own slow demise.
Perhaps Eddie knew his days were numbered when he made that journey around the lake. And like the last cast of the day, it was his final farewell.
The Square Dance
A Song of Summer, Circa 1959
“Irene goodnight, Irene goodnight, Goodnight Irene, goodnight Irene, I’ll see you in my dreams …”
—Huddie Ledbetter
We could sense the music before we could hear it.
Outside even the leaves of the woods rustled with anticipation. They swayed and whispered as though they were already sashaying to the songs to come.
Above them, the whole of the velvet, starry night pulsed with excitement.
Nothing, however, could surpass the flurry of activity inside our brightly lit log cabin as seven people whirled about its snug rooms making frantic last-minute preparations for the weekly Wednesday evening square dance at Moody’s Camp lodge.
In the middle of the living room, our mother Woody stood poised over an ironing board, expertly pressing the wrinkles out of my sister Nancy’s and my full-circled cotton skirts. Hot wisps of steam hissed upward like
cumulonimbus clouds, engulfing her red hair in the already static atmosphere.
My sister and I battled for positions in front of the green metal dresser mirror as we combed and re-combed our hairdos. I plucked at the bow on my ponytail as she continued to sweep up the ends of her ducktail to get every hair in place. At ages nine and twelve, that was about all we could do for beautification.
Our brothers, David and Tom, ages seven and five, scurried about in the other small bedroom, tucking freshly pressed shirts into their Indian bead–belted corduroy pants. Two-year-old Mary wandered around contently, entertained by all the commotion as she waited to be attired in her soon-to-be-pressed ruffled dress, white anklets, and black patent-leather shoes.
Our father was just finishing up with a quick reshave over the bathroom’s tiny enamel sink—which was a good thing, as there was a line to get in.
“Hurry up, Dad. I’ve got to go!” I yelled.
“Mom, is my skirt done yet?” asked Nancy. “I’m all ready!”
Suddenly, the first strains of a square dance song drifted over the woods and through the screens of our cabin windows.
“It’s starting! It’s starting!” We shouted in unison. “Hurry! It’s time to go!”
Like a burst of firecrackers, we ricocheted around the cabin in all directions, searching madly for sweaters, flashlights, and stray shoes.
“Can we go? Can we go?” we begged.
“Yes,” Woody said. “Take a flashlight and stay together. Dad and Mary and I will drive up shortly.”
Before the count of three, the four of us were out the door.
Fearlessly, we headed into the dark night, surging up the rutted gravel driveway to the shortest route through the woods. Passing the three Moody’s guest cabins on the hill, we noticed that their lights were all out and quickened our pace. We were already late.
Return to Wake Robin Page 11