LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

the other side of the lake, and that was where the majority of the Indian netting took place. Although Bill had watched the Indians fish in the Sabaskong many times, the winds were far more dangerous there than the steady rolling waves of the larger open water to the south.

      After a brief rest, it took much of the remaining day for them to unload and set up their new campsite.

      “We’ll need to chop some dry fire wood,” Dave explained. “And if we use dry wood sparingly, and cook over hot coals, we shouldn’t be sending up too many smoke signals. I also suggest we keep our campfires small, so they won’t be spotting our fire at night.”

      “Okay, I’ll be your man,” Ed snickered. “We sure haven’t been getting enough exercise lately,” he groaned, as he grabbed his ax and went to search for a good dry tree trunk to chop at.

      “Hey Ed, you can use this canvas to cover the wood when your finished,” Dave laughingly shouted, tossing a tarp in his direction.

      Bill had already started gathering rocks to build a large fireplace that would shield the fire from the wind and hide the flames at night.

      “I’d guess we have enough water to last us only a few days,” Dave said. “So we’ll probably have to fetch some fresh spring water from our aquifer in a few days.”

      “I bet that spring water is as pure as you’ll find anywhere, but just to be on the safe side we should probably use some of our water tablets,” Bill explained, placing one large shelf like rock on top of his fireplace.

      Later that night, when they were finished with all their chores, they celebrated with some cold beer, and Ed prepared a large sirloin steak with fried potatoes, which they’d brought with them for this very occasion. Then after dinner, they watched the Northern Lights dance across the sky as they visited about how they’d start by first trying to pan for gold. It was very late when they finally crawled into their sleeping bags, and much later in the morning when they finally awoke to the persistent sounds of a woodpecker rapping away on some distant tree.

      As they stretched their tired muscles they could see it was going to be another beautiful day, and as Dave poured his freshly brewed coffee they chatted about the beauty of this new paradise they’d found, and how they’d casually catch fish today while they’d watch the Indian’s work habits from a distance.

      “If we catch some Walleye today, we can probably store the filets in plastic bags in that cold water, rather than pull an ice chest up into the tree every night.” Dave explained.

      “Oh I forgot to tell you, there’s an outpost lodge near Split Rock, where we can buy ice if we need it,” Bill said. “They cut lake ice all winter long up here, and bury it under sawdust in their ice sheds where it lasts all summer long. But I agree with you, that cold water will do the trick if we can hide them where a bear won’t smell them out.”

      It was a big relief for Bill to finally be able to open the throttle to full speed, as he followed the channel lines he’d sketched on the map the previous night, marking their route around the peninsula that had protected them from the winds off the open water area to the south. Finally they reached the open water area and Bill slowed the boat so it would better ride the huge rolling swells that were always present on the east side of the lake’s vast open water area. Although it was a fairly calm day, they had the advantage of a steady breeze as they angled southeast toward a group of islands that were about a half-mile off shore from the Indian’s Canadian Reservation. As they motored around to the inland side of the islands, Ed could easily see across this fairly large bay called Burnt Harbor, and as he scanned the shoreline he said, “The Indian’s buildings all appear to be located on what looks like a small island right at the mouth of that river.”

      Once on the more protected inland side of these islands, Bill pulled back on the throttle, while Ed more carefully studied the reservation with his binoculars.

      “I can see the mouth of the river,” Ed whispered, “and just south of their buildings, there’s a bridge that crosses over to the mainland. It looks like they have an old truck parked on that point, just north of the bridge.” Pausing a brief moment he continued, “Things look awfully quiet, and I don’t see any boats, so they must be out fishing.” Then as he stood up he turned toward the open water, scanning the horizon. “And I can’t see a single boat out there,” he said squinting through his binoculars. “Would they have netting rigs on their boats?” He asked Bill.

      “I’ve seen their boats many times on the Sabaskong, and if I remember correctly, they use several types,” Bill explained. “They have those flat scows they use when they drop what they call a snare net across a channel, and they use the larger boat, when they drag a net behind them in the deeper water. If I remember correctly, those larger boats have rigs that stick out on both sides.”

      “Well let’s just seriously fish around these islands for a while,” Dave said, getting a rig ready for trawling, “and we’ll just kind of watch for them to show up somewhere.”

      “You guys go ahead and fish,” Ed said, moving to a more comfortable position at the stern of the boat and swinging his feet up on the side so he was more comfortable. “I’ll just study things, until you catch the first fish.”

      No sooner had Ed said that than Dave screamed, “My God, I just had a huge strike,” and then his pole suddenly bent deep under the boat, and as his line spun out rapidly he awkwardly tried to get things under control by pressing his thumb hard against the line on the reel.

      “Oh boy,” he yelled at the top of his voice, “This baby’s a big one!” Awkwardly standing up he tried to change the fish’s direction before it used up any more line. Finally he got the fish to turn, while reeling in as fast as he could to try and keep a tight line.

      As Bill watched Dave’s neck widen with each run, he could see the sweat began to run down his forehead, and after almost twenty minutes of intense battling for control, Dave finally began to take charge, slowly reeling the fish toward the side of the boat. But every time the fish came near, the same raging battle would start all over. Eventually the fish broke the surface, and as it rolled toward the depths, Dave shouted, “My God it’s a huge Musky! Get the hook,” he yelled.

      Dave quickly raised one arm as he desperately tried to wipe the sweat from his left eye, which was now burning from the salty sweat that was obscuring his vision. Finally, after more than a half hour, Dave sneered. “I can feel him weakening,” and as the fish rolled closer to the boat, Bill hooked him behind the gill plate as the huge Musky made one last desperate attempt to escape. Not until the fish lay on the deck of the boat did Dave drop his arms to his side, flopping back pooped.

      “My God, that’s a trophy fish if I’ve ever seen one.” Ed shouted. “It’s gotta be close to forty inches long. And probably forty to fifty pounds,” he yelled.

      “Boy, that’s a beauty,” Bill added.

      “We should probably run over to Wheeler’s Point and have it weighed and mounted,” Dave whispered, awed by its size. “But you know what? This baby deserves to live after that battle.”

      Straining to lift the huge Musky to check its weight, Bill nodded saying, “I agree, just look at those horizontal stripes on its sides, the true sign of a Musky.”

      “Well, I prefer eating Walleye. So let’s get this one back in the water, so it can live to battle another day,” Dave cried, wiping his brow with his large checkered handkerchief.

      As they carefully placed the huge fish back into the water, Dave held its tail, moving it slowly back and forth until the equally exhausted fish was once again ready to swim on its own. Once it realized its ordeal was over, it slowly disappeared into the depths for what would certainly be a well-deserved rest.

      By noon, several other boats had stopped to fish this area, and one even went a short ways up the mouth of what Dave had identified as the Grassy River, taking them only a few yards from the Indian reservation. Ed could tell they were all from the American side of the lake, by the numbers on their boats; and as he checked each one he confirmed

Скачать книгу