Catch of the Day!
There was nothing about the day to foretell an
eventful end. In fact, the steady and
strong west wind that had pushed whitecaps across the lake all day, and a
seemingly endless flotilla of white clouds across the sky that seemed to be
exhausted trying to keep up, diminished in the late afternoon. By the time supper was on the camp stove, the
wind was merely a light breeze puffing periodically from the south. The whitecaps melted quietly back into the
lake, and the sky became clear causing one to doubt whether there had ever even
been a thing as a cloud.
Since the day wind had also blown away any hopes of
paddling the canoe out for a little fishing, the sudden calm had caused an itch
that for me can only be scratched with a canoe paddle or a cork handle of a
fishing pole, or better yet – both. As
we ate, I told my two oldest boys that this would be a good evening to troll
for some walleyes – as the other fishing expeditions of the week had targeted
panfish.
And so, short work was made of washing the dishes, and
laying the campfire for later lighting. I
filled both lanterns with fuel. Then, tackle
box and paddles in hand, the three of us headed down the short path to where
the canoe was waiting lakeside.
We were camping
on Ottawa Lake in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula near Iron River. This had been a favorite place for my family
to camp and fish when I was a youngster.
The lake is good-sized and fairly isolated. The campground was the only development on
the lake – there were no cottages. I saw
my first bald eagle while fishing here with my father. The sky over this lake is never without and
eagle for very long.
The sun had nearly sunk to the treetops along the
western shore. The surface of the lake
was perfect; there wasn’t even a ripple as we paddled out into deeper water. I attached a Rapala Shad Rap on the line of
each of the boys, and I instructed them to each cast to a different side of the
canoe and then just turn the handle enough to close the bale. I started paddling at a relaxed, but steady
pace. This was a different kind of
fishing for the boys, so Jacob asked, “How will we know whether we have a
nibble?” I chuckled and answered. “You
don’t get a nibble when you use a lure.
You get a strike. You’ll know it
when it happens – trust me.”
They didn’t have to trust me for very long as Jake’s
rod soon arced over; the tip throbbed as the fish tugged back against the
pressure. It took him a couple of
minutes, but soon I slid the met under a nice “eating-sized” walleye. I snapped him on the stringer and once again
began paddling. The excitement level was
noticeably elevated. It took about 15
minutes or so until Jake’s rod arched over once again. “They’re getting bigger,” I commented as I
snapped the latest catch onto the stringer.
Jake was beaming up in the bow seat.
Nate was in the middle. He was
quiet and determined.
I had been paddling us in a wide loop around the
little bay that our campsite was located on.
“We’ll make a couple of more passes,” I said. I saw Nate wince a little. Just a few minutes later, Jake’s rod arced
over a third time. The sun had set and
the colors in the western sky were fading.
The shoreline trees had lost their depth and were just a dark silhouette
by the time we landed Jake’s third fish.
“Well Jake, this was certainly your night! I think we have enough for a meal. I think we should head in before it gets
completely dark on us.”
Jake reeled in his line and grabbed a paddle. Nate kept his lure in the water and just
stared at the tip of his rod. Nate was
competitive in everything, and it was obviously not sitting well with him that
Jake had three fish on the stringer and he hadn’t even had a bite. I decided to let him fish on the way back in
hoping that he might catch one at the last minute.
We were only about twenty feet from shore. “I don’t think it’s going to happen,
Nate. You better reel in your line.” Reluctantly he started to reel his line in. Suddenly, Nate pulled back hard on his
rod. A split second later I felt the
barb from his lure bite into the back of my upper right arm. As Nate reeled in his line the lure had
bounced on a rock, so he thought it was a strike, rather than a snag. When he jerked back instinctively, the lure
pulled free, sailed back to the canoe and hooked my arm.
I noticed Nate’s look of horror. His eyes were wide; his lip was beginning to tremble. “It’s alright, Nate. It was an accident. I’m not angry.” We beached the canoe, gathered up our gear
and headed for the campsite. I walked
right past Michelle and headed over to our van.
I pulled a long-nosed pliers out of the toolbox. I walked back to Michelle who knew from my
actions and how upset the boys were that something was wrong. I turned so she could see the lure hanging
from my arm.
I handed her the pliers. “What do you want me to do with that?”
Michelle asked – the blood was now drained from her face. “I can’t reach it; I can’t even see it. I want you to grab the hook and push it back
through my arm until you can see the barb of the hook. Then, use the wire cutter to cut the hook
off.” “I am not doing that!” was
Michelle’s reply. “Go to the hospital in
Iron River.”
So, I got into the van, and reached to pull the seat
belt over me. The exposed hooks of the
lure got caught in the seat belt. It
took a few minutes to get free. OK, so I
will skip the seatbelt this one time. On
the 10-mile drive into town that decision almost came back against me as a
black bear appeared out of the roadside brush and dashed right in front of the
van. My guardian angel helped me avoid a
collision with the bruin.
I got to the hospital and saw the sign lit up over the
door for after hours entry. I rang the
doorbell. A minute or so later a man in
a lab coat appeared at the door. “Can I
help you?” I could hear his muffled voice through the glass. I turned and held up my right arm so he could
see the lure embedded there. He pushed
the door open. “Third one tonight.” he said.
I followed him like a well-trained puppy to an
examination room. “Hop up on there.” As he
pointed to the examination table. I
obediently hooped up. He filled a syringe. This will numb the pain so I can push that
hook out. Less than a minute later I
felt a tug, heard a snip and the doctor tossed my lure into a metal dish. He pushed open a door. On the other side of a desk, I could see a
large cork board that took up a good bit of the far wall. It was practically filled with fishing lures
of all kinds. “Another one for my
collection!” he remarked. “Sorry,
doc. I appreciate you taking care of me
but lures are expensive. I’m taking that
with me.”
I still have that lure. For quite a few years I continued to use it
for its proper purpose again – to catch fish.
About five years ago I ‘retired’ it to my study. I didn’t want to take a chance of losing it;
it would be like losing the best part of the story because I am the biggest
thing that lure ever caught!
His Peace <><
Deacon Dan
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