Whiteface Lake, May 11, 2013
I told you I’d tell you a story about fishing in a snow squall. Well, here it is.
For 46 years, the Mungers, the Scotts, and the Nelsons have assembled at the Scott family cabin off Cabin Circle on the shores of Whiteface Lake, a Minnesota Power reservoir lake located between Duluth and the Mesabi Iron Range. The tradition began with six families: the Scotts, the Mungers, the Lundeens, the Listons, the Nelsons, and the Tessiers. Over time, and due to the aging of the six patriarchs of the event, only the Mungers, Scotts, and the Nelsons have continued the tradition. This year, the sole founder of this tradition was my dad, Harry, who, at 86 years old, was intent upon continuing his streak of having missed very few Openers at the Scotts. The other five dads are all gone, having battled old age and a variety of maladies until they could fight no more. But Harry is still with us, ready, willing and able to barbeque chicken Friday night. His buddies, Bob Scott, Leonard “Red” Lundeen, Jim Liston, Ed “Bun” Nelson, and Larry “Lunga” Tessier have all passed on to that great fishing hole in the sky. But they were with us in the stories, both real and imagined, about past Openers. And this year, a fourth generation became part of our ritual: Johnny Scott (named for his grandpa John, Bob and Pat Scott’s eldest son) ventured into the world of cussing, cheap beer, saunas, card games, and yelling at the Twins on the television for the first time. And young Johnny, being that he is, after all, a Scott, fit right in.
Ice covered Whiteface, May 11, 2013
Now, I’ll be honest. I wasn’t looking forward to John Scott’s annual telephone call. I knew, because my sons Matt and Chris had bumped into John and Joe Scott (John’s son and Johnny’s dad) a few months back, that the invitation to the Opener, despite the loss of most of our mentors, was still “on”. And, in the ordinary course, since I am fan of tradition and personal history, I love keeping memories alive. But this year, I was swamped. I was teaching two night classes at UWS, trying to be a dad to Jack (my fifteen year old still at home), do my job for the folks of Minnesota as a district court judge, and every once in awhile, behave like the husband my wife wants me to be. Despite all the great times we’ve had over decades spent at the Scott place, I was just not in an “Opener” state-of-mind as the second weekend in May approached. Adding to my funk was the weather: It was May and it was still snowing, lakes of NE Minnesota were still ice covered, and the Minno-ette, our local convenience store and bait shop, had declared a “shiner” emergency: The very minnows we’d need for a successful Opener were nowhere to be found. We’d be reduced to fishing with chubs, crappie minnows, or worse, dew worms. Taking it all into account, I was leery of John’s call. I needn’t have worried: John never did call me. His youngest brother, Patrick, known affectionately to all as “Poncho” did.
Joe Scott, Chris Munger, Marc Mullen: Portaging, Poncho-style
“Mark,” Poncho said when he called,”we’re on. You need to call John and tell him how many Mungers are coming up for The Opener.”
By this point, the Monday before Opener, I’d done my homework. I’d chatted with a janitor at the courthouse who has a cabin on Whiteface. My worst fears were confirmed. Even if we could pull it all together: the food, the minnows, the boats, the logistics, Whiteface was iced over and there was no way, with dismal cold and continued snow in the forecast, the lake would be boatable by the weekend.
“How are we going to fish?”
“I’ve got a plan.”
“What’s your plan, Poncho?”
“I’ll tell you when you get to the lake. Call John.”
Truth be told, my concerns were more selfish, more about having to scramble to get my boat and motor ready (when Poncho called, it was still buried in a fold of crusted snow) than about whether we’d catch fish. I mean, in all the years we’ve plied the waters of the Whiteface, there have been only a handful of years where we collectively caught walleye in sufficient numbers to deem the weekend a fishing success. But as you can tell from this essay, fishing has little to do with our annual gathering. The Opener is about friendship, family, and memories. Whether we catch walleyes has very little to do with our motivation to gather at the Scott place. But in all our years of attempting to behave like fishermen, we’d never encountered, to my recollection, an ice covered lake on The Opener. I was interested to hear Poncho’s plan but, before I could press him, he was off the line and I was calling John.
From the photo above, you can see what Poncho’s plan was. Actually, to be fair, the plan was a joint effort between Poncho and his older brother, Tim. Tim is about to retire as the Activities Director of Hibbing High School after a long career of teaching and coaching so I’m guessing he has plenty of time, now that he’s contemplating his golden years, to figure out puzzles: Like how do you fish on a lake covered with ice?
Tim Scott, May 11, 2013
Saturday morning. The Opener. That’s Tim, in the photo below, standing on an island, trying to stay warm as it snows. Four of us: Marc Mullen, Tim, Pete Nelson, and I were dropped off on the island. We had two boats in play: John’s 14′ Lund with a 9hp outboard was under Poncho’s dubious command (many stories, not enough space) and TJ Nelson’s big old tub with a 15hp Merc were in service. Problem was, TJ put the motor on his boat, loaded the gas can, but forgot the gas line. So there we were, a crew of a dozen or so, with one operating motor, two boats, and eight life jackets. Poncho’s plan had to be modified. He towed TJ’s inoperable boat to the island before heading up river, to the rapids, our ultimate fishing destination, to drop off three other fishermen. Big white flakes fell around us as Marc, Tim, Pete, and I clambered out of TJ’s boat and tossed chubs to invisible walleyes. Poncho motored away, with the understanding he’d head back to the landing to pick up my son Chris and, eventually when TJ got back from his adventure, haul TJ’s boat back to pick up TJ and the gas line. There were no guarantees TJ’s motor would work. But it was the best we could do. Complicated? You bet. And all that energy was being put into a very dubious proposition: That we’d actually catch fish on The Opener.
Joe and Johnny Scott and the big one.
But guess what? We did catch fish. Nice fish. With Poncho and Marc anchored in the middle of the river in John’s Lund and the rest of us fishing from shore (except Dad who decided the weather sucked and stayed back to watch golf on TV), we caught and landed well over twenty of the nicest walleyes I’ve ever seen come out of the tannin stained waters of the Whiteface. For a while, I was personally stymied. I couldn’t feel the meager bites of the black backed fish nibbling at the minnows on the bare hook I’d tossed out into the river’s swirling current. But then Chris rigged me up with a slip bobber and my luck changed for the better.
Chris and a nice Whiteface walleye
For the rest of the day, I was part of the party. And for the first time, I caught nice fish on The Opener. Included in that experience was one beauty, the likes of which I’d never seen landed by anyone in our crew over four decades of disappointment.
Mark’s big fish
Unlike some of the bigger walleyes I’ve caught in the past, this fish fought like a frenzied pike. When Chris finally dipped the net under it, we were all amazed: None of us knew that such fish existed in the Whiteface. John Scott took a quick measurement of my fish and then, with as much gentleness as I could muster, I stroked water over the walleye’s gills until it revived and vanished into the depths.
Chris Munger and the crew: Lunch time on the river
Loading the boats
- Cleaning the fish
As we drank cold beer and ate bacon wrapped steaks on Saturday night (John, our quartermaster, outdid himself this year!), my fish continued to grow in size. I guessed the walleye I released was 24″, a nice five-six pound male. John insisted it was a 28″ legacy. It’s the first time I’ve ever had someone else embellish my fish story for me! But regardless of the fish’s actual dimensions, I can tell you this: as I fought the walleye, feeling its steady tug, bringing it up with each turn of the reel from the rocky bottom of the river, all my dread, all my angst about not being able to get my boat ready, about feeling rushed into The Opener evaporated. Catching that fish was indeed the therapy, the healing my soul sorely needed.
Sunday morning. The great debate raged. Should we go back to the river, which, given logistics, would be an hour and half excursion before we were able to fish, what with the need to ferry an additional three people (my sons Matt and Jack arrived Saturday in time for steaks and were anxious to catch fish and Dad, after hearing our tall tales, was motivated to rig up his 9′ Sage and have a go at it). In the end, we returned to the river only to find another boat sitting in the pool where we’d been catching fish. Understand: There’s no right of ownership to a good fishing spot. It’s first come, first serve. We were late and we paid the price. In the end, Poncho landed a red horse sucker and one walleye, the only fish we caught on Sunday. But I learned, once again, that the Opener is much more than catching fish. All you have to do is take one look at my 86 year old dad, sitting in his lawn chair, waiting for the tug at the end of his fly rod and know that, whatever the weather, come hell or high water (or, as happened this year, ice and snow) so long as the Scotts ask, I’ll be at Whiteface for The Opener.
Harry the fisherman
John Scott, Marc Mullen, and Poncho
Peace.
Mark
