Jack and Rene’ Munger, Fish Lake
I had forgotten. It’s not like, over the past 12 years as I scurried about hawking my books at summer craft festivals, that I didn’t have time for the occasional weekend day off to go fishing. But with nearly every summer weekend booked at this event or that event, from Ely to Hackensack to Grand Forks to Iron River, Wisconsin for more than a decade, relaxing days in a boat, or on the banks of a favorite brook trout stream, or in a canoe on the Cloquet River have been few and far between. This summer, as you’ve read before, I am not doing any festivals or events. That’s right, not a single one. My change of heart, or business plan, or direction began a couple years back when, after another summer of wind, rain, low sales, and constant running, I put away my EZ-Up tent for good. I decreed, to my family’s delight, no more outdoor shows. No more crossing my fingers as I drove my Pacifica north, south, east, and west with a constant and dedicated eye on the weather. That’s where the great decline, or the great awakening (you choose which, I cannot) occurred. It wasn’t that great a leap, after a very difficult time researching and writing Sukulaiset: The Kindred, the long-awaited (at least by me and a few of my Finnish friends) sequel to Suomalaiset: People of the Marsh, for me to decide that I needed to slow down and take some time to live life rather than chronicle it or invent it on the page. Writing is like that. Sometimes, a story will come to you as whole cloth, woven and complete. Other times, you have a germ of an idea, as I did with Sukulaiset, but the fibers are stubborn, the loom is cranky, and the weaving takes a lot of time, patience, and love. Any way, after three years of starting, stopping, changing, editing, and finally being satisfied with the end product that will one day become my 10th book, I decided it was time to fish.
Sunday. My wife and I worked like dogs to tear apart our old rose bed and remake it into a much less confused and difficult plot of trees, shrubs, and wood chips. It was truly a team effort. Then, with the lawn freshly mowed from the day before, I raked piles of grass into neat little humps, fired up the gasoline trimmer, and finished the lawn work. By the time I was done with chores, which I’d started in early morning light, it was past noon. I grabbed my copy of The Racketeer by John Grisham and headed towards the river. There, another summer delight that had eluded me for a couple of years awaited. Hammock time, time spent with a firm pillow under your head, a ball cap blocking out the sun, and a good book in hand, is another of summer’s gifts. But again, I’d been delinquent in reserving hammock time over the past couple of summers. In fact, last summer, I didn’t make it into my hammock a single time. Not once. Shame on me, right? This Sunday, I managed to get myself situated in the embrace of canvas and read for a bit but the flies were insistent and eventually, I wandered back to the house for lunch. Despite the abbreviated nature of my time in canvas, there was something transcendent and holy about the effort and it got me to thinking about all the things I’d missed over the past summers spent trying to build an audience and sell my novels to strangers.
“You want to go fishing later this afternoon?” I asked Rene’ back in the house.
“Sure. Where?”
“Fish or Island Lake,” I replied, naming the two largest lakes within a five minute drive of our house.
Understand, this suggestion was made with some queasiness on my part. My boat and its 35hp Force outboard hadn’t been in the water since last fall. I’d charged the battery, replaced the gas line, replaced some rollers on the trailer, installed new seats (thanks, Rene’!) and stitched gaping holes in the canvas storage cover but I had yet to fire the motor up to see if the darn thing would run. Still, even in the throes of doubt, fishing sounded like a pretty good way to end a nearly perfect weekend in the country. If the motor didn’t run, well, it didn’t run. No use getting excited about things you can’t change, right?
The author and “the big ‘un”.
After filling up at the local bait and convenience store (the Minno-ette), we trailered the boat to the public landing on Fish Lake. It was an absolutely gorgeous Minnesota summer day. 75 degrees. A slight breeze. Occasional, non-threatening clouds. I backed the boat and trailer down the ramp and into tannin stained waters while Jack gave me constant instructions as to the proper way to back up a trailer and a boat. He is something of an expert on the subject, having just this week earned his Driver’s Permit. So of course, I accepted his critique without comment. Eventually, the boat was launched, the Pacifica and trailer were parked in the adjacent lot, our gear was loaded, and the big moment arrived.
I should have had more faith. The motor caught and purred like a kitten on a teat.
“I was worried,” I said to my wife as we pulled away from the landing. “I didn’t know if the new gas line would work or not.”
Perhaps I spoke to soon. A few hundred yards away from shore, the Force began to sputter.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” Jack asked.
I didn’t reply. I simply slowed the motor down, hoping that last winter’s gas was the issue and not something major. The old gas apparently cleared. The pitch of the Force sounded healthy again. We motored on.
“Right there, by the loon sanctuary is a good place to fish,”Jack suggested as we approached a small clump of weeds, rocks, and shrubs sticking out of the water.
“OK.”
We anchored and rigged up our rods with plain hooks, sinkers, bobbers, and leeches or dew worms. It was only a matter of a minute or two and I was reeling in the first fish, a small sunfish, of the afternoon. That’s not the fish in the photograph. But the picture records my proudest moment of the day. The bluegill I caught was shorter in length than the leech it attacked. Perfect size, though, if you want to start a fresh water aquarium! Jack was soon in the game, landing fish after fish. Rene’ had line and reel problems (I confessed to her and confess to you it was my fault: I respooled the reel with new line and put too much on, causing snarls) but eventually, she too caught fish. When we were done, after reeling in a couple dozen sunfish, blue gills, one green sunfish, and a nice large mouth bass, we had a meal of fish on the stringer.
The catch.
“Where are we going for dinner?” Rene’ asked as the sun started to head towards the western tree line.
“How about the Eagle’s Nest?” I answered, selecting one of the three bars and restaurants on the lake.
“Whichever is faster,” my wife added. “I’m starved.”
The Force hit its top speed of 17 miles per hour on the run to the bar. The surface of the lake was calm as we passed pontoon boats, jet skiers, and fishermen. There were no surprises or glitches or breakdowns as we pulled into the Eagle’s Nest, tied the boat off, and bounced along the floating dock towards dinner. After a good meal and a couple of cold Amber Bocks, it was time to head back to the landing. We made the return trip without incident. The boat loaded quickly and with minimal verbal criticism from the newest driver in the Munger household.
Loon Island, Fish Lake.
Back home, Jack and I unloaded the Pacifica, put away the rods, tackle box, and life jackets, and pulled the canvas cover over the boat. Jack fed the dogs while I tied the boat cover down, dressed in long pants and a jacket, and headed to the river to clean fish. I’m not the best with a fillet knife but as the sun set and night overtook the Cloquet River Valley, I finished the job, sealed the fish fillets in a clean plastic bag, disposed of the offal, and stood on the banks of the Cloquet wondering why it had taken me so long to figure out how much I’d missed.
Peace.
Mark
