One reason for joining my husband Claude on our dock for a cup of coffee is that I am a fanatic fisher woman and like to be near water. Claude usually pours me a second cup and often it is not finished because a fisherman launching his boat on the far end of our lake at the landing may just catch the big fish that I have been waiting for.
Soon my modified canoe with oars, skims across the lake to my favorite fishing spot, known by very few but me. Claude truly will not understand why I prefer a nice fish to his presence.
We had come to Eel Lake for a long Memorial Day weekend, one day before bass season was to open. On rising, we had enjoyed the first good cup of coffee n the morning, when we heard the sound of a purring trolling motor. A shining brand new bass boat drifted over to our dock.
Plunk! Splash! The person dressed in a rainbow of colors and plastered with fishing patches from the top of his orange cap to the knees of his nylon jogging pants, was a living advertisement in his fancy outfit.
Splash! His lure hit the water near a brush pile close to our dock.
"Got him!" he shouted. "That is my fourth one between here and that second dock." He netted a nice size musky and I squirmed, thinking that is my fish he caught in our fish shelter.
"Good fishing here!" he hollered.
Chagrined by the man's luck and his boasting, I grumbled, "Big-show off."
Claude is not a fisherman; he likes to eat fish. But he told the man, "Take all the musky you want, I don't care for them."
I fish for sport and could use another patch on my cap, I came up from California!"
Slurping my coffee, I glanced at the loud intruder.
"A made over fisherman; he is not fit for the north country," I Scoffed.
Claude asked if he was taking a vacation.
"A long one, I'm planning to stay for four months and bought myself a new boat!"
Splash, plunk, splash, we were glad to see him disappear beyond some alder brush.
Fishing was probably not that good; we heard a radio blaring with booming rock music, matching the loud colors of his outrageous clothing.
Claude, reading my obstinate mood, suggested launching my boat. "You've time to enjoy yourself for a few hours before lunch time," he said.
"The lake is not big enough for both of us, I don't want to meet that man coming around me again,"
"Shall I take you to Moraine Lake this afternoon?" he asked.
Claude tried his best to cheer me up and I told him we could have an early lunch. When we again heard the loud music, I left for the cabin, avoiding a second encounter.
Warming a bowl of soup with a sandwich, we ate our meal in silence.
I hated myself for being so resentful and jealous but decided to fish at Moraine Lake, which is only two miles down our forest road and very secluded.
Claude loaded the boat and small motor in the truck and drove me to the public landing for three to four hours of fishing. We set the time for him to pick me up again. No matter how good fishing would be, I would meet him promptly on time since he is doing me a real favor. His only complaint is that I often take too many fish.
"Only keep the big ones," he shouted over the roar of my motor after he pushed me off shore.
Waving at him, I'm on the way to my secret crappie hole in a little lake hidden by a spongy bog. Very few bother with dragging the boat through a shallow muddy inlet. Except for one deep spot where I've never been able to sink my anchor, I drift until it holds, near a drop off where fish will congregate and crappies feed.
When the fish are not biting, there are enough surprises in flora and fauna to keep me happy. Sundew, pitcher plants and several different orchids bloom along the weedy shore and mossy bog, with water lilies, cannas and Jack in the Pulpits.
I am in the company of beavers and counted seven lodges with one that was abandoned and now housed a family of otters. I have often admired the huge beaver dam, a masterpiece of engineering that keeps the water controlled at just the right level.
From underneath a fallen tree, a spring gurgles an birds are abundant. I have never discovered so many treasures in such a small area.
The noise of a motor would be a desecration to this little bit of paradise; I take to the oars and listen to the breeze and I am soon part of nature.
Crappies are known for their unpredictable fickle biting habits, so an hour of fishing left me with a dead frazzled minnow on my hook. Reasoning that Claude would have to be satisfied with a few small sunfish, Baiting my hook with half a night crawler O rowed to a shallow sandy bay looking for bluegill beds.
At first cast, I had a solid hit! The bobber sailed to a patch of water lilies and setting the hook, a monster bass arched above the water, trying to shake itself loose. My real squealed and my legs trembled as I fought the cunning fish.
Trying to stay calm, trying to keep the line from tangling in the dense vegetation, we both began to tire.
I won and scooped the huge black bass in my net. It made one last try for escape but the nylon mesh caught in its large gills.
The gaping month was too big for the safety locks on my stringer and frustrated, I guided the anchor cord through the gills, tying it securely on the boat.
"This one is big enough for Claude," I said speaking out loud, hefting my fish. It measured at least two feet, if not longer. Still not believing my incredible luck, I returned to the crappie hole.
Hearing the noise of a boat motor speeding across the big lake I became alarmed when it headed straight for the small weedy inlet of my secret cove. A regular fisherman would not know about this spot. Nobody would but the game warden and he could surely be out one day before bass season opened, checking on someone!
My first thought was, "What is one day?"
But then, the D.N.R. officer is also the person who comes to our house to set up a bear trap. Last week he had caught a huge bear that had demolished two of my beehives. In return for his help, I had given him a quart of honey, and over a cup of coffee, he had told us the big male bear had a path through the woods, which other bear may follow. He advised that we move the hives and said, "This bear is at least three hundred pounds."
"How do you know it's male?" I had asked.
"They have a flat face and more of a stout nose," he told me.
When he left us he jokingly said to Claude, "Someday I'll catch Amy. She is fishing from that modified fiberglass canoe; she should be careful."
In a flash I recalled our conversation. The man did not cut his motor, if anything, he sped up. I heard the propeller grind through the muddy inlet. Reaching for the end of the anchor rope, I once more admired my bass, then let it slide down into its element. I got one more quick look as it curved to the depths. If a fish could have laughed, it may have done so.
The wake of the man's boat and his voice almost made me join the bass. It was all too familiar.
"How's fishing?" he hollered.
I stared at a dozen fishing patches and an orange cap covering a crop of res hair.
"Poor" I mumbled.
"Hey, you have to try leaches. You wouldn't believe it. I got a stringer full, all crappies."
" I don't fish with that slimy bait," I said.
"Oh!"
He quickly recovered from my defiance and happily shouted, "I know who you are; you are the woman on Eel Lake; you're the one that talks funny."
"Hmmmm, right!" I said in my distinctive thick Dutch accent.
"Let me tell you something; I don't care to touch those slimy leaches, but see here, I pinch the little devils between a clothes pin. Want some? I'll give you an extra clothes pin too."
"No thanks!"
I thought please return to California, we don't need you here. If a dirty look could kill, he might have been food for the fish.
"You might as well go back to Eel Lake," he cheerfully advised me.
I knew that soon Claude would arrive at the boat landing and I did exactly what he said.
"I how you had fun," Claude said when we met, looking a little strangely at my empty stringer.
"I'll tell you about it at the cabin. Do you have coffee made?"
"Yes I do. Where are the fish?"
"You didn't want me to kep the small fish," I scowled.
We drove silently to the cabin where coffee was perking.
Claude poured me a full cup he made just for me. I told him the story of the monster bass that I had caught and released, that the fish would not fit the stringer. It was a fish so big I'd knotted it on the anchor rope.
Claude grinned and then laughed out loud. He said, "Oh Amy I can see it! You must write a story-true or made-up it is a good fisherman's tale!"
Until this day I still don't know if Claude believes me. I'm the only person who knows that is a true story. Claude said, "Maybe you will catch a bigger fish tomorrow." He promised to take me to Moraine Lake the next day.
On opening day the game warden was patrolling Eel Lake. Claude watched him checking creel and licenses, having a long conversation with one sports man in particular, who stood out in his bright colorful outfit from us plain U.P. folks.
Recognizing Claude, the officer asked him, "Where is your wife? I still have to catch her."
"She's is at Moraine. I'm afraid you'll have a hard time finding her. She is legal, that is certain," Claude said.
"Good, she better be! I caught someone she knows who said he is a friend ‘of the Dutch woman'. He is returning to California," he laughed.
"Tell her I love honey and I'll gladly come out with a bear trap."
"Stay with the limit and don't take undersized fish home. We need that game warden for a friend," Claude warned me.
I agreed, but Claude will never understand a woman's passion of providing for her family or the pride she experiences when her husband shows his appreciation for a fine platter of golden fried fillets. There are no limits for a fanatic fisherwoman!
