by Moore, G. M.
Table of Contents Title and Dedication
Copyright
Chapter 1: Way Up North Chapter 2: Out on the Lake Chapter 3: Meet Pike Chapter 4: Out on the Lake, Part II Chapter 5: Names, Nicknames, and Mischief Chapter 6: Out on the Lake, Part III Chapter 7: At the Dam Chapter 8: The DNR
Chapter 9: Master Fisherman Muskie Competition Chapter 10: Gearing Up Chapter 11: Out on the Lake, Part IV
Chapter 12: Out on the Lake at Last Chapter 13: Master Fishermen Chapter 14: See You Next Summer Preview
Muskie Attack
An Up North Adventure
By G. M. Moore
For my father, James Moore
If you would only write a book …
Muskie Attack
An Up North Adventure
Copyright © 2008, 2010, 2011, 2012 by G. M. Moore
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Any people depicted in stock imagery are models, and such images
are being used for illustrative purposes only.
ISBN: 978-2475004295
Printed in the United States of America
Way Up North
Corbett Griffith III was turning a slight shade of green. He took in a deep breath, puffed his cheeks out, and let out a burst of air. He inhaled and exhaled, inhaled and exhaled—all in an attempt to keep the lunch he had eaten an hour earlier down. The SUV he was seated in continued its roller coaster of a ride through the North Woods of Wisconsin: curve to the right, curve to the left, up a hill, down a hill.
This isn’t going to work, he thought, still puffing air in and out. I’m going to throw up all over the backseat of this car. Great way to start the summer.
Great way, indeed. Corbett didn’t even want to be here. Definitely not in Wisconsin, state of the cheese head. Definitely not on this vomit-inducing road. And definitely not in the backseat of this SUV bearing the bumper sticker, “Fight Crime. Shoot Back. Jim’s Gun Shop. Minong, Wis.” If given the choice, which he wasn’t, he would have spent his break playing video games, working on his computer, or taking fossil and archaeology classes at Chicago’s Field Museum.
“How’s it going back there?” his uncle asked from the front seat. Then he chuckled. “You don’t look so good.”
“Not feeling so good,” Corbett replied.
“Not to worry. We’re almost there.”
There was Uncle Dell’s Whispering Pines Lodge, a fishing resort and the place Corbett would be spending the months of July and August.
Since his parents’ divorce more than a year ago, Corbett’s mother had become increasingly worried about him. She wanted his father, a Chicago businessman, to spend more time with Corbett: take him canoeing, fishing, and swimming. “A ten-year-old boy should be out having adventures, not reading about them,” she would say.
But to Corbett’s dad, Corbett Griffith II, an outdoor adventure meant a trip to the putting green. Corbett longed to spend more time with his father. He would do anything to get his attention, including putting, which Corbett thought was boring. But he was never asked. His mother was actually no better. An editor at the Chicago Sun-Times, she had deadlines and late-breaking stories that kept her away from home—a lot. So … enter Uncle Dell.
Corbett overheard the phone conversation his mother had had with her much older brother in early June. He had been quietly listening at the head of the stairs.
“He’s getting pudgy, Dell. I can’t have him trapped inside for another summer. It’s as if he’s afraid of the outdoors. He yells if a bug comes near him. He won’t even pet a dog. I don’t understand it. He needs to get outside and be a boy.”
Be a boy! Corbett thought incredulously, remembering the conversation. Who am I? Pinocchio? Maybe he was slightly pudgy, and, OK, maybe he was a little afraid (bugs did creep him out, and dogs scared him, especially the big barking ones), but was that really a good reason to send him away? Apparently it was, because as soon as school let out for summer break, Corbett found himself shopping and packing for a two-month stay in Wisconsin. He would be, his mother announced, helping Uncle Dell at Whispering Pines Lodge. Uncle Dell had a difficult time finding reliable help, and Corbett needed an adventure in the great outdoors.
This is definitely the great outdoors, Corbett thought, looking out the car window. He could see nothing but woods on either side of the road. The occasional mailbox popped out of the underbrush indicating that a home was in there somewhere, but Corbett couldn’t see any. All he could see was a blur of white pine, hemlock, and yellow birch trees as they raced down County A. Since leaving the Village of Minong, he and Uncle Dell had passed only two other vehicles, both towing boats behind them.
Whispering Pines Lodge was perfect, his mother had said. Corbett would have work to do, but also plenty of free time to explore. Yeah, it’s perfect, Corbett thought, still staring out the car window, but not for him. It was perfect for his parents. Corbett knew his parents loved him, but he also knew that their lives came first, not his. They had no time for him. He thought of himself as a check mark on their to-do lists.
Career, check.
Marriage, check.
City condo, check.
Child, check.
Divorce, check.
Ship child off, check.
Corbett sighed heavily, resigning himself to his fate. The afternoon sun streamed into the car. Well, Wisconsin is kind of pretty—and peaceful, he reluctantly admitted.
“Pay attention now, Corbett,” Uncle Dell commanded from the front seat. “We’re coming to the first fork.”
Looming ahead, Corbett saw, was a fork in the road, and in the middle of that fork had to be about fifty signs, all shaped like arrows, all white with black letters, all attached to the same two poles. Most of the signs had people’s names on them; all had mileage: Tomasik one mile, Snider five miles, Moore two miles.
“You see Whispering Pines, four miles? Ninth one down on the left? That’s us. We stay left. Easier to remember left than try to find the sign.”
Corbett nodded. He was starting to cheer up and feel a little better. He cracked the car window and got a good whiff of fresh air. Ahhhhhhhhh much better, he sighed.
The trip had been a long one—about seven hours stuck in a car. His mother had driven him from Chicago to Madison, Wisconsin, where Uncle Dell had picked him up for the journey much farther north. It was closing in on two o’clock in the afternoon, and Corbett was ready to be there. And there, as far as he was concerned just then, could be anywhere.
“Fork number two approaching,” Uncle Dell called out. This time the sign was on the right and said two miles.
Getting there, getting there, finally getting there, Corbett chanted in his mind. And surprisingly, he found himself excited and eager to see exactly where “there” was.
“It gets a little trickier from here,” Uncle Dell explained as the SUV took the right fork. “The sign
for Peninsula Road—our road—is hard to see. Get a lot of complaints from guests about that. They get lost all the time. But we’re in the middle of the Chequamegon National Forest, and the DNR …” Uncle Dell paused and looked at Corbett in the rearview mirror. “That’s the Department of Natural Resources.”
Corbett nodded even though he had no idea what the DNR or the Department of Natural Resources was.
“OK. Anyway, they’ve got rules and regulations. So does the county for that matter. Look on the right side of the road. We’ll pass a culvert, and then about a fourth mile up is the sign. It’s about waist high, surrounded by Wild Columbine.”
Corbett sat up straighter and looked.
And looked.
And looked.
The winding, hilly road made the distance seem much, much longer.
“Culvert,” Uncle Dell called, pointing to the right. And there, poking out from under the road and into a swamplike area was a large metal cylinder. Now for the sign, Corbett thought, looking at the road ahead more intently. But Corbett never saw a sign. Before he knew what had happened, the SUV took a turn into the woods.
The sun vanished. The paved road disappeared. The trees grew closer. Corbett gulped and his blue eyes widened. Lions and tigers and bears. Oh my. The line from The Wizard of Oz echoed through his mind. Still peering out the window, he clutched the top of the passenger door. Where, oh where, are we going? his panicked mind wondered.
The SUV was now making its way down a narrow road that was “paved” with a mixture of sand, soil, and rock. Numerous potholes kept the car and its passengers rocking up and down and back and forth. Tree branches continually scraped the sides of the car. The SUV splashed into a particularly large pothole that propelled Uncle Dell so far off his seat that his head hit the car’s roof.
Uncle Dell rubbed the top of his crew-cut head, then shook it in disgust.
“The county is supposed to be fixing all this,” he complained. “I’ve called, and I’ve called.”
Deeper and deeper into the woods they went. Corbett noticed the SUV’s thermometer, which had read seventy-two in town, had dropped to sixty-six. This is not good, he thought. Corbett now understood why Link Bros. Grocery in Minong offered everything in bulk. Corbett had marveled at the gallon-sized jars of mustard, relish, and ketchup when he and Uncle Dell had shopped there before heading to the lodge. There was definitely no 7-Eleven to grab a quick slushy at out here.
Just then, movement on the road ahead caught Corbett’s attention.
“It’s a deer!” he shouted, as the animal bolted off the road and into the woods.
Uncle Dell slowed the car.
“Look, there’re two others,” he said, pointing to a spot just off the road.
One minute the deer were there, and then with a flick of the tail and a leap, they were gone.
“Wow. Cool,” Corbett gushed. “I’ve only seen deer at the Brookfield petting zoo.”
“You’ll see plenty more,” Uncle Dell said. “And maybe a bear or two.”
“Bears?” Corbett asked, his mouth feeling suddenly dry. “Really? There are bears?”
“Yep. Ornery things, too. Kinda look like big black dogs, at first. You’ll see.”
The SUV had bumped its way about a mile into the woods when it crossed over another culvert that led into a small pond filled with lily pads and cattails. Corbett noticed something sticking up out of the water but couldn’t quite make out what it was. It looked like the back of a very large turtle, a tortoise perhaps. But that is impossible, Corbett thought. Tortoises don’t live in the wild of Wisconsin. He quickly forgot about the large mound as the SUV took a turn that revealed a road spotted with mailboxes and carved signs telling them they were passing Heffner’s Hideaway or Richardson’s Retreat.
Finally, the woods drew farther and farther back. Patches of grass, sand, and pine needles covered the ground. They were now driving on a peninsula, a narrow strip of land that jutted out into the lake. The bright afternoon sun, which had been hidden moments before, sparkled like diamonds on the water surrounding them. Uncle Dell stopped the SUV in front of two behemoth black bears. He smiled, pointed to the sign the carved bears held high, and said, “Welcome to Whispering Pines.”
Uncle Dell unloaded Corbett’s bags, tossing them quickly onto the lodge’s screened porch. Its door banged shut loudly behind him, causing an already skittish Corbett to jump. Uncle Dell smiled reassuringly and placed a hand on Corbett’s shoulder.
“Not to worry, now,” he said. “You’re going to like it here. No question. Come on. Let’s check the place out.”
Corbett smiled back politely and began to walk with Uncle Dell among the cabins and outbuildings that dotted the small peninsula where Whispering Pines made its home. The waters of Lost Land Lake surrounded the mile-long strip of land, which was only an eighth mile across at its widest. The peninsula slowly narrowed to a point that ended in a part of the lake known as Shallow Pass.
Uncle Dell reminisced while the two walked, explaining that Whispering Pines Lodge was built in the mid-1940s—back in the days of master fisherman and world record holder Louis Spray.
“You’ve heard of the good ol’ days?” Uncle Dell asked.
Corbett nodded that he had.
“Well, that was them all right. Eleven-pound bass and thirty-eight-pound northern pike ruled the lakes. Game fishing was at its peak.”
Uncle Dell paused, as if waiting for a reaction. Corbett guessed he was supposed to be impressed by this, but he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know what game fishing was.
“Wow,” he finally responded.
Uncle Dell seemed pleased and continued on. “Our guests don’t require a lot of pampering,” Dell explained. “Peace and quiet. That’s all they need. The lodge holds the only phone and television on the place. The guest phone is for emergencies only. Remember that,” he instructed.
Corbett nodded OK.
“And the TV gets very poor reception—no cable, no satellite hookup here.”
Corbett nodded OK again.
“And no cell phones,” Dell continued. “They don’t work out here. Can’t get the Internet, either.”
Corbett stared at his uncle in disbelief. This is just like Gilligan’s Island, he thought, remembering the old TV show he often watched by himself after school. He sang the theme song in his head: No phones, no lights, no motor cars. Not a single luxury.
“The radio is always an option,” Uncle Dell was saying, “but the only station that comes in clearly is one out of Rice Lake. It plays oldies country—a lot of Hank Williams, a lot of Johnny Horton.”
Corbett was in a slight daze. He slowly nodded OK yet again. Did Uncle Dell really think he would like it here? Was he nuts? His mom promised a summer of fun. A summer of boredom was more like it. What was he supposed to do without TV or the Internet?
“Here we go,” Dell said stopping in front of Cabin 3. “The Coopersmiths haven’t arrived yet. Come on in and have a look around.”
Corbett and Uncle Dell entered one of Whispering Pines’ twelve brown, clapboard cabins. The rustic cabin featured a kitchen, three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a screened porch. The bathroom held only a toilet. Corbett thought it looked as if someone took an outhouse and simply attached it to the side of the cabin.
“The cabins still have many of their original furnishings,” Uncle Dell bragged as he showed Corbett beds with metal head-and footboards, a table with chrome legs and a hard plasticlike surface, log chairs, and antique dressers and mirrors.
“If you really want to step back in time, poke around the kitchen a bit while I go get my tools. This hinge needs fixing,” Uncle Dell said as he rattled the bathroom door.
Stepping into a Whispering Pines kitchen, Corbett discovered, was like stepping into a bygone era. The old-fashioned refrigerator had a small upper freezer that, when opened, looked like a cave of ice. The gas stove only lit with matches. The cabinets were filled with items long since replaced in modern kitchens. Corbett fou
nd a mixer that required hand power to turn its beaters, a toaster with doors instead of slots that required the bread to be rotated by hand, and a cordless coffee pot that had a strange bubblelike knob on top.
When Uncle Dell returned, he had a man with him. “Corbett, this here is Mr. Hugh Goodner. He’s in Cabin 5.”
“So here’s the young man himself!” Hugh greeted Corbett happily with a handshake. “Dell’s in need of a few good hands. My wife won’t let me unload one item from the car until she gives the cabin a good cleaning herself. Isn’t that right, Dell?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Dell answered. He rolled his eyes as he walked by so only Corbett could see.
Dell went to work on the bathroom door as Hugh pulled Corbett aside. His hair was greased back, and he smelled of fish and bad aftershave. Corbett didn’t want to get too close, but Hugh drew him in tight.
He led Corbett first to a window. “See,” he pointed.
Dead flies and spiders filled the windowsill.
Next, Hugh led him to the front door. “See.”
Sand and cobwebs coated the door screen.
Hugh took him to a corner of the kitchen. “See there.”
Dirt and dust clogged the corner.
“Yuck,” Corbett muttered. He really wished he’d packed hand sanitizer. He was afraid to touch anything now. Who knew what germs were growing in here?
“It’s OK,” Hugh whispered. “We’re all used to it. Part of the place’s charm, ya know.” He winked at Corbett conspiratorially. Then he spoke louder. “Good help is hard to find. That right, Dell?”
“Yep. Good help and good wives.”
“So they are. So they are,” Hugh chuckled. “Don’t go tellin’ Vera I said that now, but I know you’ve had your share of wife woes, Dell.”
Uncle Dell reentered the kitchen. The door was now fixed.
Corbett looked at him perplexed. “I had an aunt?” he asked. He had never heard of an aunt before. He didn’t think really old people got divorced. “Did she die?”
“Well, actually you had three aunts. And, no, none of them died. Let’s just say life Up North can be rough.”
