by Moore, G. M.
“What are you doing?” Griffy asked in horrified astonishment when he saw Pike sorting through the bins of dead fish and throwing skeletal remains and skins on the cement floor. “I’m not picking that up.”
“Oh, quit being a wimp. I’m looking to see what people are catching. Look, here’s a really nice northern.” Pike held up a long, snakelike creature cleaned of its skin and meat. Its duckbill snout and tail remained intact, but its sides were gone. A thin layer of translucent meat held its rib cage and spine together.
“You can practically see right through it,” Griffy said, amazed by the exposed veins and intestines. He actually took the fish from Pike, forgetting his squeamishness, and examined it.
“Uh-oh,” Pike said. “Here are some bass heads. Someone is trying to be sneaky.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bass aren’t in season for another week. You’re supposed to throw ’em back. Can’t fool me. People chop up the heads thinking the fish will be more difficult to identify. But I know a bass when I see a bass.”
“So, what’s the big deal?” Griffy asked.
“If caught, you’ll be fined—a lot of money. Just like jugging, it’s illegal.”
“There are a lot of rules around here,” Griffy said, dismayed. He was becoming a little frightened to fish. What if he broke a rule he didn’t even know about? He could be fined, or worse, arrested. What if he went to jail? He might never get to go home and see his parents again. “Maybe I shouldn’t fish? With the DNR patrolling the lake and all.”
“Don’t be silly,” Pike said dismissively. He took the northern back from Griffy and grinned. “I’ve got an idea.” Pike’s brown eyes had a sparkle in them that made Griffy a little nervous.
“Now what?” he asked.
Out on the Lake, Part III
Taylor Wilson hurried down to the bank of Lost Land Lake. He had overslept and was anxious to pull in his jugging line. He didn’t want anyone to see what he was up to—especially Vera Goodner in Cabin 5. The old bag, he thought and harrumphed to himself. The day before he had pulled in a couple of nice bass and was hoping for more. In season or not, he was keeping them.
Rain drizzled down, making the ground slippery and the morning still. Years of erosion had exposed a maze of tree roots along the bay’s bank. Taylor, in his rush, tripped on a root and slid down the embankment, smearing sandy mud down his right side along the way.
“Dang blast it!” he yelled as he came to a bumpy stop near the water’s edge.
He’d chosen Whispering Pines Bay to jug in because it was hidden from view by two land points: Twin Pines on one side and Suicide Rock on the other. Boats had to slow down for safety when rounding either one, giving him plenty of time to hide his illegal endeavor. No cabins were in sight either. The closest was Cabin 5, which sat up the hill hidden by woods. The lodge sat on the opposite side near Suicide Rock. There, the woods had been cleared to make room for a dock and a good view of the lake. With the steady rain, Taylor thought, chances were slim he’d see anyone today.
Taylor stepped into the woods for a moment and then emerged with a long, thick stick that hooked at the end. He’d found it a few years back and considered it a vital piece of his fishing equipment. Every year, he hid it in the woods until he needed it. Taylor carefully shimmied his way along the bay’s tree-covered shoreline until he spotted the first jug. Using the stick, he reached out, snagged the line and began pulling the jug toward him. Once he had the jug in hand, he began pulling in the fishing line tied to it.
“Hootie Hoo,” Taylor called out as he saw his first catch: a two-pound catfish. It was followed by another, smaller catfish.
Then Taylor Wilson came face-to-face with something that startled him so much he let out a cry, slipped again, and landed bottom first in the rocky water.
A northern pike filleted clean on both sides hung from the third hook.
“What the …” Taylor exclaimed. Without bothering to get up, he pulled in more of the line. A bass head emerged from the water, then a dissected crappie.
Realization of what was going on slowly hit him. Someone had played a joke. Oh, yes. Someone had played a nasty little joke on him, and there was going to be hell to pay—no doubt about that. Taylor looked suspiciously around. No one. He was going to find out who did this and set them straight—guaranteed. His anger bubbled and quickly reached the boiling point as he realized there was nothing he could do, nothing he could say. Jugging was illegal, after all. At that thought, a frustrated Taylor Wilson got up and gave the milk jug now resting on the bank a hard kick. He then whirled around, looking warily down the bay toward Suicide Rock. Was that laughing he heard? And did he just see movement in the woods? Naw, Taylor thought, it couldn’t be. His mind was playing tricks on him. He was alone. Wasn’t he?
At the Dam
Their vacation over, the Garfield sisters had left Whispering Pines Lodge, but Griffy and Pike nevertheless found themselves at the dam. Uncle Dell said it would be a great place to teach Griffy the ins and outs of fishing. Anything could be caught at the dam. Its gates held back the mighty Chippewa Flowage, and when those gates opened, fish of any freshwater species could swim through and into the river below. You never knew what was going to show up on the end of your hook, Uncle Dell boasted.
Fishing poles bobbed up and down as the group made its way along the sandy path that followed the river and stopped at the rocky edge of the dam. Spinner led the way with Pike and Griffy close behind. Uncle Dell and Pike’s father, Mitch, followed while Pike’s sister, Gil, took up the rear. To avoid the swarming bugs, she had pulled her pink sweatshirt hood tightly around her face and walked looking straight down. Everyone had sprayed themselves head to toe with insect repellant before stepping foot on the path. As Uncle Dell warned, you’d be eaten alive without it.
The group emerged from the woods and began navigating the boulders and rocks that jutted out from the trees and into the water pooled near the dam’s spillway. Gil let out a sudden shriek and dropped her tackle box. Its contents tumbled out.
Mitch turned back. “You all right? What happened?”
“A snake,” she cried pointing to the rocks at her feet, “popped up out of that crack. A green one.” She shivered.
Pike came running over. “Where? Where?” He squatted down and peered into the crack. “Nothing,” he sighed, disappointed. He picked up a stick and started poking in the hole.
“Stop that!” Gil demanded. “You’ll make it mad. Get out of there.” And she gave her brother a shove with her foot.
“Hey, quit!” he yelled back, catching himself with his hand.
“Come on, Pike,” his dad called. “Let it go. We’ve got to get across these rocks.”
Dismayed, Corbett saw that crossing the rocks in question was the only way to get close to the dam’s gatehouse. The group was now facing the overflow basin. The water here came from the spillway and flowed over a wide bed of rocks that connected to the river just below the dam’s chutes. It created an island of sort out of the patch of land where they would be fishing. Uncle Dell told the group that they could fish off the banks of the river all day and never get a bite. But throw their lines into the chutes of the dam and, on a good day, fish would hit every time. Corbett knew he would be crossing those rocks whether he wanted to or not.
“We’re in luck,” Uncle Dell called out. “The gates are closed. Water’s calm. Fishing’s going to be good.”
Gil stepped to the lead and, with a ballerina’s grace, easily crossed the rocks and over the water that bubbled around them. She came to rest on the small island with barely a foot wet. Gil turned back as Spinner bounded through the six-inch-high water, passing up the others as they leaped from one rock to the next. Griffy nervously wobbled on an unstable rock, searching for his next move.
“Don’t stop, Griffy. Keep moving,” Gil instructed. “Jump to that brown one. Then to that spotted one.”
Griffy nodded. He stared down at the rushing water. Uncerta
in of his chances, he took a deep breath and leaped anyway. To his surprise, he made it. That gave him a needed boost of confidence. But just when he was about to jump to the next rock, something splashed in the water to his left startling him. He tried to steady himself with his arms, but the fishing pole and small cooler he was carrying didn’t help. One foot came off the rock and splashed into the cold water. He couldn’t hold his balance, and the other foot soon splashed in, too. Griffy turned to see Uncle Dell helping Pike up out of the water.
“Not you, too,” Uncle Dell cried, wiping his hands dry on his plaid cotton shirt. “Well, two wet feet are better than a whole body.” Pike was soaked.
“The worms!” Gil yelled from shore. Pike had dropped them in his fall, and now the current carried the plastic container toward the river where it would be lost for sure. Gil bolted down to the river’s edge to head it off. Luckily, the bait container became snagged between two rocks, and she nimbly maneuvered to retrieve it.
“Got ’em,” she called holding the carton high.
Her dad waved back. “Good work, Gil.”
Mitch and Dell had reached the dam, but Pike and Griffy were still in the water. They gave up on the rocks and decided, since they were already wet, to just wade across.
“Be careful, now. Watch your footing,” Mitch told them. “It’s still slippery, and it’s hard enough getting across without carrying someone with a twisted ankle.”
Damp and demoralized, Griffy finally made it safely to shore. His soaked shoes sloshed for the rest of the afternoon.
The group baited their poles and chose their fishing spots. Gil and Griffy sat atop the waist-high concrete wall overlooking the dam’s chutes. Pike wanted to move around, so he stood with Mitch and Uncle Dell near the metal pilings that served as a barrier between the island and the water.
Dell brought in the first fish, a smallmouth bass. Pike quickly followed with a large crappie.
“Get the net! Get the net!” he called excitedly. “I don’t want to lose this one.”
Mitch came to his aid and scooped the fish up out of the water. Pike smiled triumphantly at his catch.
Spinner, appearing out of nowhere, tailed Pike to the fish basket. The dog barked enthusiastically when Pike dropped the flopping fish inside.
“Hey, hold on to that,” Gil called. She had taken her sweatshirt hood down and tied her long, dark brown hair back with a pink bandana. “I’ve got one.” She walked up holding an orange-and yellow-flecked pumpkinseed. The fish gave a sudden jerk before she reached the basket, and it fell to the ground. Gil bent down to retrieve the flip-flopping fish, but Spinner charged, knocking her out of the way. He scooped the fish up in his mouth and ran down the river’s bank with it.
“Hey! Stop! Spinner get back here,” she yelled and chased after the dog.
Not wanting to be left out, Griffy quickly went down to the water’s edge.
“Did you see that?” Pike asked his face wrinkled in disbelief. “I’ve never seen a dog do that.”
“Yep,” Griffy nodded. “Spinner is definitely full of surprises.”
The boys raced to join Gil in pursuit of the wily dog.
Spinner was not giving up the fish. He splashed in and out of the water. He paused briefly in the middle of the rock bed before running full blast between the three kids. He circled the island and came to rest near the fish basket. The three kids ran after him, almost crashing into Dell.
“Whoa, there.” Uncle Dell grabbed Griffy by the shoulder. “You’d better check your pole, young man.”
“What?” Griffy questioned. In all the excitement, he had forgotten that he hadn’t reeled in his fishing pole. It was propped up against the concrete wall; its tip bobbed up and down. “I’ve got a fish!”
He grabbed the pole and started reeling in. The fish on the other end of the line didn’t like that much and fought back vigorously. “It’s a big one. I can hardly reel.” Gritting his teeth, Griffy struggled against the weight of the fish. The tip of his pole dipped dangerously low. He pulled up and reeled faster. It dipped again. He pulled up again.
“What is it? What is it?” Pike asked, rushing with Gil to peer over the wall.
“Keep reeling, but keep it in the water,” Uncle Dell instructed. “You don’t want to break your line.”
Griffy reeled and reeled until he finally brought the fighting fish to the surface. It was huge and ugly with large, gray scales and a lily-white belly. “Ugh! What is it?” Griffy asked.
“You caught a sucker,” Pike answered, “the biggest one I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s a scavenger fish, a bottom-feeder,” Uncle Dell explained as he reached down, grabbed the line, and pulled up the fish. “See its mouth.” It was white and puffy and made a constant sucking motion. “Fun to catch, but not a keeper. Too boney. Here.” Uncle Dell shoved the fish at Griffy. “Take it off the hook. Good practice.”
Repulsed by the ugly, sucking fish, Griffy quickly stepped back. The fish fell and flipped itself off the hook.
Spinner, spying the much more lively prey, dropped Gil’s pumpkinseed and chased after the sucker. He nipped at it, grabbed its tail, and shook.
“He thinks it’s a chew toy,” Griffy said, amazed.
“Well, he’s not playing with my fish again,” Gil said and ran to pick up her pumpkinseed. “Sorry about that, little guy,” she apologized. Then she dropped the fish in the basket and the basket into the water.
About two frustrating hours later, Griffy picked up the worm container and sorted through it. Annoyed and disappointed, he was ready to give up on fishing. Everyone was having fun and catching fish but him. He had caught only two fish since the sucker, and he kept getting his lure snagged on the rocky bottom. He’d lost three lures before Uncle Dell had switched him to a hook. He’d lost two of those so far, one on a tree across the river.
Uncle Dell tried to cheer him up. “There’s a knack to it, a feel,” he explained. “You’ll pick it up. Give it time.”
Yeah, right, Griffy thought, and he watched Pike dodge Spinner as he carried another fish to the basket.
Griffy pouted. No one was even paying attention to him. They were all too busy casting and yelling at one another to stay out of their spot. Typical, he thought. He had been starting to feel like he belonged, that Uncle Dell and Pike really wanted to spend time with him. Now he felt like the invisible kid again.
Griffy put another worm on his hook and placed the container in the shade of the only tree on the small island. Bushes and underbrush surrounded the yellow birch.
The sound of cascading water drew Griffy’s attention, so he ventured alone down a narrow, overgrown path that led to the dam’s waterfall-like spillway and its overflow basin. It was much cooler on this side of the dam and a little spooky. The rushing water blocked out all other sound. Moist moss covered the ground and rocks. The overflow basin was strangely calm. Water bubbled only at the base of the waterfall and where it spilled over into the rock bed.
Griffy peered into the water. He could see mossy rocks covering the bottom for about three feet out and then nothing. A drop-off, he thought. It must be deep out there. He spotted a large rock about a foot off the bank. It looked like a good place to fish, so he stepped onto it and cast his pole toward the waterfall. He carefully cast between two concrete pilings that jutted into the basin from both sides of the spillway. He didn’t want to get caught on one of those and lose his hook and worm again.
He reeled in his first cast. No bite. He cast again. Nothing. He wasn’t paying attention, just sulking, on his third cast when he felt a tap, tap, tap on the end of his line. Griffy snapped to attention, but it was too late. He missed the fish. He cast again. Waited. Slowly reeled in. There it was again: tap, tap, tap. He jerked his pole. Missed it! Exasperated, he let out long sigh. Then he remembered what Uncle Dell had told him. “Let out your line until your bait hits the bottom; then reel in a couple times. That’s where the fish are.” So he cast out to the same spot again, let out a bunch
of line, and waited. The line wouldn’t go down—not enough anyway. He had too far to cast, but still when he reeled in, there was that same tap, tap, tap.
He needed to be farther out, closer to the waterfall. He looked up and down the short embankment. He didn’t see another rock any farther out. The cement piling, Griffy thought. That’s the answer. It was about a foot wide and about seven feet long. He could walk on that easily enough. But he couldn’t see a way to get across the water to it.
Griffy walked over to the concrete wall that divided the gatehouse and the spillway. The piling dead-ended here. He saw a rock nested against the concrete wall about halfway between himself and the piling. It was too far to jump to, though. Griffy had an idea. He searched in the underbrush and found a good-sized rock. He dropped it near the wall close to the bank. He took a big step out onto it. It held, but the rock, covered in moss, was slippery, and Griffy lost his balance. Terrified at the thought of plunging into the murky water, Griffy flailed his arms wildly trying to save himself. He didn’t know what the current in that drop-off was like or how strong it was. He could be dragged down, down, down. Using all his will and strength, he threw his body against the wall and hugged its cold cement tightly.
Whew! Close call. He would have to be much more careful. Griffy cautiously stepped back to shore, retrieved another rock, and dropped it in front of the first one. It held. He continued this, growing more confident each time, until his stone path reached the piling. By the time he placed the final rock, he barely had to touch the wall for balance. He came back to shore, grabbed his fishing pole, crossed the rocks again, and walked to the end of the piling. It was just wide enough for Griffy to walk on with ease. He glanced over his shoulder. Turning around was going to be a little tricky, but he’d manage.
