by Glenn Ickler
“Ya never know,” said Angie. Her generously rounded lower body was similarly packaged in skin-hugging jeans and she wore an unzipped pink jacket that revealed a well-filled light green sweater. She snuggled up against Al and said, “Isn’t this better?”
“Much warmer,” Al said. I could see that at least his face was getting warmer as the color turned from wind-chilled pink to flustered medium red.
“Cozy,” I said. I could feel my face getting warmer as the blood rose to my cheeks and forehead. My left leg was also warming because of the body heat flowing from the jeans pressed against my thigh. Those jeans were so tight I could have detected a mole if she’d had one anywhere on her leg. I’ve always marveled at the tightness of some women’s jeans and tried to imagine how they put them on. Roxie seemed to be the kind of woman that one could ask about that process.
So I did. “How can you get into those jeans?” I said.
Roxie put her hand high up on my thigh, looked into my eyes and smiled. “Well, you could start by buying a girl a drink.”
Six
Girls and Guides
That was the direction I was expecting the conversation to take, only not quite so quickly. These two young women were not representatives of the media, nor were they fisherpersons staying at the resort in hopes of having a good time. Roxie and Angie were at the Governor’s Fishing Opener in hopes of providing a good time for any unattached fisherman with an open wallet.
As much fun as it would be to continue talking naughty for awhile, I knew the end of the discussion would be disappointing to Roxie and Angie. There was no way either of us was going to spend time and money with either of them.
The question was whether to keep on building up the women’s expectations or to be upfront and send them quickly on their way in search of more profitable male companionship. I opted for immediate honesty.
“I’m sorry, ladies, but we won’t be buying drinks, and we also won’t be buying any of what you’re selling,” I said. “We’re old married men—at least, he is and I’m about to be.”
Roxie sat up ramrod straight with her chin held high. “Whatever made you think that we might have anything for sale,” she said, sounding like Queen Elizabeth. Then she giggled.
“You could still buy us a drink,” Angie said. “Inside at the bar where it’s warm.”
“Yeah,” Roxie said. “It’s colder than a walleye’s ass out here.”
“You should dress warmer,” Al said. “Either that or limit your advertising campaign to inside the lodge.”
“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” Roxie said. “Come on, old married stiffs, buy us a drink in the bar and tell us about your wedding while I thaw out my boobs.”
“Not much to tell,” I said. I removed her hand from my thigh and got to my feet. “But I’ll buy a round of drinks. How about you, Al?”
“I’m game,” he said. “Just keep your eyes open for cell phone cameras. I don’t want anybody seeing me with these two lovely young ladies on YouTube.”
“Especially Carol?” I said.
“Especially Carol.”
“What’s the matter, Alsie? Doesn’t your wife trust you?” Angie asked.
“I think she does but I’d rather not test her,” he said.
“What about you, Mitchie?” said Roxie. “Does your bride-to-be trust you?”
“Of course she does,” I said. “But I don’t want to raise any doubts in her unsuspicious mind.” I immediately wished I hadn’t said that. It could easily put thoughts of blackmail into Roxie’s mercenary mind.
I looked around to see who might be watching as we escorted Roxie and Angie back to the lodge. Most of the picnickers had eaten quickly and left, and the few remaining were concentrating on downing their picnic dinner at a pace that gave the term “fast food” a whole new meaning. I was glad that Ann Rogers was nowhere in sight.
The bar was another story. It was packed almost to capacity with our media colleagues and the noise level from competing conversations was nearing the 100-decibel mark. We found a small table with two chairs against a wall and the women sat down. Al went on a chair hunt while I took drink orders. Angie wanted white zinfandel and Roxie ordered scotch with a splash of water on the rocks. I knew Al would have a beer.
When I returned from the bar, Al was seated and there was an empty chair beside Roxie. I put down the tray and passed around the drinks. Roxie asked, “What’s that you’re drinking?”
“Ginger ale,” I said. “I can’t have booze.”
“Jeez, you mean I can’t even get you drunk and steal your money?” she said.
“Not a chance.”
“Well, I guess we’ll have to work on Alsie.”
“I’m watching out for him,” I said. “I’m palsy-walsy with Alsie.”
“You’re no fun at allsie,” Roxie said. Another giggle.
But the next hour was fun. With no prospect of a sale, Roxie and Angie relaxed and seemed to enjoy the break in their search for paying customers. We learned that Angie’s full name was Angelina and that Roxie was not Roxelina, but had been baptized Roxanne. They had graduated the previous spring from Bemidji State College, where, according to Roxie, they were “big bosom buddies.” When they found that the northern Minnesota job market had no openings for tasks requiring the use of their brains they decided to support themselves by opening their bodies for business. The winter trade had been slow but they were looking forward to a profit boom with the onset of fishing season.
“Last summer we were waiting on tables in Bemidji and the guys kept grabbing our asses,” Roxie said. “So we decided to start charging them for the pleasure.”
“And now you’re expanding your territory?” Al asked.
“Nothing happening in Bemidji yet; there’s still ice on the lake,” she said “But right now there’s lots of action here with the governor’s party and all.”
“We took on a couple of high rollers last night,” Angie said. “Paid big bucks up front but they were both so drunk they couldn’t do anything.”
“That was the best part,” Roxie said. “If all our customers were like that we’d still be virgins.”
“Speak for yourself, girl,” said Angie.
“Oh, yeah, I forgot about Jimmy,” Roxie said. “She was screwing like a bunny with a guy named Jimmy for two years at BSU.”
“Whoa!” I said. “That’s more than we need to know.”
“Anyway, he went off to grad school in California,” Angie said. “I really miss him.”
Roxie observed that the early morning drowning accident hadn’t dampened the party mood in the bar.
“It’s actually made the party louder,” I said. “The accident brought in more reporters to cover it. And nobody in the press who knows him feels like mourning the guy who drowned.”
“Did the press all hate him?” Angie asked.
“Nobody hated him,” I said. “But nobody liked him either.”
After finishing her second scotch and water, delivered courtesy of Al, Roxie said it was time to start looking for some evening clients. “Fun talking to you guys,” she said. “Been a long time since I spent a whole hour with a guy without taking off my clothes.”
“Yeah,” Angie said. “Me, too.”
“Any time,” I said. “It’s been fun for us, too.”
Roxie stood and leaned over me. Her left breast pressed against my shoulder and her lips and warm breath caressed my ear as she whispered, “You can get into these jeans any time, Mitchie, and it won’t cost you a dime.”
“What did she say?” Al asked as we watched Roxie and Angie walk away.
“She made me an offer that’s hard to refuse,” I said. “Please don’t leave me alone with her. Martha may trust me but I’m not sure I can trust myself.”
�
��Never fear, your pallie-wallie Allie will keep you in your pants and out of Roxie’s.”
A few minutes later, Ann Rogers walked into the bar carrying a portable microphone, quieted the crowd on the fourth or fifth bellow and announced that it was time for the fishing host/guest pairing meeting. We would have the opportunity to meet and question the guides paired with the governor and lieutenant governor for the next day’s fishing expedition. After that, those of us who had signed up to go fishing would be introduced to our guides.
Like lemmings, we followed Ann to the conference room, where Governor Anders A. Anderson and Lieutenant Governor Aaron Ross, the latter with an unlit cigar clamped in his teeth, were seated between two men dressed in red plaid woolen shirts, faded blue jeans and scuffed brown leather boots. The one beside the governor had a weather-beaten face and a scruffy gray beard and wore a red cap with earlaps, which were folded up and tied in a bow at the top of his head. The other, a Native-American with long black braids, had a beat-up wide-brimmed black hat pulled down almost to his bushy eyebrows.
Ann Rogers started the session with a moment of silence for Alex Gordon, who she said was “taken from us in a terrible boating accident this morning.” She followed the silence with the announcement that the medical examiner had said he would try to have autopsy results by noon on Sunday. “I’ll inform you of the exact time when he’s ready to make an announcement,” she said. Normally everyone went home right after Sunday breakfast. Now it looked like we’d be hanging around for a few hours waiting for the ME’s report.
“Now for the introductions,” Rogers said. “First we have the guide who will accompany Lieutenant Governor Ross. His name is Leonard Tallchief, and he has been guiding fishermen on Gull Lake for over thirty years. During the winter Leonard lives on the White Earth Reservation and during the summer he stays here at this resort. Please feel free to ask him any question that comes to mind.” She gestured toward the Indian, who rose, tipped his hat and took the microphone from Rogers.
“Good evening,” Tallchief said. “I am very much honored to have this opportunity to guide the lieutenant governor to the best fishing spots on Gull Lake. I very much look forward to opening day tomorrow. I will be very proud if our lieutenant governor brings back the biggest walleye at the end of the day tomorrow.” His unwavering tone made it obvious that he was reciting a memorized speech.
There was a second moment of silence as we waited for Tallchief to continue. When it became apparent he had nothing more to say, a TV reporter behind us asked, “Is Ms. Rogers correct? Do you live on the White Earth Reservation in the off-season?” The White Earth Reservation is about a hundred miles northwest, sort of halfway between Brainerd and Fargo, North Dakota.
“Ms. Rogers is correct,” Tallchief said.
“What tribe do you belong to?” asked another man.
“Ojibway,” was the answer.
“When did you first start fishing?”
“When I could hold a pole.”
“How long have you been a guide?”
“Maybe thirty years.”
“What do you do out there on the reservation all winter?”
“Not much,” Tallchief said. “Guide hunters. Mostly watch crap on TV.”
“Chatty soul, isn’t he?” Al whispered.
“Can’t shut him up,” I replied.
Reporters kept trying. “Got any piece of the casino action?” asked another.
Tallchief’s somber face relaxed almost into a smile. “If I had a piece of the casino, no way I’d be working here.”
That response turned out to be the highlight of the interview, which ended a couple of minutes later after a series of one-word answers.
“Did you get every golden word?” I asked Trish Valentine, who was standing in front of me as usual.
“Got it all on digital,” she said. “Were you able to take notes fast enough to keep up?”
“I may have missed a syllable or two when I was yawning,” I said.
Next up was the governor’s guide, who was introduced as “longtime Gull Lake veteran, Zachary Leroux, better known to his hundreds of fisherman friends as Frenchy.”
“Frenchy has worked on this lake for over thirty years,” Ann Rogers said. “He has guided three different governors in fishing openers held at this resort and he knows every rock and sandbar where the fish hang out.” She held the mike out to Frenchy, who took it, grinned at the audience and said, “Hello, all you good looking people. We gonna have some fun this weekend or what?”
This brought a cheer from the crowd, followed by a question that brought forth a torrent of information. Frenchy had been born in the tiny town of Cuyuna, “just up Highway 210 a ways,” and had started fishing with both of his grandfathers before he was old enough to go to school. He moved to the big city (Brainerd) as soon as he was old enough to leave his parents. He had worked as a lumberjack, a carpenter and a roofer before hooking on as a guide at Madrigal’s. He’d been showing people where to catch fish for thirty-two years and knew the name and address of every walleye in the lake.
Frenchy had entered numerous fishing contests with his friends and had been among the top prize winners almost every time. He ran a children’s fishing contest every spring and visited area classrooms during the school year to talk about fishing. When it came to talking about himself, Frenchy was everything that Tallchief was not.
“This job is hell of a lot better than putting shingles on roofs,” Frenchy said. “Not as far to fall and water is a lot softer to land in. Also the tips are better, especially from governors.” Frenchy actually drew a round of applause when his interview ended and he kept on chatting with some TV people after the session was officially complete.
Next on the schedule was an introduction to the man who would be our guide in the morning. Rogers picked us up and said she’d take us to meet him.
“I hope our guide is more talkative than the lieutenant governor’s,” I said.
“That was the biggest put-on I’ve ever seen,” she said. “Leonard Tallchief has a master’s degree in education and teaches fifth and sixth grades on the reservation. He also writes a weekly outdoors column for the Brainerd paper. I was falling off my chair laughing while he was playing stupid tonight.”
Rogers led us to a middle-aged man who also was wearing a red-and-black plaid wool shirt and blue jeans. Apparently it was the uniform of the day. “I’d like you gentlemen to meet your guide for tomorrow, Henry Halvorsen, who spells his name with an ‘s-e-n,’” she said
I wrote that in my notepad before shaking hands and saying, “Good to meet you, Mr. Halvorsen.” The skin on the hand was like coarse sandpaper and the power of the grip was a challenge to match.
“Evenin’,” Halvorsen said. “Nice meetin’ you. And you can call me Henry; the last name’s too big a mouthful.”
“Is it Finnish?” I asked.
“Yah, dat’s all dere is,” he said. Another joker in the pack.
“I meant is the nationality Finnish. Were your ancestors from Finland?”
“Oh, yah, dat too,” he said.
Al had already taken a couple of photos when he lowered the camera and shook Henry’s hand. Henry was shorter than either of us—about five-six—but his shoulders were broad and square, and his scaly hands were those of a much bigger man. His hair was black speckled with gray, and it was pulled back in a foot-long pony tail. The large brush of a moustache beneath his bulbous nose was also salted with gray. He smiled when he shook Al’s hand, revealing teeth stained yellowish brown, probably from a lifetime of chewing tobacco.
Henry told us he’d been guiding fishermen on Gull Lake since he was a teenager, and that he lived in nearby Nisswa “Still livin’ in the house I was born in,” he said.
“So you’ve lived there your entire life?” I asked.
“Not yet,”
he said.
“Good point,” I said. “I’ll be careful how I word that when I write the story.”
We discussed what time and where to meet and what to bring. We had our own fishing tackle, water bottles and snacks, so all we had to do was sign out a boat.
“You got your own lifejackets?” Henry asked.
“Oh, no,” I said. “That we don’t have.”
“You gotta check out some lifejackets,” he said. “Can’t go in a boat without ’em.”
“The guy who drowned this morning managed to get away without one,” Al said.
“Dat’s been puzzlin’ me,” Henry said. “Dat fella come up here from the Cities a day early and he went out fishin’ two times yesterday, mornin’ and evenin’, with a lifejacket on. Had his own, in fact. Expensive lookin’ one. Why wasn’t he wearin’ it today?”
“Seems like he picked the wrong day to leave it off,” Al said.
“Seems like,” said Henry. “Can’t imagine why.”
When I thought about it, neither could I.
Seven
Trolling
Although Henry had tried to persuade us to go out at sunrise, we had insisted on a more civilized hour. Thus we joined a couple dozen other early birds at breakfast and met Henry on the dock at 6:30 Saturday morning, which was still too early as far as I was concerned. I wasn’t sure I could cope with a fish that was awake enough to attack a baited hook before seven on a Saturday morning, but the governor and lieutenant governor were already in their boats and cruising out into the bay to begin what was billed as The Fishing Challenge. Since our job was to cover the action with words and pictures, we had no choice but to follow.
Henry had a boat, a bucket of large silver shiner minnows and the required life jackets waiting for us. Al and I struggled into the life jackets, squeezing them on over the heavy jackets we’d worn at the picnic the day before.
“Maybe this is why Alex didn’t have his life jacket on,” I said between grunts. “He couldn’t get it on over his winter coat.”
