Figure Eight

by Jeff Nania

  I ran past the giant musky and was looking up at it when I should have been looking forward. A squad car pulled into the driveway I was about to cross, and I ran into it hard. I wasn’t hurt, but it stunned me for a second. Officer Lawler exited the driver’s side and walked over to where I had run into the car. He started to run his hand over the spot and look at it from different angles.

  “I guess there is no damage, Cabrelli. You’re real lucky, though. As hard as you hit it, I’m surprised there is no dent. If there was, I’d have to charge you with damaging public property. That would be a shame, but you know, the law is the law.”

  I could not believe what I had just heard, and the second before I rose to take the bait, I remembered the rules of the game. I had played it myself with gang members and general criminal elements in my beat. Push them until they jump, then come down hard. I took a breath.

  “Jeez, sorry, Officer. I didn’t see you. I was busy looking at the huge musky. I’ll be more careful in the future. Catch you later.”

  I went around the car and started out again. Just as I was leaving, I heard Officer Lawler’s final words of the day, “You just go ahead and run along now, kid killer. Stay around here, and you and me, we will have our day. Yes, we will.”

  I ran on and picked up my pace, demons chasing me once more. I hoped I could outrun them.

  Crossroads was pretty packed, but I managed to get a cup of the daily brew and find a spot at a wrought iron table outside. The coffee was good, but my mind was elsewhere. What the hell was the deal here? Why was this cop pushing on me? Was it just my reputation? I could understand someone not liking me, but usually they had to get to know me first. This guy had a real issue, and he was going to push it until he got what he wanted. I could’ve gone to the chief and complained, but that would probably only make certain that every cop in town had it out for me. Nope, one jerk like Lawler was worth plenty of people not paying special attention to me.

  The run back to the motel was uneventful. I took a shower and then tried to call Bud on his cell. It went to voicemail, then I remembered he had stayed at the cabin last night and called there. He picked up.

  “Bud. It’s John. What are you up to today?”

  “Not much this morning, John.”

  “I was wondering if you could help me get the boat in the water. I thought I’d like to tour around the lake and maybe throw a cast or two.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I’ll start getting everything together. You on your way?’’

  “I’ll be leaving in ten minutes. Any problems last night?”

  “Nope. All’s quiet.”

  “Good. I’ll be there shortly.”

  12

  Cabrelli

  Little did I know that at the same time I was getting ready to head out to the cabin, there was a very heated meeting going on behind closed doors at Attorney Derek Anderson’s office.

  It seems, as I learned later, ol’ Derek was getting his head handed to him by the fellow who was so interested in my property. It must have been an ugly scene because people who saw the lawyer afterward said he looked shaken and scared. The lady who runs the moccasin store next to his office ran into him as he flew out the office door. She greeted him, and the only thing Anderson had to say was, “Get out of my way.”

  He jumped into his car, took off fast, and headed out of town. At that point I didn’t know it, but he was a man treading water as fast as he could to keep from going down for the third time.

  It used to amaze me how people got themselves into things so deep, so fast. I understand now that things happen, and sometimes they start out as a leisurely Sunday drive down a country road, and before you know it, you’re racing 100 miles an hour, white-knuckling it all the way. Most of these problems start out simple—like in Anderson’s case, it was greed. The problems quickly become more complicated—like greed, extortion, and—well, I guess I am getting ahead of myself here. We’ll come back to that later.

  I was excited to get to the cabin and out on the lake. The jeep did run great and had a substantial feel to it. Man, from Italian loafers, pressed jeans, and a fancy Japanese sports car to work boots, a sweatshirt, and a jeep. Things do have a way of changing.

  I pulled into the cabin and Bud was backing the trailer with the boat loaded up to the lakeshore.

  I walked over and he asked, “John, could you tell me when the trailer tires just touch the edge of the water? That’s as far as we can go before we get ourselves into trouble.”

  He slowly, expertly, backed up until I gave him the signal to stop. Then the agile giant jumped out of the truck, up onto the trailer, and released a latch on the trailer tongue just under the boat. The trailer bed and boat started to tilt up. Bud grabbed hold and lifted. As soon as he got about a 45-degree angle, the boat started to slide down on the rollers underneath it.

  The motor was locked in the up position and I saw why; the boat was descending at a significant angle, and the water was not all that deep. Bud guided it with expert hands, and soon the boat was free floating at the end of the twenty-foot rope he had in his hands.

  “Here, take this rope and walk over to the dock and pull the boat in while I get this trailer locked down and the truck moved. Man, these tilt-bed trailers are really something. If you know how to use ’em, you can launch a boat just about anywhere.”

  I pulled the boat over to the dock and took in the attributes of my uncle’s trusty craft. A 14' F7 Alumacraft, powered by a 15-horse flat top tiller Evinrude engine, an orange gas tank, oars, and a life jacket. I was sure it was the same boat I had fallen out of many years before.

  Bud finished his chore and came walking over.

  “That is just about the perfect boat for these lakes,” Bud said with authority. “A tank of gas lasts forever, and they don’t draw much water, so you can get in shallow places where the fish hide. Even though it’s only 14 feet long, don’t let that fool you. These boats are built to take any kind of water if you know how to handle them.

  “They are getting to be collector’s items. Nick didn’t think anyone had ever made a better boat. That little 15 horse will push you along as fast as you want to go.”

  I couldn’t wait to get going, and Bud could see I was anxious.

  “John, do you know how to run this thing?”

  “I think so, but how about a little refresher?”

  “No problem. Just hop in the boat. Ah, don’t step on the seat. Step on the floor in the middle and get comfy back there by the engine. That engine is old but it runs great, and it takes a gas and oil mix in the tank. There are a bunch of bottles of two stroke oil in the shop, so if you need to gas up, just add one to the six-gallon tank. I filled it up this morning, though, so you won’t need gas anytime soon.

  “Now flip that lever that says ‘lock’ and push the motor down so the lower half is in the water. You can run that motor two ways, deep drive like it is now and will be most of what you use, or if you reach down in the back and pull that other lever, it’ll come up to shallow drive in case you’re going around someplace where the water is a little bit skinny. You don’t want to leave pieces of your prop on the bottom of the lake.

  “Now put that flat toggle looking switch on neutral, pull that choke knob next to it about three-quarters of the way out, and pump up the bulb on the fuel line until it gets real hard. Now on the tiller handle turn it to ‘start.’ Here comes the big moment. Grab hold of that t-handle stickin’ out of the top and give it a sharp yank. When the motor starts, push in the choke. Let it warm up a minute, and then you are on your way.”

  I grabbed the t-handle and pulled the rope. A sputter, nothing else.

  “Give her another one, John.” I did. Same result.

  “Pump up that gas hose a little more.”

  I pumped until there was no pump left and gave it another sharp pull. This time I was rewarded as the engine sputtered and coughed to life.

  “Push the choke in,” Bud instructed.

  I did and the engine s
ettled down to an even purr. I was absolutely ecstatic.

  “There you go, John. You take it easy and have fun. I brought these down from the shop,” he said, and he handed me a fishing rod and the tackle box, “in case you decide to throw a cast or two. Did you pick up your fishing license?”

  “Sure did. Stopped at the Happy Hooker Bait Shop on my way over.”

  “I don’t know what you have planned tonight, but this is Musky Fest weekend, and there’s a lot of stuff going on in town. Matter of fact, that’s where I’m going now to help setup. Julie and her kids are coming over to help too. I guess they have a booth this year again selling t-shirts and sweatshirts as a fundraiser.”

  “What time does it all start?” I asked.

  “About one o’clock before things get going, but it goes until midnight with the street dance and band. You should come down and check it out.”

  “Thanks, maybe I will, and thanks for all your help, Bud. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem. Catch ya later.”

  As Bud walked toward his truck, I slipped the little motor into reverse, backing out from the dock. When I got myself headed in the right direction, I clicked into forward and slowly cracked the throttle. The little boat responded like a dream, and just like that, I was planed up and skipping across the calm water of Little Spider Lake. I headed northwest out of Gillich’s Bay and looked at my surroundings. The names of those special places flooded back to me: Hannah Bay, Heinemann’s Resort, Musky Run, Clear Lake. I wish I could put into words what I was feeling, but in the simplest form, I was happy and free with the wind in my face, going back to visit the best times of my life. The boat handled well, and I opened the throttle all the way.

  On my right, I saw something on the water and realized it was a loon. I slowed down to look and saw that she had two chicks riding on her back. As I reached the end of Little Spider Lake, I remembered the secret passage. As you approached, it appeared to be an impenetrable shoreline. But once you got real close, you could see that there was a short S-shaped channel that took you right into Big Spider Lake. I slowed to “no wake” and passed through. It was as big and wonderful as I remembered. The water just shimmered in the dozens of small bays while a slight breeze resulted in a small chop in the center of the lake. Off to my left was Candy Island, a place where my uncle and aunt and I would pull up for lunch. Dead ahead was Picnic Island, my favorite. Out from Picnic Island was a rocky bar that went out over a hundred yards under water. It was where I had caught my first musky, a 24-incher that leaped from the water and danced on its tail. I was upset when Uncle Nick told me we had to release him, but back then the length limit was 36 inches, and this guy didn’t make the cut.

  I also loved to put on my mask, fins, and snorkel and explore the rock bar. Uncle Nick and I used to circumnavigate the island trying to propel ourselves forward using only our hands lest we kick up sand that would compromise the water clarity. We would find ourselves swimming along with huge smallmouth bass, hundreds of little bluegills, and occasionally a musky. We had a contest to see who could find the best treasure, mainly in the form of lures hung up on the rocks and broken off by fishermen.

  When I came upon the island, I saw a buoy that warned of the rock bar. The wind was blowing the right way, so I shut the motor off and drifted in. I started to relearn my casting skills as I pitched my lure along the edge of the bar, each cast bringing new hope. I was about to float into the island shore but decided to throw one last cast. As I was reeling into the boat, and just as I began to pull my lure out of the water, there was a splash and a swirl as a big musky made a grab for my spinner. I was too fast for him though and pulled it safely back into the boat. I watched as the fish swam back toward the rock pile, no doubt laughing that musky laugh.

  Then I remembered: “Figure eight,” Uncle Nick had said. “Figure eight your lure in the water at the end of each cast. Those muskies are tricky, and they like to hit right by the boat. A figure eight gives you an extra chance.”

  The motor started on the first pull, and off I went through the channel to Fawn Lake and into a bog channel that would take me to a huge culvert under the road and into North Lake. The channel was full of beautiful plants, a small patch of carnivorous pitcher plants with their enticing flowers, leatherleaf, bog rosemary, and tamarack trees. My aunt Rose used to collect some of the plants every year from this spot to dry and make an herbal tea that she used to cure the common cold later in the year.

  I had always pretended that this was a prehistoric river. My uncle, who was a keen student of nature, explained to me often that nature was a community to which we belonged, and to be a successful and respectful participant in this community, a person needed to know the members. To this end, he spent a great deal of time taking little side trips to introduce me to our neighbors, both flora and fauna. It was as if my memory had been triggered and reactivated by this boat trip. Somewhere my mind had stored these long ago learned facts, and now given the opportunity, they leaped to the forefront.

  I was a ten-year-old kid again responding to a question that had an answer of which I was certain. “Johnny, what is the name of that plant?’’

  “Pickerelweed, Uncle Nick. Pickerelweed!” I blurted.

  “You got it, Johnny. It is pickerelweed. Do you remember what likes to hide in the pickerelweeds?”

  “Bass and big muskies!” I replied.

  “Then I think we better throw a couple of casts here just in case someone is home.”

  And with that, Uncle Nick handed me my rod, and I became a hunter on a prehistoric river, a bass and musky hunter.

  In the channel the water had turned more of brown color compared to the lake I had just left. I knew it was caused by tannin, a dark stain released by the tamarack trees. I remembered what I was taught, that while people tend to call any place that is a wetland a swamp, a true swamp had to have trees. This was a true swamp, and tamaracks were always Aunt Rose’s favorite, the needles turning smoky gold in the fall.

  Carefully I piloted my boat through the large culvert into North Lake, watching thousands of small minnows in the water doing whatever minnows do. For some reason North Lake was always special to me. Maybe because of its wildness, or maybe it was the trees growing right down to the shore, or maybe it was knowing that if I got out at the end of the lake and started walking north I would end up on the shore of Lake Superior. The lake had not changed at all. It was the same as I remembered—untamed, its dark waters placid today, a wild place to be sure.

  In the sky above an eagle swung around lazily, looking for an unsuspecting fish on which to dive. It was a mature adult resplendent in its white headedness, dignified in its flying. This bird was a fine representative of our country’s symbol.

  By this time the sun had risen almost straight above me, maybe a little after noon. I turned my little ship around and headed home. I never got over half throttle on the way back. I was content to go slowly, feeling the soft breeze, the warm summer sun, revisiting times past. Something was different; change was afoot. I could not remember one time in the last many years that half throttle and John Cabrelli had been used in the same sentence.

  I pulled into the dock with expert seamanship, managing to clobber only one of the upright posts pretty good. It took the blow well and saved me from telling Bud that he had another one to straighten out.

  A feeling of apprehension came over me as I stepped onto the dock and walked toward the cabin. From the outside, everything seemed okay, just like yesterday. I started to turn the doorknob and realized that I had done this many times before—turned the knob with my left hand while holding my gun in my right, ready for whatever was on the other side. No gun today, just me. I could feel the adrenaline course through me, my muscles tensed; I felt like a trap ready to spring.

  I swung the door open and looked left, right, and straight ahead all at the same time. I walked in, watching every way I could. Everything was in its place, all things in order. I breathed a relieved sigh and wa
ited for the adrenaline letdown. Old habits die hard? Paranoid? Nuts? Maybe one or all three.

  My only intention in coming in was to see if the place was okay. I had no intention to do any snooping. After all, I would not want Julie Carlson snooping through my stuff. There was a heavy padded chair and footstool next to the fireplace. So close in fact that the hearth served as a handy end table.

  On the hearth was a book on top of a file folder. The folder was about three inches thick, and I doubt you could have stuffed another sheet of paper in it. The book was a new release by Dana Stabenow, an Alaskan mystery writer. I opened the file and found student writing and research projects. I paged through them and saw that teacher Carlson had taken the time not just to grade them but write individual comments on each. Her comments were not critical but constructive, very positive in general. Meant not to scold but to help.

  She had written to one student, “You can do better than this and you usually do. I know things have been tough at home lately. How about you and I sit down together after school one day and fix this up? Here is my cell phone number. Again, remember day or night if you need something, call me. Ms. Carlson”

  The shotgun-toting Julie Carlson, as my old academy instructor used to say, is an enigma wrapped up in a mystery. I put things back as they were, locked the door, and took off.

  13

  Cabrelli

  I cruised back into town and could not believe the number of cars. Tourists lined Main Street, meandering along carrying plastic bags emblazoned with the store logo from their last purchase. As they walked, many of them dined on donuts, ice cream, cheese fries covered in chili, and of course those heart stoppers all Wisconsinites love, deep-fried cheese curds. A significant portion of Main Street had been blocked off. Craft vendors and others were busily erecting their displays inside of white tents. I finally found a place to park down by Crossroads, and since I was there, I decided to get a cup of coffee to go.