| |
FRIDAY NIGHT AT THE OASIS MARINA
I awoke before the alarm and didn't even take time for my usual second cup of coffee. I didn't need caffeine this sunny Friday morning. I was psyched, eager to get my eight hours at the press behind me.
My brother Jack and I had agreed to be on the road by mid-afternoon and, hopefully, on the water by five. If I punched in a little early and skipped lunch, we'd be netting trophy walleyes before rush hour cleared back in the Cities.
The previous weekend, the walleyes had come alive early Saturday morning and by Sunday noon, we'd caught and released 42 walleyes and two legal muskellunge.
The mighty Mille Lacs Lake was no longer the "Dead Sea" and I felt certain we could hook well over a hundred walleyes on this trip.
But it was the muskellunge - the mighty muskie - that really sent my pulse beating. When those two muskies grabbed the shiner minnows on our lindy rigs last weekend...well, let's just say, this is what weekends are made for.
Elshire's Resort was hopping as we pulled off Hwy. 47 at 5:15 pm. Fancy boat rigs were backed up several blocks waiting to launch. It was hot and tempers were short.
A bearded guy with an In-Fisherman cap burst out of his pickup, shouting a string of unprintable words at a fellow in a fancy Jeep rig who was trying a shortcut to the boat ramp. The fellow in the Jeep took a look at the beard, or maybe at the body beneath the beard, and decided the line didn't look so long after all.
It had clouded over and a fog was drifting in as we approached our turn at the concrete ramp. The air was heavy. It felt right for action. I knew that somewhere out on that vast gray sea we were going to find action like we had never experienced it before.
We were back-trolling by 6:20 pm and had our first hit 20 minutes later, a 2-1/2-pound walleye. It had flashed on our sonar graph, suspended beside a rock in 18 feet of water. "That's what I've been dreaming about every night this week," Jack said, lifting the netted fish and a trail of water into the boat. The sleek yellow-green fish flopped on the blue carpet at our feet, the minnow spilling out of its mouth.
The 'eyes liked our jigs and we soon had three more nice fish and four or five misses. "Dang it," I said, as I set the hook, only to feel the jig pull free from the jaws of what felt like a dandy fish. My rod was still pointing skyward when Jack yelled, "Don't bother to re-bait, I've got a monster." His singing reel told me he wasn't kidding.
He was standing at the front of the boat, his rod curling down like he'd hooked a log. "It just grabbed my jig and took off," Jack said as his left hand loosened the drag on his spinning reel a quarter turn.
Jack had been circling the rock ledge with an electric troll but now let the boat drift as we both focused totally on the combative give-and-take between fisherman and unknown prey. Neither of us noticed the subtle wind shift, the wet, thick fog seeping in from all sides, and the gradual approach of darkness. Even if we had, it wouldn't have made any difference - not when "Jaws" is talking to you through 8-pound monofilament.
Jack moved around the boat, his outstretched arms following the fish as we drifted and the fish swam at will. The fish was staying deep. Was this a monster walleye, a muskie, or something else? Something that even the locals didn't know inhabited these waters?
"I'm gaining on it, it's getting closer," Jack said, as we glared into the thickening fog and descending darkness. Light rain began to fall. A crack of lightning illuminated the sky just as the fish broke water. "Geez, look at that thing," I screamed, pointing at the fish. I could just as well have been talking about the lightning bolt that arced not far beyond the bow of the boat.
The flash of light was gone and so was the fish, momentarily at least, as it dove deep. "It's a muskie, must be over 30 pounds," Jack said as he let the fish run.
A lake at night when lightning is flashing is not a smart place to be. But then, whoever made that rule didn't have a fish of a lifetime hooked onto his line.
The fish stopped its run and Jack got him turned in our direction. "If I get him back to the boat, get the net ready and go for him," Jack breathed. "I want this fish."
The rain was falling harder now, the lightning flashes more frequent. "He's comin' fast," Jack said, as I eased the net into the water. The muskie broke water not more than 4 feet in front of us.
A bolt of lightning highlighted his tail dance as I extended the net to where I gauged his nose would be a split second later. The weight of descending fish flesh almost pulled me into the dark water but I held on and managed to flop the unwieldy, writhing mass into the boat. It was so dark now, and the rain so heavy, we couldn't even see the fish at our soaked feet.
A hard slap of the fish's tail against my shin, and then to my tackle box, made me jump onto my seat. Now we had both a monster and a mess in the boat. A big muskie is plenty awesome in daylight, but in pitch dark it spelled chaos.
A beam of light from Jack's flashlight revealed a tremendous muskie, maybe 40 pounds. "Unbelievable," Jack said. He was shaking and his voice cracked. "Unbelievable," he said again.
We stared in silence, taking in his massive jaws and teeth that quivered menacingly in the flashlight's beam. The fish had a 2-inch tear in his mouth where the jig had been. Jack traced his length with the light. He stretched nearly from one side of the boat to the other.
"What do we do now?" I asked in the driving rain.
"Let's get out of here," Jack said.
But where was "here?" I thought. Where were we? I sure didn't know. Neither of us had been paying attention to the direction we had been drifting. No lights were visible on shore. In this weather, we couldn't have seen the shore if it had been 50 feet away, and we were out at least a couple of miles.
The warm glow from the graph told us we were in 32 feet of water. Starting our 90-horse outboard, I headed east into the darkness as Jack sat staring at his muskie. I could still feel my heart pounding, my adrenaline pumping. The motor roared, kicking up sheets of water from the two-foot waves.
Then a thunderbolt - lightning and loud thunder at the same instant - and it was close! I convulsed from the sound. Then...silence. Our motor had stopped.
"What the hell happened," Jack screamed through the rain.
"I don't know," I said. "Hit a rock maybe. It just stopped." I turned the key and the motor cranked but it didn't fire. The mammoth muskie lurched in the dark, scattering two rod rigs. It sounded like one or both snapped.
The outboard refused to start. It didn't start five minutes later, either. Our electric troll was worthless in the swells that heaved against the sides of the boat. We could row, I thought for a fleeting second. Forget it. Every fourth or fifth heave sent the top of the wave over the gunwale. The rain and constant waves kept the muskie flopping on the boat floor.
"We've got two choices," Jack said. "We can drift, or we can anchor."
"I say drift," I said.
We drifted.
The rain began to let up, but the fog didn't. In daylight, we could maybe see 40 feet. In the dark, we couldn't even see each other.
We drifted some more.
Once I started suddenly as the muskie flopped at my feet. I must have dozed for a minute, I thought to myself.
"Shine your light here," I said to Jack. He grunted, fumbled at his feet for a second, then blinded me with a beam of light.
"What time is it?" Jack asked.
"12:30 am," I said.
It was the first time I had looked at my watch since netting the 2-1/2-pound walleye. I definitely had been sleeping. Apparently Jack had too, although he didn't admit it.
"What are we going to do?" Jack asked.
"I don't know," I said. "Listen. Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" Jack asked.
"That," I said. "Music. Like country western music."
"Are you feeling okay?" Jack asked. "Wait. Hey, I hear it too. Is there another boat out here? There can't be."
"Where's it coming from?" I asked.
"It's from over there," Jack said, pointing into the darkness.
Sure enough, it was music. Sounded like Waylon Jennings singing Luckenbach, Texas.
"We must have drifted to shore," Jack said. He stood up and lifted, then lowered, the electric troll into the water. We inched along in silence towards the music. Waves kept splashing against the boat, sending water onto our laps and the muskie.
Suddenly I saw an amber light flashing dimly through the darkness. The music grew louder.
"We're home, buddy," I said, feeling my spirits lift from deep gloom to euphoria. We had a fish story that wouldn't grow old for years.
A sturdy wood dock lined with dozens of boats grew larger as we eased through the darkness. A lighted gas pump stood at the end of the well-constructed dock. "Oasis Regular," is said. Never heard of that brand. I reached over to the weathered boards, pulled myself up and looped a couple of half hitches around the post. Jack and I clomped eagerly towards the music and a lighted sign 50 feet ahead.
"Oasis Marina," the sign announced. The words below the name read "Total refueling for the tired fisherman."
"What the hell is this place?" Jack asked, as we approached the building. It was lit up like Christmas and sounded like New Year's Eve. "It's huge," Jack said, "but I sure never heard of it."
"Maybe it's on the west shore," I said. We always fished off the east shore, and new places were being developed all the time on the other side of this 132,000-acre lake.
Neon-lighted signs shined through the windows: Coors. Budweiser. Seagrams. Great hamburgers.
A pair of swinging half doors - the kind you see in old western movies - led into what looked like a bar and restaurant...or maybe a nightclub. People inside were drinking and talking. Couples were dancing to the predictable rhythm of country western music. Short-skirted waitresses were carrying trays crowded with long-necked beer bottles. The source of the music was either a loud jukebox or a live band - I couldn't tell.
The place was crowded. A swarthy fellow in sunglasses guarded the entrance. Judging by his considerable bulk, I guessed he was a bouncer, or maybe he collected cover charges.
Past the bar, in an adjoining room, young and middle-aged men and women were crowded around a giant fish! It looked like a huge muskie that was mounted on the floor at an angle. Fastened around its girth was a rhinestone-studded saddle. We watched several guys in bright-colored shirts take turns riding the fish. Some managed to hang on to the bucking fish for the full 60 seconds, some didn't. A heavyset fellow wearing a red cowboy hat got on and lasted about five seconds. His glasses popped off as he fell and his bulk smashed them as he hit the floor.
On either side of the swinging saloon doors, a wooden boardwalk led past more buildings and more doors.
We exchanged glances several times but neither of us said a word. Jack began walking to the left and I followed. Another door. A sign in the window read "Oasis Bait. Minnows, $2/dozen. Leeches $1.50/dozen. Nitecrawlers, waxworms, grubs."
"We're not on shore," I said cautiously. "This whole place is on stilts. We're...where the hell are we?"
We kept walking. The boardwalk curved to the right, revealing a large, dimly lit showroom filled with shiny fishing boats and outboard motors. Colorful boat posters and mobiles hung from the ceiling. I reached for the door handle. It was locked. Of course, I thought, it's after midnight. What boat dealer is open in the middle of the night?"
The rain had slowed to a mist, but it was still foggy as we passed to the right of the boat showroom. The boardwalk appeared to continue curving around the showroom and beyond in a large circle. We stopped and looked out over the railing - water and darkness were everywhere except behind us. We'd walked more than halfway around this place and were circling back to where we started.
A man and woman stood talking and smoking under the eave. They didn't even appear to notice us.
Unbelievable, I shuddered. This entire complex was either floating or it was built on pilings, and it was out in the middle of the lake!
"This place is out in the middle of the lake," I said to Jack.
"No kidding," he muttered. "And so are we. You want to go into the bar?"
"I don't know," I said.
"Tell you what," Jack said. "I'll go back to the boat and see if the motor will start. If it starts, let's get out of here. If it doesn't, we haven't got much choice. We've got to stay."
Leaning against the railing, I lit a cigarette and looked through the window at the people in the Oasis Saloon. This place is unreal, I thought. It can't exist. But here I was, standing no more than 20 feet from hundreds of people, and they all looked just as real as Jack.
I heard the sound of boot heels on wood and turned to see Jack running at me.
"The fish is gone!" Jack shouted. "Come on."
At the boat, the flashing amber light revealed the sad truth: No fish. The floor of the boat was full of tangled rod rigs, assorted tackle and other gear, all floating in four inches of water.
"What happened to it?" I shouted.
"How the hell do I know!" Jack snapped back. "It's just gone. Why didn't you put it on a stringer?"
"You don't put a 40-pound muskie on a stringer," I shot back.
"Look at that," Jack said, shining his light on the starboard gunwale. He jumped down into the boat and slid his finger over the white fiberglass. "That's blood and fish slime. That doggone hawg must have lunged up somehow and slid right over the edge of the boat. Could he have done that?"
"If you say so," I said, not knowing what was possible or what to think anymore. "Maybe someone slid him over the side. Who knows? Did you try the motor?"
"No," Jack answered, still examining the slime trail left by the disappearing fish.
I stepped down into the boat and turned the key. It started, sounding like it had never stopped.
"What do you say we get out of here?" I said. "If we head straight east, we've got to hit shore."
"Let's go then," Jack said. "This place is too strange. I've been fishing here for 25 years and I know darn well this place doesn't exist. Now either we're crazy or...yeah, let's get out of here. You drive. I'm not even in a mood to think."
Pushing away from the dock, I nosed the boat in the direction the boat compass showed as east. The fog was lifting and stars were visible between broken clouds.
We rode smoothly across the waves for a quarter hour. Then, BAM! An explosion rocked the boat, rocketing us forward. My head smashed into the windshield, sending a sharp pain to the right side of my forehead.
Struggling back to a sitting position, I reached for the key to quiet the screeching outboard. Slowly its high-pitched grinding gave way to a click-click-click, then silence.
"A rock," I groaned. "It had to have been a rock. Geez, what next? Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm okay," Jack said. "But the motor's shot. That screaming sound means the lower unit's wiped out. Guess we're back to floating."
Jack fumbled around in the dark, producing a flashlight. "Hey, you've got blood on your face," he said, blinding me with light. "What did you hit?" He crawled towards me, examining my wound. Pulling a soggy handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped blood from my head, then extended his arm as if to prove I was bleeding.
"You've got a scrape on your temple but I think it looks a lot worse than it is," he said. "Is that the only place you got whacked?"
Touching my fingers lightly to my face and skull, I decided that it was. "I think that's all," I said.
"It doesn't look deep enough to need stitches," Jack said. "Here, just keep this on it." Jacked handed me the wet, now-red hankie.
"Well, this is the second time tonight we've been adrift at sea," I muttered. "What do you suppose we'll run into this time? You got any suggestions?"
"About all we can do is drift," Jack said. "The wave action seems to be pushing us east. With any luck, we should wash up on shore before long. If we're still out here when it gets light, we can flag down another boat and get a tow back."
We drifted then, not talking. What was there to say? "You want to go back to the Oasis?" I thought of asking. No, the Oasis was the last subject I wanted to bring up. I closed my eyes and soon was a thousand miles away, dreaming of a warm fireplace in a cabin in the woods.
KERPLUNK! Jack and I bolted upright, eyes wide open. We had collided with a rock. The good news was, the rock was connected to the shoreline.
Land never looked so good. It was past dawn; sunlight was squeezing between the spires of the towering spruce trees. Scanning the shoreline, I spotted the familiar buildings of a boat dealer a half mile north of Elshire's Resort.
"Hey, we're in luck," I said, realizing the irony in the pronouncement. "We're just up the road from Elshire's."
Jack hopped out and pulled the boat a few feet onto the shore. "Tell you what," I said. "I'll hike down to Elshire's and get the truck and we can load the boat here." I was back in less than half an hour. We loaded the boat methodically with minimal conversation.
Sliding into the cab of the pickup, I said "What do you want to do - go home, get the motor fixed, find a place to get some sleep, or what?"
"Let's go home," Jack said. "I don't ever want to go fishing again."
Heading south on Hwy. 47, Jack and I were silent, lost in our thoughts. My head hurt. I was hungry. We stopped at a 24-hour truck stop in Cambridge and ordered a couple of hamburgers.
A half hour later, I pulled out a cigarette as I stepped outside the restaurant and fumbled mindlessly through my pockets for a match. The ones I found were wet.
Just then a tall man stepped out the door, glancing at the sky. "Mister, you got a match?" I asked.
Cupping his hands, he lit his own cigarette in the cool morning breeze, then kept the match going for me. "Keep 'em," he said, as he handed me the matchbook. Then he walked to his pickup, slid in and drove away.
I glanced at the colorful matchbook cover. "Oasis Marina," it said. "Total refueling for the tired fisherman."
|
|
|
 |
| |
PUTTING DOWN ROOTS:
A Delightful Blend of
Gardening Wisdom, Wit
and Whimsy
$10 + $2 for shipping
by Cliff Johnson |
 |
 |
| |
|
