TALES FROM MY TACKLE BOX NO.1
When we lived in Mayland, about 15 miles west of Crossville, our barn burned down and I lost most of my fishing tackle. What I salvaged, I placed in another box and it has been gathering dust in my workshop. I pulled it out the other day and as I surveyed the little that was remaining of my years on the lakes of fun, I picked up my favorite lure, a lure called a Flatfish, and the one I caught more bass with than any of the other lures. The Flatfish is a slightly curved lure, slim and sleek; something like a pretty lady. This brought to mind, one of my Canadian trips. Not the pretty lady, the Flatfish.
I believe I mentioned in another Nomad News that I had acquired, with five other friends, a plot of land on Clear Lake in the Rideau chain and had a small cabin built. One year I went up Labor Day weekend and stayed for the remainder of the week. At the end of the week, I decided to stay over and just follow the road west to no place in particular. Just see where the road would take me. I traveled to near noon and a sign appeared reading"Round Lake Lodge" and an arrow pointing north. I turned and followed the road for about 50 miles, as I recall, to the lodge. The place looked deserted. A row of boats, turned upside down, lined the shoreline and there was no sign of life. As long as I was there, I decided to ring the lodge doorbell. The door was opened by a young woman and a young child, seven or eight years old. When I inquired about lodging, she replied they were closed for the season. I told her I just wanted to fish that evening and stay overnight, she accented. She was very pleasant and fixed me some lunch and then I headed for my usual nap.
When I awoke and looked out my bedroom window that had a view of the lake, the woman and her daughter were righting two of the overturned boats.
I picked up my rod and gear from the car and headed for the beach where Mrs. Pleasant indicated which boat was mine. I opened my tackle box and looked at the double tray of lures, deciding which I would need that evening. The little girl came over, clutching a nondescript fishing rod in one hand and a small brown paper bag in the other. I watched with kind of pride as she perused my hundred dollars worth of lures. After a thoughtful look, she said: "You don't have anything good there." Talk about deflated pride, I replied: "What's good." She leaned her rod against the boat, took the paper bag and turned it upside down. Out popped three or four silver-colored lures that remotely resembled my faithful Flatfish, but they were bulky and fat. I said: What do you call those? "Canadian Wiggler." "That's what good, eh." With a "Yep", she put the ugly lures back in the paper bag, picked up her rod, and haughtily skipped off to join her mother. We were to rejoin at 7 o'clock. I fished without getting so much as a tap until it was time to return. Mother and daughter returned ten minutes later with half a dozen Walleyes weighing about a pound and a half to two pounds each; perfect for filleting. The Walleye, sometimes called Walleyed Pike, is a member of the Perch family and most delicious when fried, especially in an old frying pan with a chunk of fat to grease the pan, over a camp fire. That is how we devoured them that evening.
I blamed my lack of luck on not having any knowledge of the lake. Well, you have to blame it on something when a seven-year old kid with a brown paper bag can out fish Hawkeye
(copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
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