Black Otter Bay

VINCENT WYCKOFF

Cover photos © iStock/Getty Images

Author photo © Adair Soderholm

Copyright © 2016 Vincent Wyckoff

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-68201-026-6

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First edition: May 2016

Printed in the United States of America.

Published by

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

P.O. Box 451

St. Cloud, MN 56302

www.northstarpress.com

For my best friend, Sybil

Abby Simon

“W
hat do you think Dad will say when he finds out?”

It wasn't the first time this morning that eight-year-old Ben Simon had asked the question. But when it went unanswered yet again, he rolled over in the soft young tendrils of grass next to Big Island Lake and looked at his sister. Abby stood at the water's edge, her long black braid hanging down over her windbreaker. With avid concentration, she held her new telescoping fishing rod out in front of her.

This was the trial run for the new rod, and Abby had already told Ben that the one thing she'd learned early on about this “cheap crap” was that it didn't do a very good job of communicating what was going on at the “business” end of the line. The reason it had been so inexpensive, she'd discovered, was because it was made of plastic. And a hollow tube of plastic, as she'd explained to Ben, didn't have any life to it. Not like her good graphite rod.

Gently she worked the handle of the reel to take up slack in the line. She was sure a fish was mouthing the worm; she just couldn't feel it when it took a firm hold of the bait. Absorbed in the one-on-one game with the fish, she'd inadvertently inched closer to the edge of the lake, until now she felt the cold water seeping into her tennis shoes.

“You getting another bite?” Ben asked. He knew that when the fishing got this tough, his sister blocked out all outside distractions. Abby called it “being in the zone.” The forest could go up in flames around her, but if she thought a fish was checking out her presentation, she'd ignore the fire and let the
woods burn. She could fish as long and as hard as anyone Ben knew, and she usually caught more fish.

Ben poked at one of the rainbow trout they had lying on the grass. It was the only one he'd managed to hook and pull in by himself, the smallest of the bunch. Now, while his sister matched wits with another one, it was his job to splash water on the ones they'd caught to keep them fresh until it was time to go home. They only had the one pole, so they'd taken turns until Ben gave up in frustration at not being able to hook the wary little critters. Abby insisted on taking turns, however, handing the pole to her younger brother whenever she managed to hook another fish.

“Come on, Ben, your turn,” Abby called. He looked up to see his sister leaning back, the pole arching high above her. Scrambling to his feet, he ran to her side and took the offered rod and reel.

“Keep the line tight now, Ben,” she instructed. He knew how to do this part. Holding the pole straight up, he let the tension in the rod fight the fish. He felt the jerking vibrations as the trout ran back and forth. Abby had the drag set lightly for these small rainbows. That allowed the fish to pull out some line while enabling them to keep the hook wedged tightly in their mouths.

“That's good, Ben. That's good. Now work him!” Abby was a bundle of excitement bouncing next to her brother.

Ben felt the line go slack when the fish made a sudden run for the surface. Before he could reel it up tight again, the fish leaped out of the water and performed a stunning tail-walk in front of them. With a desperate flash of its shiny silver head, the trout spit the hook harmlessly to one side, and they watched as the remains of the worm flew high in the air.

“Dang it!” Ben exclaimed, shoulders slumping as he dropped the pole to his side. “I'm sorry, Abby. I tried to keep it tight.”

He looked up at his sister, the adrenaline blush making her look older than her thirteen years. A broad smile accompanied
her twinkling eyes. “Did you see it, Ben? Did you see that fellow tail-walking out there?”

“Yeah, I saw it,” Ben responded, disappointment in his voice as he kicked at the soft mud along the water's edge.

Abby continued staring out at the spot where the fish had disappeared. “That was the biggest one yet!”

Ben handed the pole to his sister and watched while she reeled in the empty hook. Grabbing the line above the knot, she inspected the hook to see if it had been bent in the fight. Then she firmly yanked on the line to check for damage, and finally twisted the rod eyes to make sure none of them were working loose.

“I didn't hurt your new rod, did I?” Ben asked.

“No, of course not. It's just cheap junk, anyway. I guess it's like Dad says: you get what you pay for.”

Last winter, while paging through one of her father's outdoor catalogs and daydreaming about fishing, she'd come across an ad for this telescoping rod. She'd determined right away that it would be perfect for carrying in a backpack. No six-and-a-half-foot rod tangling in the bushes on a trek into the woods. After talking about little else for the next two weeks, her father had prompted her to go ahead and buy it.

“You love fishing, Abby,” he'd said. “And it doesn't cost much. Your allowance will cover most of it. I know you'll put it to good use.”

“It telescopes down to only twelve inches,” she'd explained.

“I know that, honey. You've told us at least a hundred times.”

“And the cap screws off the handle to store hooks and stuff inside.”

“That's great, Abby. Just buy the darn thing, will you?”

When it finally arrived in the mail, she spent hours inspecting it, telescoping it in and out, shaking the extended rod to feel the tension. She worried that it was too stiff.

“I guess the big test will be in May, then,” her father had said.

Waiting for the fishing opener weekend had been nearly unbearable. Then, when it finally arrived, it was accompanied by a late-season Alberta clipper rolling in out of Canada. It dropped temperatures to the freezing point, as well as several inches of snow, erasing their plans for a weekend of camping and fishing. Abby's disappointment had been almost more than she could stand. This morning, when she'd looked outside to see the first warm, summer-like day of the season, she'd known it was time to go fishing. No more waiting. No more planning. She'd have to go today or she'd simply burst with anticipation.

But skipping school to go fishing without her little brother catching on would be impossible. She'd have to bring him along. After swearing him to secrecy, he'd hidden on the floor of the little school bus shelter while she'd explained to the bus driver that she had to stay home to care for her sick brother.

When the school bus finally pulled away, they grabbed their backpacks, which contained their lunches and Abby's carefully concealed telescoping rod. They dug a container full of red worms out of the backyard compost pile, and then climbed the path over the ridge behind town. A short walk through the woods brought them to the Superior Hiking Trail. When they reached Big Island Lake, however, they found ice floes still clogging the bays along the southern and western shorelines.

Spring had been late to arrive in this Arrowhead Region of northeastern Minnesota. Since the first heavy snowfall before Thanksgiving, winter had clung to the tiny village of Black Otter Bay on the North Shore of Lake Superior with an icy tenacity that made even toughened old-timers shake their heads. Lake Superior's massive body of thirty-five-degree water moderated temperatures along the shoreline, but over the pine– and cedar-clad ridge near Big Island Lake, several clear winter nights had seen temperatures in excess of thirty degrees below zero. The conifer forests had popped and groaned in the cold. Deer herds huddled close together under dense groves of white cedar during the frigid, fifteen-hour-long nights.

Known as the Snow Belt, this sparsely populated wilderness region had endured another winter that lived up to its reputation. According to local myth, every March a big snowstorm would blow in just in time for the Minnesota State High School Boy's Basketball Tournament. This year, the nearest team to be represented in Minneapolis had been from Duluth, fifty miles to the south, but the North Shore had received its blizzard anyway. Twelve inches of heavy, wet snow had fallen, followed by a week of below-freezing temperatures, during which time Lake Superior had buffeted the rocky coastline with twenty-foot waves, shoving huge mounds of floating ice up on the shore.

By early April, three-foot snowdrifts could still be seen deep in the woods, and ice fishermen angling for crappies on Big Island Lake had drilled through two feet of ice. While the Minnesota Twins were opening their summer baseball season, residents of Black Otter Bay were still getting around on snowmobiles. In the end, it had been a winter to try the patience of even the heartiest north-country denizens.

“Come on,” Abby had told Ben, not about to let a little ice interfere with her fishing. “There's open water up on the north end.”

Fifteen minutes later they came to a wide opening in the woods along the shoreline. An old two-rut road, leading in from the county highway behind town, came down to the water's edge here. At one time the road had serviced a boat landing, but the Forest Service had since taken control of the lakeshore and designated it a wilderness area. On rare occasions, someone from town would drive in to launch a canoe, and Rose Bengston retained her rights to trap minnows along the weedline for her bait shop in town. Her white plastic jugs, used as marker buoys for her minnow seines, were visible in the shallow water to the right of the old landing. For the most part, however, this was a deserted stretch of lakeshore. The small gravel parking area where trucks with boat trailers had once parked was now overgrown with tall grasses and scraggly bushes, making an ideal
place for casting a fishing line. It was also the perfect spot for two kids playing hooky from school to spend the day.

Abby secured the hook into one of the rod eyes and reeled up the slack line. “Lets take a break and eat some lunch,” she said. They wandered back to the grassy spot where their school backpacks lay near the row of rainbow trout.

Ben squatted at the water's edge to splash more water on the fish. “I don't think Dad will be very happy with us,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. He was still hoping for an encouraging word from his sister. “Even seeing these fish won't stop him from killing us.”

Abby took her sandwich out of an oversized Ziploc freezer bag. Ben watched as she gently rinsed the trout in the lake water and then carefully laid them in the bag. She zipped it shut, placed it in the ice-cold water, then snatched a flat rock from the lake bottom to anchor the bag for safekeeping.

“There,” she said, sitting back to eat her sandwich. “Just like putting them in a cooler full of ice.”

Ben swallowed a handful of chips, and asked, “What about Dad? He's going to be really mad.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“No.”

“Well, neither am I. He can't get mad about something he doesn't know about.”

“He always finds out. What about when he sees the fish?”

Abby let her gaze roam out over the open expanse of water. Chewing slowly, she took in a medley of aromas: pungent, damp earth, the sharp tang of conifers, and the windswept, primordial smell of a new season of life beginning along the shoreline.

While studying the lake's namesake, Big Island, almost half a mile away, Abby said, “We'll get home about the same time we always get home from school, just after Dad gets off work. We can clean the fish and put them in the freezer with all the other packs of meat. He'll never know the difference.”