Muskie Attack (An Up North Adventure)

Table of Contents
Title and Dedication

Copyright

Chapter 1:
Way Up North
Chapter 2:
Out on the Lake
Chapter 3:
Meet Pike
Chapter 4:
Out on the Lake, Part II
Chapter 5:
Names, Nicknames, and Mischief
Chapter 6:
Out on the Lake, Part III
Chapter 7:
At the Dam
Chapter 8:
The DNR

Chapter 9:
Master Fisherman Muskie Competition
Chapter 10:
Gearing Up
Chapter 11:
Out on the Lake, Part IV

Chapter 12:
Out on the Lake at Last
Chapter 13:
Master Fishermen
Chapter 14:
See You Next Summer
Preview

An Up North Adventure

Copyright © 2008, 2010, 2011, 2012 by G. M. Moore

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery are models, and such images
are being used for illustrative purposes only.

ISBN: 978-2475004295

Printed in the United States of America

Way Up North

Corbett Griffith III was turning a slight shade of green. He took in a deep breath, puffed his cheeks out, and let out a burst of air. He inhaled and exhaled, inhaled and exhaled—all in an attempt to keep the lunch he had eaten an hour earlier down. The SUV he was seated in continued its roller coaster of a ride through the North Woods of Wisconsin: curve to the right, curve to the left, up a hill, down a hill.

This isn’t going to work
, he thought, still puffing air in and out.
I’m going to throw up all over the backseat of this car. Great way to start the summer
.

Great way, indeed. Corbett didn’t even want to be here. Definitely not in Wisconsin, state of the cheese head. Definitely not on this vomit-inducing road. And definitely not in the backseat of this SUV bearing the bumper sticker, “Fight Crime. Shoot Back. Jim’s Gun Shop. Minong, Wis.” If given the choice, which he wasn’t, he would have spent his break playing video games, working on his computer, or taking fossil and archaeology classes at Chicago’s Field Museum.

“How’s it going back there?” his uncle asked from the front seat. Then he chuckled. “You don’t look so good.”

“Not feeling so good,” Corbett replied.

“Not to worry. We’re almost there.”

There
was Uncle Dell’s Whispering Pines Lodge, a fishing resort and the place Corbett would be spending the months of July and August.

Since his parents’ divorce more than a year ago, Corbett’s mother had become increasingly worried about him. She wanted his father, a Chicago businessman, to spend more time with Corbett: take him canoeing, fishing, and swimming. “A ten-year-old boy should be out having adventures, not reading about them,” she would say.

But to Corbett’s dad, Corbett Griffith II, an outdoor adventure meant a trip to the putting green. Corbett longed to spend more time with his father. He would do anything to get his attention, including putting, which Corbett thought was boring. But he was never asked. His mother was actually no better. An editor at the
Chicago Sun-Times
, she had deadlines and late-breaking stories that kept her away from home—a lot. So … enter Uncle Dell.

Corbett overheard the phone conversation his mother had had with her much older brother in early June. He had been quietly listening at the head of the stairs.

“He’s getting pudgy, Dell. I can’t have him trapped inside for another summer. It’s as if he’s afraid of the outdoors. He yells if a bug comes near him. He won’t even pet a dog. I don’t understand it. He needs to get outside and be a boy.”

Be a boy!
Corbett thought incredulously, remembering the conversation.
Who am I? Pinocchio?
Maybe he was slightly pudgy, and, OK, maybe he was a little afraid (bugs did creep him out, and dogs scared him, especially the big barking ones), but was that really a good reason to send him away? Apparently it was, because as soon as school let out for summer break, Corbett found himself shopping and packing for a two-month stay in Wisconsin. He would be, his mother announced, helping Uncle Dell at Whispering Pines Lodge. Uncle Dell had a difficult time finding reliable help, and Corbett needed an adventure in the great outdoors.

This is definitely the great outdoors
, Corbett thought, looking out the car window. He could see nothing but woods on either side of the road. The occasional mailbox popped out of the underbrush indicating that a home was in there somewhere, but Corbett couldn’t see any. All he could see was a blur of white pine, hemlock, and yellow birch trees as they raced down County A. Since leaving the Village of Minong, he and Uncle Dell had passed only two other vehicles, both towing boats behind them.

Whispering Pines Lodge was perfect, his mother had said. Corbett would have work to do, but also plenty of free time to explore.
Yeah, it’s perfect
, Corbett thought, still staring out the car window, but not for him. It was perfect for his parents. Corbett knew his parents loved him, but he also knew that
their
lives came first, not his. They had no time for him. He thought of himself as a check mark on their to-do lists.

Career, check.

Marriage, check.

City condo, check.

Child, check.

Divorce, check.

Ship child off, check.

Corbett sighed heavily, resigning himself to his fate. The afternoon sun streamed into the car.
Well, Wisconsin is kind of pretty—and peaceful
, he reluctantly admitted.

“Pay attention now, Corbett,” Uncle Dell commanded from the front seat. “We’re coming to the first fork.”

Looming ahead, Corbett saw, was a fork in the road, and in the middle of that fork had to be about fifty signs, all shaped like arrows, all white with black letters, all attached to the same two poles. Most of the signs had people’s names on them; all had mileage: Tomasik one mile, Snider five miles, Moore two miles.

“You see Whispering Pines, four miles? Ninth one down on the left? That’s us. We stay left. Easier to remember left than try to find the sign.”

Corbett nodded. He was starting to cheer up and feel a little better. He cracked the car window and got a good whiff of fresh air.
Ahhhhhhhhh much better
, he sighed.

The trip had been a long one—about seven hours stuck in a car. His mother had driven him from Chicago to Madison, Wisconsin, where Uncle Dell had picked him up for the journey much farther north. It was closing in on two o’clock in the afternoon, and Corbett was ready to be there. And there, as far as he was concerned just then, could be anywhere.

“Fork number two approaching,” Uncle Dell called out. This time the sign was on the right and said two miles.

Getting there, getting there, finally getting there
, Corbett chanted in his mind. And surprisingly, he found himself excited and eager to see exactly where “there” was.

“It gets a little trickier from here,” Uncle Dell explained as the SUV took the right fork. “The sign for Peninsula Road—our road—is hard to see. Get a lot of complaints from guests about that. They get lost all the time. But we’re in the middle of the Chequamegon National Forest, and the DNR …” Uncle Dell paused and looked at Corbett in the rearview mirror. “That’s the Department of Natural Resources.”

Corbett nodded even though he had no idea what the DNR or the Department of Natural Resources was.

“OK. Anyway, they’ve got rules and regulations. So does the county for that matter. Look on the right side of the road. We’ll pass a culvert, and then about a fourth mile up is the sign. It’s about waist high, surrounded by Wild Columbine.”

Corbett sat up straighter and looked.

And looked.

And looked.

The winding, hilly road made the distance seem much, much longer.

“Culvert,” Uncle Dell called, pointing to the right. And there, poking out from under the road and into a swamplike area was a large metal cylinder.
Now for the sign
, Corbett thought, looking at the road ahead more intently. But Corbett never saw a sign. Before he knew what had happened, the SUV took a turn into the woods.

The sun vanished. The paved road disappeared. The trees grew closer. Corbett gulped and his blue eyes widened.
Lions and tigers and bears. Oh my.
The line from
The Wizard of Oz
echoed through his mind. Still peering out the window, he clutched the top of the passenger door.
Where, oh where, are we going
? his panicked mind wondered.

The SUV was now making its way down a narrow road that was “paved” with a mixture of sand, soil, and rock. Numerous potholes kept the car and its passengers rocking up and down and back and forth. Tree branches continually scraped the sides of the car. The SUV splashed into a particularly large pothole that propelled Uncle Dell so far off his seat that his head hit the car’s roof.