Muskie Attack (An Up North Adventure) (10 page)

Out on the Lake at Last

Pike, scowling, shoved the cane fishing pole at Griffy. “Here, it’s hopeless. That muskie’s not in this bay. We need to be out there.” He pointed to the middle of Lost Land Lake where about twenty boats jockeyed for position. “There’s nothing here.”

Pike’s fancy talking, or begging and pleading, had gotten them no farther than the waters of Whispering Pines Bay. The deal the two had struck with Uncle Dell and Pike’s parents restricted them to fishing the bay only, in a boat not much longer than the fish they were trying to catch—and with Pike’s fourteen-year-old sister at its helm. The deal was not a very good one, Griffy thought, but at least he and Pike were now official entrants in the Master Fisherman Muskie Competition.

Pike had been standing and casting off the bow of the small, wooden boat that Uncle Dell had christened
The Lucky 13
. Griffy learned that it once had ferried weekend sailors to and from their boat slips on Lake Superior near Duluth. Uncle Dell had discovered it at a flea market. He’d painted the dinghy white with red trim and named it after his favorite lure and the fact that the boat was number thirteen in the Whispering Pines fleet. Uncle Dell owned twelve other boats—one for each cabin. Two oars and a four-horsepower motor made it the perfect boat for fishing solo. But not today, Griffy thought. Today, it pulled triple duty with Gil, Pike, and Griffy on board.

Pike sat down in the boat, leaned back against the bow, and crossed his arms in frustration. He sat quietly for a change. He and Griffy had been fishing Whispering Pines Bay for ten days now: from the shore, off the pier, and with Gil in
The Lucky 13
. So far, nothing. Not one single tap on their muskie lure.

Griffy put the double-eyed cane pole and its gigantic lure aside while he reeled in his other fishing pole. He had pretty much given up on catching a muskie—any muskie. “Well, Gil and I are catching fish. Look!”

Both pulled in bluegill at the same time.

“We might have found the hole,” Gil said smiling. She took her fish off the hook; then looked the boat up and down.

“Where’s the fish basket?” she asked. After catching and releasing several tiny fish, she finally had a keeper.

The three looked around. No basket.

“You forgot the fish basket. Good going, Gil,” Pike taunted.

“I didn’t forget the fish basket. I don’t even want to be out here,” she huffed. “We might as well go in because I’m not sitting out here all afternoon just to throw everything I catch back in.”

“We are not going in,” Pike challenged.

“I’m in charge. I’m running the motor, and I say we are!”

“We’re not!”

“You aren’t even fishing,” Gil answered smugly. “You’re pouting like a baby.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Griffy’s hand rose slowly in the air between them. In it, he waved a white fish stringer like a surrender flag.

“How about this?” he asked. “It was in my tackle box.”

Gil, looking annoyed, grabbed it out of his hand. “It will do. But we
are
going to have to go in early,” she said, staring directly at Pike. “Fish don’t live as long on a stringer.”

“Whatever,” he replied and leaned back against the bow again.

At the bottom of Whispering Pines Bay, water began to swirl and spiral as a seventy-pound monster stirred among the weeds. The muskie, its green-gold body striped with dark vertical bars, opened its long snout as if yawning itself awake. Jagged, fanglike teeth tore at the weeds and small fish hiding in them before its jaws snapped tightly shut again. Propelled by the thrust of its massive tailfin, the muskie was off gliding effortlessly through the cool, clear lake waters in search of its next meal.

“Can we move now please?” Pike begged.

“We’re catching fish here,” Gil stated matter-of-factly, “a real smorgasbord—bluegill, crappie, perch. Griffy even caught a catfish.”

“I know that. But they are not the fish
we
,” he pointed back and forth between himself and Griffy, “want.”

“We found the hole, though,” Gil fired back and looked to Griffy for support.

“Pike’s right. Let’s move.” Griffy saw Gil’s lips press together like a vise, but he kept talking. “I say on to fresh water before it’s too late. We have to be back by dinner.”

He and Pike had been trading fishing poles all afternoon. It would soon be his turn with the muskie pole again. He liked the power that came with wielding the six-foot pole and sending its large, dangerous lure flying across the lake. Eight inches long with a white body and red head, their plug lure carried four barbed treble hooks. The three-pronged hooks themselves were two inches long and two and a half inches wide. As the boys worked it through the water, the lure made a popping, chugging sound guaranteed—the packaging said—to attract fish.

“But,” Gil started until Griffy and Pike interrupted her.

The two pleaded in unison, “Pleeeeeease.”

Gil looked up at the sky. They were running out of time. “Oh, all right,” she agreed. “Where to?”

“Twin Pines,” Griffy announced quickly.

“Excellent choice, Grif. To Twin Pines, Captain,” Pike ordered, and he began pulling up the anchor.

“No,” Gil shook her head. In Whispering Pines Bay, Twin Pines was as far away from the lodge as they could get. “How about Suicide Rock? It’s closer to home.”

“Come on, Gil. Twin Pines. It’s deeper over there,” Griffy argued.

“But it is getting late …”

“And you are wasting our time,” Pike finished for her.

Gil reeled in her pole and cast out again.

“Don’t cast!” Pike yelled as he heaved the anchor into the boat. “We are moving. Get your pole out of the water.”

Griffy was fed up with the constant bickering. Enough was enough.

“All we asked is to go across the bay. It’s not that big of a deal. If you would have just started the motor, we could be halfway there by now. ”

Pike looked at Griffy with surprise. Griffy usually stayed out of their arguments.

Gil started reeling faster. “Fine. We’ll go. But I’m doing it for you, Griffy. Not Pike.”

“I’m OK with that,” Pike said smiling. “To Twin Pines it is.”

Griffy was shocked Gil had actually given in again. That, like, never happened. Pike often joked about his sister’s split personality. And, boy, was he right. Sometimes she watched their backs, and other times she stabbed right in them. Griffy chalked it up to her being a teenager and a girl.

Gil started the motor, turned the boat toward Twin Pines, and away they went.

About a third of the way there, Griffy noticed a dark trail of debris in the water behind them.

“Hey, what is that?” he asked pointing out to the water. “Gas leak?”

Gil looked over her shoulder and quickly cut the motor.

“I don’t know.”

She leaned over the back of the boat and peered down at the motor’s propellers.

“It’s not gas. It looks like … Oh noooooooooo!” she cried. Gil reached over the side of the boat and pulled up the fish stringer. It and the fish it held had been chopped to pieces by the sharp blades of the motor.

“You forgot to bring the fish in?” Pike questioned, shaking his head in disbelief. He had moved from the front of the boat to the middle to get a better look. “Good going again.”

Griffy and Gil looked at the fish stringer in dismay.

“You mean all of that,” Griffy asked looking out behind the boat, “is blood and fish guts?” He grimaced.

“This is
not
my fault,” Gil whined. “I cannot be responsible for everything.
We
all forgot to bring a fish basket, and you two wanted to go across the bay, not me.”

She looked the bloody, mangled stringer up and down. “Poor, poor fish.”

Their catch of a dozen or so fish had been reduced to about three. Mutilated parts—heads, gills, fins, and flesh—hung haphazardly from the frayed stringer.

“Well, look on the bright side,” Griffy said. “We won’t have to clean them. That fish house creeps me out.”

“
That
is creeping me out,” Pike chimed in, pointing to the stringer. “Drop that thing back in the water.” Standing, he cast the double-eyed cane, letting the muskie lure fly past the back of the boat. It dropped right in the middle of the trail of guts and blood.

Gil put what was left of the stringer back in the water. She and Griffy sat in depressed silence, staring at the spot where the knotted stringer was tied to the boat.

Suddenly,
The Lucky 13
rocked sharply to the right. The jolt threw Griffy off his seat. Pike, who was standing, fell backward and nearly went overboard. He, Griffy, and the muskie pole all landed at the bottom of the boat. Gil barely stayed seated.

“What was that!” she shouted when the boat righted itself. “Did we hit something? It felt like we hit something? Did we hit something?” She looked wildly at the water surrounding them.

Pike pulled himself up. Griffy stayed where he was.

“We aren’t moving, Gil,” Pike answered. “Something hit us.” He leaned over the side of the boat, searching the water.

“Don’t do that!” Griffy yelled at Pike. From his spot on the bottom of the boat, he grabbed Pike’s shirt and pulled him back. “Do you want to fall in?”

Just as Griffy said that,
The Lucky 13
rocked violently to the right again.

“Holy chedda cheese,” Pike called out as he found himself on the bottom of the boat again.

All three now sat with their rear ends firmly planted on the bottom of
The Lucky 13
and their hands clutching both sides of it. No one said a word. They just rocked back and forth with the boat, waiting.

Gil was the first to break the long silence. She began to quietly sing: “Don’t rock the boat. Don’t rock the boat, baby.”

Pike joined in: “Don’t rock the boat. Don’t tip the boat over. Don’t rock the booooo-oh-oh-oh-oat.”

“Funny, guys.” Griffy smiled in spite of his fear. He was thankful for the comic relief.

As the boat’s wild rocking calmed, so did the kids, and they pulled themselves back onto their seats.

“I don’t know what that was, and I don’t want to find out,” Gil said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I second that,” Griffy said.

“It’s unanimous then.” Pike nodded.

As Gill turned to start the motor, she stopped short. “Good Gouda,” she gasped.

“What? What is it?” Pike asked, his voice raising an octave. From his seat at the bow, he strained to see what was going on.

“The stringer. It’s gone.”

She untied what was left of the stringer and held it out for Pike and Griffy to see.

“It looks like it’s been cut,” Griffy exclaimed. “How …”

The three surveyed the water around them, fear growing on their faces.

“Vamanos, Gil. Vamanos,” Pike ordered.

She jumped to action, cranked up the motor, and turned the boat toward the lodge and Suicide Rock. Luckily, the rocking boat had moved them a little closer to home.

The Lucky 13
sped—as fast as a four-horsepower motor allowed—for the dock at Whispering Pines Lodge. They almost made it, too, but the muskie pole, resting against the side of the boat, suddenly slipped and caught on the underside of Griffy’s seat.

“Whoaaaaa, Gil. Whoaaaaa,” Pike called, waving his hands back and forth over his head.

Gil cut the motor.

“Muskie pole’s still in the water,” Griffy explained as he reached down to dislodge the reel. As soon as he got it free, the pole jerked sharply backward. Griffy wrestled it with both hands before being pulled spread eagle toward the stern of the boat.

With only seconds to react, Gil jumped away from the motor as Griffy and the fishing pole flew at her. As it had with the muskie pole, Griffy’s bench seat stopped him. His feet caught on its side saving him from being pulled out of the boat.

“Hit the drag! Hit the drag! Give it line!” Pike ordered.

But Griffy couldn’t move. All he could do was hold on.