was a big relief for Bill to finally be able to open the throttle to full speed, as he followed the channel lines he’d sketched on the map the previous night, marking their route around the peninsula that had protected them from the winds off the open water area to the south. Finally they reached the open water area and Bill slowed the boat so it would better ride the huge rolling swells that were always present on the east side of the lake’s vast open water area. Although it was a fairly calm day, they had the advantage of a steady breeze as they angled southeast toward a group of islands that were about a half-mile off shore from the Indian’s Canadian Reservation. As they motored around to the inland side of the islands, Ed could easily see across this fairly large bay called Burnt Harbor, and as he scanned the shoreline he said, “The Indian’s buildings all appear to be located on what looks like a small island right at the mouth of that river.”
Once on the more protected inland side of these islands, Bill pulled back on the throttle, while Ed more carefully studied the reservation with his binoculars.
“I can see the mouth of the river,” Ed whispered, “and just south of their buildings, there’s a bridge that crosses over to the mainland. It looks like they have an old truck parked on that point, just north of the bridge.” Pausing a brief moment he continued, “Things look awfully quiet, and I don’t see any boats, so they must be out fishing.” Then as he stood up he turned toward the open water, scanning the horizon. “And I can’t see a single boat out there,” he said squinting through his binoculars. “Would they have netting rigs on their boats?” He asked Bill.
“I’ve seen their boats many times on the Sabaskong, and if I remember correctly, they use several types,” Bill explained. “They have those flat scows they use when they drop what they call a snare net across a channel, and they use the larger boat, when they drag a net behind them in the deeper water. If I remember correctly, those larger boats have rigs that stick out on both sides.”
“Well let’s just seriously fish around these islands for a while,” Dave said, getting a rig ready for trawling, “and we’ll just kind of watch for them to show up somewhere.”
“You guys go ahead and fish,” Ed said, moving to a more comfortable position at the stern of the boat and swinging his feet up on the side so he was more comfortable. “I’ll just study things, until you catch the first fish.”
No sooner had Ed said that than Dave screamed, “My God, I just had a huge strike,” and then his pole suddenly bent deep under the boat, and as his line spun out rapidly he awkwardly tried to get things under control by pressing his thumb hard against the line on the reel.
“Oh boy,” he yelled at the top of his voice, “This baby’s a big one!” Awkwardly standing up he tried to change the fish’s direction before it used up any more line. Finally he got the fish to turn, while reeling in as fast as he could to try and keep a tight line.
As Bill watched Dave’s neck widen with each run, he could see the sweat began to run down his forehead, and after almost twenty minutes of intense battling for control, Dave finally began to take charge, slowly reeling the fish toward the side of the boat. But every time the fish came near, the same raging battle would start all over. Eventually the fish broke the surface, and as it rolled toward the depths, Dave shouted, “My God it’s a huge Musky! Get the hook,” he yelled.
Dave quickly raised one arm as he desperately tried to wipe the sweat from his left eye, which was now burning from the salty sweat that was obscuring his vision. Finally, after more than a half hour, Dave sneered. “I can feel him weakening,” and as the fish rolled closer to the boat, Bill hooked him behind the gill plate as the huge Musky made one last desperate attempt to escape. Not until the fish lay on the deck of the boat did Dave drop his arms to his side, flopping back pooped.
“My God, that’s a trophy fish if I’ve ever seen one.” Ed shouted. “It’s gotta be close to forty inches long. And probably forty to fifty pounds,” he yelled.
“Boy, that’s a beauty,” Bill added.
“We should probably run over to Wheeler’s Point and have it weighed and mounted,” Dave whispered, awed by its size. “But you know what? This baby deserves to live after that battle.”
Straining to lift the huge Musky to check its weight, Bill nodded saying, “I agree, just look at those horizontal stripes on its sides, the true sign of a Musky.”
“Well, I prefer eating Walleye. So let’s get this one back in the water, so it can live to battle another day,” Dave cried, wiping his brow with his large checkered handkerchief.
As they carefully placed the huge fish back into the water, Dave held its tail, moving it slowly back and forth until the equally exhausted fish was once again ready to swim on its own. Once it realized its ordeal was over, it slowly disappeared into the depths for what would certainly be a well-deserved rest.
By noon, several other boats had stopped to fish this area, and one even went a short ways up the mouth of what Dave had identified as the Grassy River, taking them only a few yards from the Indian reservation. Ed could tell they were all from the American side of the lake, by the numbers on their boats; and as he checked each one he confirmed that none of their passengers appeared to be of Indian heritage. Then after catching a dozen or more small Walleye, Bill decided to motor closer to the bridge. The Indian’s brown colored truck looked old and unused, but as they got closer they could see that it had a large platform with wooden boxes that most likely were used to transport their fish. There were also several nets hanging behind the two rustic cabins that stood just in front of a rather dilapidated barn, where several horses were casually picking at an unbundled bail of hay.
Since the fishing was very poor near the bridge, Bill decided to motor back across the harbor, so they wouldn’t be seen if the Indians returned early. As Ed once again scanned the horizon, he finally saw two large boats off in the distance, heading directly toward them. As they moved closer, he could see the net rigging, but he could not tell if they had any nets dragging behind them. As they finally entered the channel, Ed counted three men working each boat, and there appeared to be some milk cans and large boxes on each deck, similar to the boxes they’d just seen on the truck. Behind each boat, they were also towing a large flat-scow that was filled with what appeared to be wet gill nets, from the day’s fishing. Since the rigging was empty, they’d obviously been using the gill nets, and as they docked, several of the Indians immediately began to load the boxes of fish on the truck as the others stretched out their wet nets on the drying racks. One Indian then loaded what appeared to be several empty milk cans onto a two wheel cart, while his helper hooked up one of the horses to this unusual contraption. Once this was all ready, they both got on the other horse and road bareback into the forest, pulling the horse with the trailer and the empty milk cans behind them.
“Where the hell do you think they’re going?” Dave asked, raising both eyebrows.
“I bet their hauling water from that aquifer,” Ed whispered, as if it was some kind of secret.
“I bet you’re right,” Bill replied. “That’s about all they could be getting, unless they’re going to fill them with gold.”
“Well they sure as hell don’t have any cows out in the woods and with wolf out there, they aren’t going to fill them with milk,” Dave quickly chimed in.
As Ed refocused his binoculars on the back yard, he continued to talk in a whisper. “I also see a water pump, so just why do you think they’d be going to the woods to get more water?”
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