North With Doc: Volume Three

North With Doc — Volume Three

By Greg Knowles

Published by Greg Knowles at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Greg Knowles

Cover illustration by Peter Kohlsaat

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DEDICATED TO MY FLY-IN FISHING PALS

J.D. NICHOLS, DENNIS CHAPMAN.

MIKE MURPHY, GARY COLWELL,

DON BRAZELTON, JIM STADLER

AND BOB DECK

WITHOUT WHICH THIS FOOLISHNESS

WOULD NOT BE POSSIBLE.

Preface

Here we go again. Doc gets more outrageous than ever in this series of North With Doc episodes written 1997 – 2001 and published by In-Fisherman magazine. Maybe it's because Doc has been fishing in Northwest Ontario so many times he is constantly seeking new adventures. Maybe it's because his green cigars have taken over part of his brain that controls sanity. Maybe it's because, after fifty episodes, he just wants to try something new. Whatever the reason, Doc continues to be a piece of work.

Somewhere along the line, one of the characters refers to a person named Aunt Lucy. She is the embodiment of everything an aunt should be, yet she goes well beyond decorum by shamelessly satisfying her massive appetites for food, drink, nightlife and men, sometimes all at once. When there is an opportunity to take a comparison of unsavory behavior to the Nth degree, Aunt Lucy comes to mind. She somehow manages to insert her persona into the conversation in nearly every episode from here on. I don't know why, but she does.

This series also began timely episodes where Doc performs selfless acts for those in need during the Christmas season. While the episodes appear haphazardly in this volume and in the ones to follow, they were written especially for holiday publication, typically at the request of my editor. While they show that Doc's beneficent creativity knows no bounds, he most often relies on unwitting fisherman friends to pull off his schemes.

So sit back and turn the pages on another chapter of Doc and the boys enjoying life to the fullest.

Tight Lines & Better Times

Greg Knowles

Table of Contents

Episode 51 – Hooked On Better Times

Episode 52 – ER In The Bush

Episode 53 – Spare The Rod And Spoil The Fisherman.

Episode 54 – No Rain Checks Accepted

Episode 55 – Doin' That Crazy Hand Jive

Episode 56 – Go Fish.

Episode 57 – Brunch On The Beach

Episode 58 – One Of Those Nights

Episode 59 – The Big Freeze

Episode 60 – Kitchen Patrol

Episode 61 – ISO Doc

Episode 62 – When Mr. Big Comes Bobbin' Along

Episode 63 – Shake, Rattle And Troll

Episode 64 – Blow The Man Down.

Episode 65 – Ontario Overload

Episode 66 – Accidental Fishermen

Episode 67 – The Perfect Gift

Episode 68 – Show Me The Way To Go Home.

Episode 69 – Preventative Ignorance

Episode 70 – Wishful Fishing

Episode 71 – Doc Holiday Rides Again.

Episode 72 – Virtual Fishing

Episode 73 – Survivor: Northwest Ontario

Episode 74 – The Perfect Fish

Episode 75 – Soothing The Savage Beast

Episode 51

Hooked On Better Times

I was packing for my annual trip to the Canadian Bush, and I had over an hour before my flight left Tucson. Never one to put off things until the last minute, I rummaged around in my workshop where a few dozen rods were collecting dust on the rafters. I was in search of a trolling pole. Under the black widow webs I found a stiff saltwater stick I must have gotten at a garage sale. It wasn't pretty, but all the line guides were tight so I popped it apart, wiggled it into my case with the walleye rods, and made a killer beeline for my flight.

The banker and his kid met me at Des Moines International Airport, so named because at least one plane touches down in Branson, Missouri.

Just got a call from somewhere outside Topeka, the banker said. My brother-in-law picked up the rental trailer, and he's on his way.

Sure enough, along about dark, a grizzly bear of a guy showed up, and transferred the trailer from his pickup to the banker's Econoline conversion van. The van was equipped with reclining captain's chairs, a TV, and a stack of videos so hot we needed oven mitts to load them into the on-board VCR.

Is this a unit, or what! the brother-in-law exclaimed.

Very plush, I observed.

I've been thinking about getting a vanity plate, the banker said.

What would it say? I asked.

TEN MPG, he replied, and we all laughed, because downhill with a tailwind he'd be lucky to get nine.

It took the better part of an hour to almost figure out the trailer's wiring harness. Even though we kicked the bumper, yelled, and threw tools into the street, we couldn't get the left turn signal to work. The next-door neighbor, who obviously didn't understand the finer points of electrical work, complained about the noise, and we retreated inside for some much-needed sleep.

I borrowed the banker's guest room for what was left of the evening, and was lulled into a marginal stupor by bugs that used the window screen for a trampoline.

Too early the next morning we joined Doc and the other guys at the attorney's house to pack up. We had an overflow crew that year, so, in addition to the van, the attorney drove his Jeep to eliminate crowding.

Doc lit a cigar that smelled like the sole of a pig farmer's boot, and asked, What do you suppose it cost you over the years to maintain your fishing habit?

Oh, about thirty thousand for boats, I replied, plus ten thou for tackle and two grand for bait. All that and a lifetime of alimony checks.

She didn't like to fish much, did she?

Still doesn't, I said.

Well, on that happy note, let's saddle up, Doc said. Knobby's waiting for us at Sioux Lookout.

An obnoxious exchange on the CB radios let us know they were working, and we were on the road to pick up the last member of the group. He had flown in from Colorado, and was waiting for us at a motel near the Minneapolis airport. The rendezvous would have taken half as long if someone other than Doc had been navigator.

You ever read a map before? I asked.

Never with bifocals, Doc said.

As many times as we've crisscrossed I-35, I'm surprised we're still in Minnesota, the banker complained.

The CB crackled, and the attorney behind us in the Jeep said, You guys run one more yellow light or make one more unannounced turn, and we're going to Canada without you.

Sorry about that, Doc said, into the mike. I think we're almost there. And forty minutes later, we were.

Our party complete, we zipped through Virginia at the cusp of the Iron Range, crossed the border at International Falls, bought groceries, overnighted in Dryden, and pulled into Sioux Lookout at nine the next morning.

Welcome to Paradise, Knobby Clark said, as we climbed from our vehicles. Have a nice drive?

It was a normal drive, I answered, although I don't think I could ever describe it as nice.

Would have been more enjoyable without Doc's cigars, the attorney said.

But we saw six moose on the way, the policeman added.

And about twenty deer, the banker chimed in, two or three of them alive.

Had a little backlash problem from the three hot dogs with sauerkraut I ate in Cloquet, the plant manager burped.

How about you, Doc? Knobby inquired.

I was awake all night because of his snoring, Doc said, pointing his cigar at my nose.

Jet lag must have hit me, I said.

And I should have done the same, Doc threatened.

You guys actually shared a room in Dryden? Knobby asked.

Well, I said, in a manner of speaking. We shared the room, all right, but Doc got the bed. I ended up on a cramped fold-out that was about as comfortable as watching Aunt Lucy make rabbit sausage.

That unpleasant, ay?

It was almost bearable until Doc turned the A/C to forty-five degrees, and plugged in his sleep machine.

A sleep machine? Knobby asked.

It's supposed to make a soothing noise.

What's it sound like?

Close as I can come is a deep fat fryer in one ear, and an acetylene torch in the other, I said.

Doc, you actually sleep to that racket? Knobby asked.

I have two teenage sons, Doc said. It's like a breeze through the pines compared to their hip hop and rap music.

We crowded inside the office, and Knobby's daughter, Donna, helped us do the fishing license thing. Then we loaded a shiny blue Otter for the fly-in. Most of our gear, and all but Doc and I, made the first flight. We chased the Otter in a much quieter Cessna at a hundred and ten knots. Dale, Donna's husband, was at the controls.

Do you remember all of us from year to year? I asked him.

Some more than others, he admitted with a grin. It's like going to high school class reunions, and watching everyone get older, fatter, and balder. Of course, I never change.

During the flight north, I was surprised to see robust new tree growth in the clear-cut areas of years past, and a few logging roads picking a path between swamps and lakes. But by the time we got to thirty miles from our destination, the Bush had closed in tight again.

As we dropped into the lake, Dale pointed out numerous rapids. The water's way up, he said. I don't know if El Niño runs this far north, but it's been way wetter and hotter than normal. Some big pike have been taken in the shallows, and the walleyes, as usual, are biting on anything, and everything.

A smooth landing, a slick slide to the dock, and we unloaded both planes.

We paused in our gear stowing and rod rigging just long enough to watch the Otter chug skyward, with Dale in the Cessna clipping the treetops close behind. Then, but for the loon calls, grouse thumps, and an