North With Doc: Volume Two

North With Doc — Volume Two

By Greg Knowles

Published by Greg Knowles at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Greg Knowles

Cover illustration by Peter Kohlsaat

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DEDICATED TO

KNOBBY CLARK,

OUR SIOUX LOOKOUT FLY-IN SPECIALIST,

AND HIS LOVELY WIFE, BOBBIE.

THEIR HOSPITALITY

MADE PARADISE

POSSIBLE.

Preface

After writing the North With Doc column for five years or so, the characters took on a life of their own. Strange as it may sound, instead of me putting words in their mouths, they suddenly began to speak for themselves. Doc got wiser, the attorney got more attorney-like (if that's possible), the banker became a closer friend, the policeman stayed as level-headed as ever and the plant manager rid himself of whatever social skills he may have had and became a walking, talking flatulence factory.

During the years the second twenty-five episodes were written (1993 – 1997) and published by In-Fisherman magazine, many changes were taking place at Knobby's Fly-in Fishing in Sioux Lookout. Since the beginning, Knobby's wife, Bobbie, had helped us out with our license paperwork and also acted as bookkeeper and office manager. Daughter Kim was an accomplished Bush pilot, and she flew us in and out many times, and also made mid-week check flights. As daughter Donna's own family grew, she moved into office work. Her husband, Dale, was not only an excellent pilot, but could be counted on to solve any outpost problems that Knobby's fishing guests might have. Knobby's wasn't a total family affair, as he employed a number of pilots over the years, including pilot Matt Mitchell, who had been working for Knobby since 1968. The last I heard, Matt had logged nearly thirty thousand hours in the air.

Changes at Knobby's outposts were dramatic. In the early years we had to fly in our own propane stoves and lanterns, chain saws and tableware. We hauled lake water for drinking, cooking and bathing. The cabins were used by trappers and hunters in the off season, and were not in the best state of repair. The restrooms were invariably primitive two-holers and most involved a hike into the woods over tangled roots through swarms of mosquitoes and black flies. Gradually Knobby fixed up the cabins and built new ones. Mechanical sink pumps worked great if you could keep them primed. Then Knobby's workers rigged batteries, then solar panels to power pumps for inside plumbing, and added gas water heaters. When solar technology progressed enough, we enjoyed electric lights.

In these episodes, the characters are evolving along with the quality of Knobby's fly-in experience. But Doc always finds a way to make the simple act of fishing harder than it has to be.

Tight Lines & Better Times

Greg Knowles

Table of Contents

Episode 26 – Lost And Found

Episode 27 – Things That Go Bump In The Bush

Episode 28 – Doc Makes A House Call.

Episode 29 – The Year Of The Cigar

Episode 30 – Breakdowns, Baseball And The Bush

Episode 31 – When Cleanliness Is Next To Hypothermia

Episode 32 – When Paradise Turns To Worms

Episode 33 – Doc Goes South For Sun, Sand And Salsa.

Episode 34 – How Not To Get Hung Up On Fishing

Episode 35 – When All Bets Are Off

Episode 36 – The Siren Call Of Fishing Lures

Episode 37 – Doc Gets Hooked On Garage Sales.

Episode 38 – Doc Ties One On.

Episode 39 – When Doc's At The Helm, He's A Moving Violation.

Episode 40 – Doc Saddles Up For The Rodent Round-up.

Episode 41 – Two For The Show

Episode 42 – Stop Me If You've Heard This One.

Episode 43 – Doc Is Definitely Not A Class Act.

Episode 44 – Doc Gets A Belly Full.

Episode 45 – Three Cheers For Foul Weather Friends

Episode 46 – Doc Does A Double Jackknife With A Twist.

Episode 47 – Patience Doesn't Always Pay Off.

Episode 48 – Poetic Justice

Episode 49 – Knobby To The Rescue

Episode 50 – Finger Food

Episode 26

Lost And Found

Car keys, sunglasses, and socket wrenches sometimes simply disappear. The space-time continuum probably eats all that stuff—like dogs eat grammar school homework—and they are never seen again. But have you ever lost a fishing hole? Doc and I have. But we're pretty sure it's in the Northwest Ontario Bush, right where we left it.

At least a dozen years ago, we climbed into a boat one brilliant June morning and motored north on Kezik Lake. When our coffee had cooled enough to drink, we took a sip. It tasted like the bottom of a sheepherder's shoe, so we unanimously dumped it overboard, turned due east, passed twenty or thirty islands, went in a circle or two while chasing some gulls, and made a hard left at a pair of courting loons. I slowed the boat to an idle and looked at my Boy Scout compass for no particular reason while Doc lit a cigar made from the nose hairs of a yak. He eyeballed a map of the lake for a couple minutes. Then we plowed west until Doc complained about his sore tailbone. We stopped, Doc stretched, and suddenly we were there.

The spot wasn't much to look at, just a long, narrow corridor between two unspectacular chunks of land with receding treelines, ending in a weed bed split by a small, incoming stream. A few sticks and stumps lay in the shallows, and a rocky bottom gradually slanted away from shore to about eighteen feet. But best of all, there was a straight-as-a-string, five hundred foot run where a combination of current and breeze kept the boat perpendicular to shore for a perfect drift.

We cranked walleyes and northern pikes out of there until we were flat plumb tuckered. As a matter of fact, I caught so many fish the ball bearings in my ultralight reel overheated and seized up, and I had to use one of Doc's extras. We were so impressed with the size and quantity of the fish, we wanted to be sure we could find our way there again. So on the late afternoon ride back to the cabin, we marked our route by ripping up our T-shirts and tying scraps of cloth to tree limbs on every island we passed. That night, as luck would have it, a storm blew our Fruit of the Loom flags all to hell, and the next day we were unable to find the place before the float plane took us away.

A year or two ago we called Knobby Clark in Sioux Lookout, and were informed, to our pleasure, that Kezik was open, so we booked it for the first week in June. When we arrived with the rest of our abnormal group, Doc asked Knobby if he knew the place we had discovered ten years earlier.

I'm not exactly sure where it might be, Knobby said, unfolding a map. This part of Ontario was surveyed by the government for possible mining operations, and they weren't too concerned about plotting the best places to fish.

What's the scale of this map? Doc asked.

Close as I can figure, about a thousand yards a thumbnail, Knobby said, expertly measuring the long western shoreline with his right thumb. A nail biter could get lost real easy up there, he added with a grin.

Knobby knew his string of outpost lakes on the Cat River chain almost as well as the Ojibways who lived in the surrounding Bush, but even after intense questioning by Doc and a grueling cross-examination by the attorney, Knobby insisted he was unaware of the magic spot we described.

Knobby's daughter, Kim, was our pilot that day. Doc was in the co-pilot seat and managed to talk her into buzzing the Beaver over the northern end of the lake. Kezik is a good-sized puddle, even from the air, and Doc said he saw nothing remotely familiar.

The policeman, banker, plant manager and attorney heard us blabber about the place as we unloaded the plane, and they asked to join in the search. Before Kim cleared the treetops on her solo flight to Sioux, we had launched a full scale expedition.

The weather was unusually warm that year, and three boatloads of explorers scoured every inlet and island north and east of the cabin for three days, stopping often to fish or swim. It was hard, thirsty work, but someone had to do it. On the fourth fruitless day, Doc sat on a rocky shore munching vinegar flavored potato chips and having a few more than his fair share of ice cold bubblies.

You think we should give it up? I asked.

Definitely not! Doc snorted, spewing a mouthful of half-chewed chips down his life vest. We're getting close. I can feel it.

In Doc's delicate condition I could have dropped an anchor on his thickening tongue and I doubt he would have felt it, but I understood his frustration. After all, we weren't looking for the Seven Cities of Cibola or the Fountain of Youth here, just a place we knew existed because we had been there before. Although it was possible to catch fish anywhere we dropped a line in the lake, returning to that one amazingly productive stretch of water had become Doc's obsession.

By the fifth day, the other guys were fed up playing Ponce de Leon, and they left the cabin early to fish some rapids at the south end of the lake. But Doc was still in the hunt, so he and I planned our watery inspection strategy while I scraped petrified huevos rancheros con walleye from the breakfast skillet.

You think we could have been there but not recognized it? I asked. After all, it's been ten years.

I don't think so, Doc said. Our spot was unique because of the drift. The water level this year is about the same as I remember it, so the only thing I can figure is the place is not on this map.

The bouquet from Doc's cigar was enough to spook a crow from a Big Mac, so I held my breath and peered over his shoulder.

So what do you suggest we do? I asked, inhaling a cubic centimeter of smoke by mistake. Doc waited until my coughing fit was over before he answered.

I think we should make some coffee and try to reconstruct that day so long ago, he said. I nodded my agreement and stumbled outside for some breathable air while he put the pot on to boil.

Twenty minutes later, cradling cups full of steaming caffeine beverage, we climbed into the little Lund and headed north. To make it a little more drinkable, Doc had poured a thumbnail of schnapps into the cups. If you've ever pried the lid off a really old, half-used can of cheap paint, that's what the coffee smelled like. After five minutes, it cooled to the viscosity and flavor of Mississippi backwater river mud with an attitude. I doubt the fish living in that stretch of water appreciated it, but, on cue, we dumped the dregs overboard.

What now, Doc? I asked, chewing on a plastic grub to freshen my breath.

Let's play it by ear, Doc answered. When it feels right, we'll take the next step.

We passed twenty or thirty islands, chased some gulls around in circles and looked for the courting loons. They had obviously checked into a honeymoon suite someplace, so we skipped that part and I slowed the boat to an idle and rummaged around in my tackle box for my Boy Scout compass. When I yanked out a poly stringer, the compass and a sinking Rapala went over the side...and sunk.

Doc lit a cigar that smelled like it was made from an eight-track tape of the Osmonds' Greatest Hits. Through the smoke, his watering eyes scanned the map for a couple minutes. Then I aimed the bow to the west until Doc complained about his butt. We stopped, he stretched, and suddenly we were there. Right smack dab boy howdy in the middle of a big, weed-choked bay.

I think we've been here before, I said, attempting a bit of sarcastic humor.

Doc gave me a strange look and said, You may be right. He pulled the map out again and, to help him concentrate better, took an Olympic pull on his cigar. The odor triggered thoughts of when I was a kid, and once in a while a mouse would crawl up between the dining room wall studs and die. Not a fond memory, but painfully appropriate.

"Head for