Dead Angler (9 page)

“That item is this…,” said Ray, showcasing particular words for effect, “no … walleye … will be biting in … this lake … this morning. Walleyes in this lake don’t even begin to bite until sunset.”

Marilyn looked at him, her face set, intense. “That won’t work, Mr. Pradt, we need daylight to shoot. This is a perfect day.”

“Call me Ray, Marilyn. Now listen … all I said was the walleyes aren’t biting on
this
lake.” “You have a better idea?”

“Better than discussing it with the fish. Follow me.”

Twenty minutes later, the Landcruiser backed down a grassy bank that had seen little trailer traffic and prepared to unload its eighteen thousand dollar cargo. Osborne, unmiked, positioned himself in the cushioned chair at the front. He was happy to be Ray’s silent student. He was even happier to see that the huge log home off to their right appeared to be dark.

“Don’t worry, Doc,” Ray had whispered as they drove over in the van with the crew, “the caretaker is a good buddy of mine.”

Ray, miked, stepped forward to angle his lanky frame into the driver’s seat in front of the console, then leaned to open a storage unit, and carefully stowed his hat. Marilyn and Rich settled into the back of the boat.

“Ray, let me tell you what I’d like you to do,” said Marilyn, a clipboard clutched to her chest, a headset clamped over her glossy hair.

“Not necessary,” said Ray, waving his hand to Wayne who backed the Landcruiser a few more feet, allowing the the big boat to ease off its trailer into the lake. “I’ve watched ESPN fishing shows plenty. Let me do it my way, and you see what you think. With all my clients, I do the same. See? We get out into the water. I know right where we’re going … then I give the good dentist my BJL routine—that should do it. You just sit back and watch the fish fly.”

“Well … The BJL?” Marilyn was clearly uneasy with Ray taking command of her production. Osborne minded his own business. He’d watched Ray tell the CEOs of blue chip companies what to do when. And when they listened, they scored. Marilyn was in for an adventure.

“ ‘Boat-Jig-Leech’—Ray Pradt’s winning walleye technique—five minutes to your five-fish bag limit.” Osborne turned his head away so they wouldn’t see him trying hard not to smile. Ray was, of course, neglecting to mention the key to their pending success: illegal fishing of a private, heavily stocked lake.

“Jig I know, but leech?” A quizzical but amused look crossed Marilyn’s round face. She might say she didn’t know fishing, but watching her cheery, no-nonsense face made Osborne certain she’d researched bait fishing enough to have some idea what to expect. Like most non-fisherman, though, she’d probably neglected to notice that walleye fishing was quite different from fishing for bass or panfish, not to mention musky or trout.

“Leech?” She said it again as if the very sound of the word gave her the creeps. Then she threw her head back and laughed a hearty, robust laugh. It was a laugh so spontaneous and gutsy, Osborne’s first thought was how much it reminded him of Lew. “I like this,” said Marilyn. “What a great lead for this story. Go right ahead, guy.”

“Ready, Rich?” Ray looked at the cameraman who hoisted his rig. Rich looked at Marilyn.

“Go ahead,” she said, “let’s give it five and see what we get. Dr. Osborne, don’t even think about us back here. We’ll voice over that he’s guiding you so you’ll just keep your eye on him or doing whatever he tells you to.”

While she talked, Ray had turned the ignition key, the motor purring preciously beneath them.

“Whoa, listen to that lovely hum. Exquisite. Of course, for eighteen thousand bucks it ought to tuck you in at night,” he said as the button on Rich’s video camera glowed red.

“Fellas,” said Ray, addressing Osborne as if he was one of a large crowd, “The boat is critical to successful fishing. The boat must be an extension of you for everything to work right. Yet every boat has its own personality. Your challenge is to psych it out, to find the boat that fits you, the boat that
is
you.

“Me? I love my Stratos 219CF,” Ray patted the steering wheel on the console in front of him. “This mother has a modified V-hull, a good 19 feet 3-inches with a 91-inch beam. And because you don’t ever,
ever
wanna underpower your hull, I keep a 175 horse power engine with a 25 kicker for heading into the wind.

“Now this is strictly personal, fellas, but
my
interior features one livewell and two baitwells, one forward of my console and one at the splashwell. This single-side console works best for the type of guiding that I do, though you yuppies can get a double if you must. You just better fish good enough to make a double console make sense, or don’t even show up at the bar, know what I mean?”

Marilyn gave a big thumbs up from the back of the boat.

“What distinguishes this particular boat,” the lake was smooth enough so Ray could rise slightly from his seat and point, “are the low sides. This makes it easy for me to fish weed walleyes or I can fish musky—very important up here in the northwoods. Bottom line? I need flexibility and Stratos makes it happen for me, y’know. I’ve had this boat up on Lake Erie, and I wanna tell ya it stays right on top. No wave crashing in this honey.

“Now, the Doc here is getting ready to go for ol’ bubble eyes.” As Ray spoke, Osborne swiveled his seat and readied the spinning rod that Ray had handed him.

“Our walleye warrior, in case you don’t know, is a fish of a certain and unique charm. A handsome fish. Eyes like fine crystal, a dorsal fin so erect…,” Ray winked at Marilyn. Osborne hoped like hell he wasn’t about to launch into one of his eminently tasteless jokes.

“But,” he paused and raised his concert pianist fingers again, “nothing separates a good walleye fisherman from a goombah walleye fisherman than his jig.” Osborne breathed an audible sigh of relief: Ray’s star turn was still on track.

“Frankly, fellas, choosing the right jig weight can make you or break you. The secret is this: quit trying to make a fish strike you. Change your attitude. Keep contact with the bottom. Okay?” Ray’s voice slowed to emphasis his point: “You must present as close to the structure as possible. What’s structure? The contour, the rockpile, the bottom where the fish are feeding—”

“Doing great, Ray,” Marilyn interrupted. “Don’t show a jig right now, we’ll do B-roll and shoot some sponsor jigs in the studio. Just keep going.”

“But … ready, Doc?” Ray signaled to Osborne to open the bait box he’d brought on board and slipped into the baitwell.

Osborne followed directions, the slippery bait greasing his fingers.

“What makes a great walleye fisherman, guys? Not good, but great? What gets you past that tiny two-pounder and up to the five pound range? Forget crankbait. Forget crawlers. The secret? Le-e-eches.” Ray rolled the word off his tongue. He turned to look at the camera, his face alive, eyes sparkling brighter than the waves around him.

“The absolute best walleye-getter is the leech. Tough, durable—Doc, hook one on.

“See? Watch the good dentist, you goombahs.”

Osborne raised his arm, fifty years of spin-casting kicked in to give him a soft, smooth roll. If only he could do that with a fly rod.

“See how hard you can cast?” he heard Ray over his right shoulder. “That leech will keep on swimming for hours. And you can’t beat ‘em below slip bobbers …” Osborne cast again. “Treat yourself to the most seductive sidewinding action you’ll ever—hey! Doc’s got one on!”

Ray shut up and moved aside as Rich crept forward to let the camera zoom in on the action. Osborne played the fish as close to the boat as he could. As he worked the fish, Ray talked, “Now you see why the thrill for the real walleye guy is catching this fish in shallow water. Five feet deep or less. I know fellas will drive hundreds of miles to fish bubble eyes in shallow water.”

Snap! The walleye flipped high into the air, flashing green and gold. The white-tipped tail flung a rainbow of crystalline raindrops around it. With an expert flick of his wrist, Ray scooped it in. Grabbing the gills with two fingers, he held the flashing, gleaming fish high, “Good work, Doc. You got seven pounds of pure gold. Okay, let’s go again.”

As Osborne slipped another leech on, Ray continued, “The problem you’ll run into with leeches is cold water. They curl up tight when the water is under 41 degrees. Other than that the only hazard is storing them in your home refrigerator. Before you do it, you better be sure you got an okay from your family members, fellas, or you’ll be paying psychotherapy bills for years …”

“What?” Marilyn asked from the back of the boat.

Ray looked towards her, which actually put him looking into Rich’s lens, “How would you like to reach for the pickles and get an eyeful of these?” He whipped his hand up to thrust a quart jar full of leeches at the camera.

Four huge walleyes later, Osborne looked back at Marilyn. Ray wasn’t going say anything but Osborne drew the line at poaching. He was not going to break state law, too. Not even for Ray’s television debut. “We got the bag limit,” he said. “Do you want to keep going?”

“No, no, this is great stuff,” said Marilyn. “We’re fine. Rich? Shoot some B-roll of the shoreline, the boat, and get our walleye guys from a couple angles, please.” With that, Ray throttled the moter and turned the boat back towards shore.

“Say, Ray,” Marilyn yelled over the roar of the motor, “those livewells are huge. Do people really catch fish that big?”

“Aways hoping,” Ray yelled back. “Lot of fishermen have trouble estimating the size of their future catch. Same problem they have estimating the size of certain personal appendages—”

“Ray—” Osborne stopped him. Ray had managed to stay relatively tasteful in his remarks so far. Was he going to ruin it now?

Ray smirked at Osborne. He knew what the good dentist was thinking.

“Gives a guy a chance to think positive,” he finished.

Marilyn threw back her head and laughed, “I’d like to keep
that
in the show.”

“Gee, doesn’t look like many people fish here,” commented Rich a few minutes later as he stepped carefully from the boat, handing his camera over to Wayne.

“Yeah, folks get spoiled on the big lakes,” said Ray casually as he stepped onto the shore. “I prefer the small ones for early morning fishing.”

“It’s the
only
early morning fishing,” said Osborne, following Rich from the boat. He was pretty excited himself over the catch. Why hadn’t Ray taken him here before?

“Gee,” said Marilyn. “I never thought you’d get your limit. This is great footage. Now where do we say we were fishing, Ray?” She held her pen ready over the clipboard.

“Oh, no. We never say that,” said Ray. “Fishing holes are top-secret.”

“Ah,” said Marilyn, “I like the way you put that. Good, I see you’re still miked, I can use that, too. But I do need you both to sign some releases, please.”

She handed the clipboard with the release forms over to Osborne, then stuck her hands in her back pockets and walked down to the water’s edge. Rich walked alongside her, a smaller videocam on his shoulder scanning the horizon, the lens zooming in and out as he turned. Marilyn inhaled deeply as she gazed across the lake.

“God, the air is great up here. What incredible scenery—ohmygosh! What kind of duck is that?” She pointed towards the middle of the lake where a dark distinctive shape had popped to the surface.

“That’s no duck” said Ray as he was stepping out of the boat, hat in hand. He set his hat on his head and walked his loopy walk down to where Marilyn stood on the shore. He looked past her, then straightened up, cupping his hands to his mouth. Rich caught the movement and shifted the lens towards him. Osborne noticed Ray still wore the small black mike clipped onto his shirt pocket. Miked and ready for stardom.

His eyes serious over the carefully brushed and trimmed beard that reached to his chest, the stuffed trout hat cocked jauntily over his ears, Ray seemed to remember Donna’s constant nagging that he stand up straight and pull in his gut. Throwing his shoulders back, Ray looked out across the lake toward the dark figure rocking in silence on the glassy surface.

Osborne closed his eyes and held his breath.

The haunting call of the loon started low and distant as if far across lake waters at dusk. Then the bird swept closer, its dark tones echoing over the reeds and gentle waves. That’s when Osborne heard the impossible: he heard the mate answer and the two call back and forth, each distinct in tone, one overlapping the other. No sooner had the crescendo risen than the birds fell still. Marilyn and her crew stood in stunned silence, waiting. A low flutter of sound rose with mounting urgency, then a hush … and a final aching cry to the wind. With exquisite control, Ray gave voice to the autumnal call of the male loon: the call to travel south.

Osborne exhaled slowly. He opened his eyes.

“That’s no duck,” said Ray with a happy grin, “that’s a loon.”

“That was no loon, that was Ray,” said Osborne.

“Did that—did the loon call back to you?” Marilyn was clearly dumbfounded.

“I wish,” said Ray, “I did that, too. Fooled ya, huh?”

“Ray is a champion looncaller,” said Osborne.

“Wait, wait, let me take notes,” Marilyn reached for her clipboard. When she had her pen ready, Osborne continued, happy to finally be able to return a small favor to the man who had helped him through so many dark and lonely hours.

“Every June there is a loon-calling contest in Mercer, a little town northwest of here, that draws people from Canada and all across northern Minnesota and Michigan. He always finishes first or second,” said Osborne. “The old guides say Ray Pradt is the finest looncaller they’ve ever heard.”

“That was a showstopper, Ray,” said Marilyn. “Thank you. You’re giving me great stuff. I have one last question, though. What do you do with all these beautiful fish?”

“Ah, hah,” said Ray. “What time do you have?”

Marilyn glanced at her watch, “Eleven-fifteen.”

“I’ll tell ya what,” said Ray. “You absolutely cannot understand walleye fishing until you’ve tasted it. Since Doc’s not due in town ‘till one, and since I recently acquired a pound of fresh butter, I think it’s time we go to my place.