Fishing for Whatever

The town of Rochester, Minnesota, where I grew up, is a place noted for what it lacks: crime, blight, riots. It's boring, but sometimes I miss it. Except in winter, which according to my aging tropical bones starts in September and ends in June, you can ride a bike from downtown into the farmland of the American Midwest and not worry about getting run over by a car or machine-gunned by its driver. During the summers when I lived there, I would arise at five or six in the morning, ride out to the IBM plant, and then pedal up the Douglas Trail to Pine Island and back. That was about thirty miles round trip. After these travels it was pancake time. Blueberry pancakes with butter and syrup. I earned and relished every calorie. I have never been in better physical shape before or since. Those mornings never made any demands on my mind -- with one exception. That was the time I met the fish planters.

I hit the trail as the sun was emerging from a sea of dew. Its blush foretold of a scorcher. It was muggy, and I could live with that; there were bugs, and I wished I could kill them all. I stopped and took off my shirt. Then I sprayed repellant all over my body and my bike. I'd swim in the Zumbro when I crossed it, and wash off the gook and bugs with dirty water.

I like the wind and sun on my skin, and the sound of good music, courtesy of my Walkperson. Endorphins kicked in as I passed the store at Douglas. I tuned in the closest thing Minnesota commercial radio had to progressive rock. A couple of women walked by and smiled. I smiled back. A little bug flew into my mouth. I spat it out. The wind blew it back on my chin. It bit me.

Soon I came to the South Branch of the Zumbro. Nature called. I stopped and went into the woods where I hoped no one would see me. I switched my radio off, and heard the sound of someone whistling. Drat! What price privacy? The whistling had no melody. Even the birds seemed put off by it; their morning chorus was silenced. A person, apparently an old man, was sitting on a tree stump, fishing in the stream.

I hid in a thicket of bushes and took care of business. Then I decided to check the guy out. Maybe he'd tell me the name of the tune he was whistling. I sure couldn't recognize it.

The sun glinted off the brown water, making it look silver. I waded in. The fisherperson turned towards me, silhouetted in myriad reflected suns. Then a cloud cast its shadow down on us, and the face sprang into focus. It was not a man, but a woman of middle age.

"Catch anything?" I asked.

"Nope," she replied.

"Fishin' for anything in partic'lar?"

"Whatever."

"Hope my swimming doesn't bother you," I said.

"Don't drown," she said.

The bottom was slimy, and I feared, with each step, that some sharp object, thrown into Nature's bed by a litterbug, would slash my foot to the bone. It's happened before. Broken bottles, sardine cans, pop tops, whatever.

"Don't cut your foot there," said the woman.

"Just thinking that," I said.

"I know."

"What?"

"Lots of beer bottles in this stream. Beer Bottle Brook, that's what I call it."

"I can imagine."

"Midnight riders take'n throw 'em from off the trail there, and they hit rocks and bust up. All over the place."

"Midnight riders?"

"Drunken kids."

"Right."

Just then something yanked her line. "Whoo!" she shouted, standing up and starting to reel in her catch. "Must be a biggun. Musky or walleye."

"There're no musky or walleye in this stream, are there?" I asked.

"I been thinkin' walleye," said the woman, "and I'll bet I got me a walleye."

"This I gotta see." I waded closer.

"Neat shorts you got there."

"Five-and-dime fashion statement."

"You're a good swimmer, I bet."

"If there's enough water mixed in with the mud."

As she continued to reel in line, I saw the fish. It was bigger than anything I expected to see in the Zumbro. The thing looked to be a foot and a half long.

"By golly!" she cried as she pulled the fish out of the water, "a walleye, or I'll be a carp."

I've never been good at recognizing fish. When I was a kid, my dad used to take me fishing, and we caught sunnies and crappies and perch, but I don't think I'd be able to tell them apart now. The fish flopped around as the woman pulled it off her hook and threw it on the bank of the stream. Then she took the hook off the line, pulled a lure from her pocket, and tied the lure on the line. "Let's see. What'll it be? A musky. A good, fighting musky this time."

"There are no-o-o muskies in this stream," I said.

"Whatever."

"Whatever what?"

"Whatever Amanda wants, Amanda gets," said the woman.

"This I gotta see," I said.

Amanda put her rod down and let the lure into the stream without casting.

There was a tug on the line; the rod bent almost double as Amanda struggled to hold onto it. "We got one, a big one, a hu-u-uge one!" she shouted, so that her voice echoed off the trees. A fish leaped out of the water for a moment. The sun sparkled on its skin and made the spume look like snow. It had to be a yard long. I thought for a moment that I was dreaming.

Amanda reeled in the line slowly at first, and then let the fish run with it. Zzzzzzzzzz, it went, and then she reeled it in: Click-click-click-click. Then she let it out again. This woman was playing with a full-grown muskellunge in the South Branch of the Zumbro River!

"Reminds me of the time I fought the biggest musky ever caught in Sawyer County, Wisconsin. It was in one of those spring-fed lakes up there." Zzzzzzzzz. Click-click-click. "Anyhow, that thing and I went at it for a good solid hour before I finally got 'im. Let 'im go, though. Little lady like me, catchin' a musky like that, well, y'know, people would talk, and they wouldn't call me no lady, if you know what I mean. So I lettim go. Saddest moment of my life." Zzzzzzzzzz, click, click. "But ya do what ya gotta do."

"What you gonna try for next?" I asked, "A barracuda?"

"Dunno," said Amanda. "Might try. But I'd have to git up a lot of wantin' power in me to do that, and I'm pretty lazy this mornin'." Zzzzzzzzz, click-click-click. "Here he comes in, now. Yeah! Whoo! See this fella. Just look at them jaws, will ya! Holy cow. He coulda bit my line clean off, this one." She lifted the fish out of the water with some effort, its weight nearly making her lose her balance. That fish sure did look like a musky, or I'll be ... well, a crappie. That fish thrashed around, sending off spray like a dog after a bath. Amanda didn't flinch, but dislodged the hook and heaved the fish back into the stream.

"Somebody else'll have a good time with that," she said.

"You're not gonna keep it?" I asked.

"Oh, y'know, well, who'd believe I got that thing in this stream?"

"I see your point."

"Or anywhere. Ladies don't catch muskies."

"Why not? Try for a barracuda. Just do it," I said.

"Oh, what the hey," said Amanda. She began to whistle again. No melody, no rhythm. The instant she started her tweeting, the birds stopped theirs again. Just like before. Then I saw a whole flock take off and fly away. Can't say I blamed them.

Amanda put her pole in the water along with the line.

"Won't that spook the fish away?" I asked.

"Not barry-kooda. It'll 'tract 'em," she said. Then she pulled the pole out, baited it with something I didn't see, turned her face to the sky, and began to chant: "Ah foo ya moo. Ah foo ya moo!" I looked up, and there was the moon, a cut-off fingernail in the powdery-blue, hot sky.

"Lord," I muttered. "Why me?"

"What's that?" asked Amanda, stopping her incantation.

"Nothing."

"Well, ya gotta be quiet, if I'm gonna get any barry-kooda. Barry-koodas, they hates noise. Ah foo ya moo-oo-oo!" She tossed the line into the stream.

"Right."

"Ah foo ya moo-oo-oo!"

"The same to yoooo!"

"Ya better stay out of the water, too," said Amanda.

"Sure," I said, getting out and sitting on the bank.

I'd hardly had a chance to sit before there was a splashing noise and the water became active with foam and spray. "By golly, there's a bite already!" shouted Amanda. Her pole again bent into a half circle. But this fish didn't jump; it took off, and the reel sang. "Hope I have enough line," said Amanda. "These barry-koodas, they swim and swim, and ya gotta give 'em lots of line."

"Why me?" I asked the moon.

"Wheee!" Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

Finally Amanda started to reel the fish in, whatever it was. Click-click. Then a pause, then another click-click. "These 'koodas, they got lotsa energy. Can play with 'em for hours. Used to catch 'em down in the Keys. Ever been to the Florida Keys?" Click-click ... click-click.

"Yeah. For five months," I said. "I remember they told me to take off jewelry before I got in the water."

"Yep. Attracts barry-koodas. That's the bait here," said Amanda.

"What?"

"My weddin' ring."

"What!"

"Ring and a lure. Works every time."

"Oh, for cryin' in a bucket!"

"When were you in the Keys?" asked Amanda. Click-click-click.

"Couple three years ago," I said.

"How'd you like it?"

"Great." Zzzzzzz! Click-click-click. "Had lobster every day, or shrimp, six bucks a pound, right out of the water. And screwdrivers. Rum screwdrivers. Jamaican rum. Hundred and fifty-one proof. Fresh-squoze orange juice. Lived on the ocean. Fully furnished three-bedroom house, for nothin' plus utilities."

"How'd you manage that?"

"Did a guy a favor once, and he returned it."

"Do much fishin'?" Click-click.

"Naw. Just bought the stuff from some folks down the road. Rode this same bike. Bought this bike down there, matter-a-fact." Click-click ... click-click-click.

"Shoulda gone fishin'. Tarpon are really sump'n' down there. Now there's a feisty son-of-a-sea-cook, them tarpon." Click-click.

"Got a lotta line there to reel in," I said.

"Yep. But I'll gittim. I'll gittim so you can see there can be barry-kooda in the Zumbro," said Amanda.

"Right."

"You don't b'lieve it, do ya?"

"Nope."

"Wait 'n' see." Click-click.

The sun had risen higher and was hot on my chest. I like the sun and the wind and the rain, but the sun is best of all. Got used to it in Florida. The salt-water mosquitoes down there, though ... I tried to kill all of them.

Finally Amanda got the fish in. It looked like a cross between a musky and a northern. But I recognized the mouth, that mean snarl. If it wasn't a barracuda, I'll be a sunnie.

"I can't stand it," I said.

"Just a little barry-kooda," said Amanda. "I guess there are barry-koodas in this stream, if you want 'em bad enough. Sure took some wantin', though, for this old woman at this hour."

"Barracuda are salt-water fish, and this is fresh water," I said.

"They can adapt."

"Barracuda are found in the tropics and subtropics, and Minnesota is not in that category."

"They can adapt."

"Barracuda are not cold-water fish."

"They can adapt," said Amanda.

"What'd he do? Swim on up from New Orleans?" I asked.

"Musta. He knew I was gonna call, and he came."

"Right."

I looked at the fish closely. It had gone for the ring and had swallowed it completely.

"Now I gotta get the ring out," said Amanda.

"Good luck," I said.

"Oh, I'll just let the fish die, and then take it out."

"You aren't going to throw it back?"

"Nope. He'd never make it back to the Gulf from here."

"I suppose not."

"Better lettim die quick, now that his mission in life is done," said Amanda.

"Right," I said.

"That was tiring. I'd get a tarpon if I had the energy. But I don't think I can do that no more. Was a day, though. Never forget the time I got a tarpon in the Boundary Waters--"

"Oh, horseradish!"

The fish stopped wriggling, finally, and Amanda flicked his side a couple of times to be sure he was dead. One thing you don't want to do is stick your finger down the throat of a live barracuda. Then Amanda took the lure and the ring out of the fish's gullet. "Bye, bye, fish," she said, tossing the corpse into the water. It floated downstream, a silver shard out of its place.

"Wonder what people will think if they find that thing in this stream?" I mused.

"Don't know," said Amanda. "Don't care. Now a tarpon, they'd never mistake that."

"Of course not. Minnesota farmers all know what tarpon look like."

Amanda pulled a worm from her pocket, impaled it on the lure, and placed her line back in the water.

"You carry worms in your pockets as a reg'lar habit?" I asked.

"Sure. Lures, worms, beetles ... fish food. What else would I wanna put in my pockets?"

"Oh, I don't know. Stupid question, I guess. What you goin' for this time?"

"Whatever," said Amanda.

"Carp or perch, most likely."

"Prob'ly."

"Better be going. Got a long workout ahead of me," I said. "And then those blueberry pancakes and stuff."

"Have a good one," said Amanda.

I went back to my bike and put it on the trail.

I'd gone maybe half a mile when a pickup truck came down the trail towards me. As it got close, I saw that it was loaded up with glass tanks.

"Seen a lady fishin' 'round here?" asked the driver of the truck, an elderly man who wore a floppy hat.

"Yeah, just down the trail by the bridge."

"Danged Amanda, I told her not to fish near bridges and such. People might come by. Oh, well."

"Yeah, that's her. You oughta see the stuff she's been catchin' in that stream. You know her?"

"She's my wife," said the man.

"Oh," I said.

"Like what sorta things she pullin' out?"

"Well, actually, uh, you probably wouldn't b'lieve me if I told you."

"Don't say no-o-o more. I'm gonna have a long talk with her. Women! Don't never marry one who likes to fish!" He laughed. Then he drove on by, making room for me to pass. The tanks, in the back of his pickup, had water and fish in them. Some of the fish were big. Really big.

"Aha," I muttered. "Takes all kinds to make a world." That was Amanda's trick! Her husband was planting the fish upstream. I wondered what the Department of Natural Resources would have had to say about putting exotic fish in the Zumbro River? Well, I'd never tell on those old fools. We all gotta get our thrills somehow. Must've been a one-time thing, anyway. I never saw Amanda or her husband again after that day.

I got to Pine Island, and the sun was high enough to use as an excuse to sit out. I got off my bike and set my shirt on the grass by the North Branch of the Zumbro. I plunked down on it. Some girls were playing volleyball nearby, and they whooped at me. Well, I thought, Amanda gets her jollies one way, and I get mine another. I stuck my earphones in and turned up the decibels. There was the progressive rock, pounding away.

Then a splashing in the river caught my attention. I stood up, popped the earphones out like corks from champagne bottles, and went down to the bank to get a closer look.

"Oh, mama!" I shouted.

"Whoo!" came a chorus of female voices.

"C'mon down here and check this out!"

Half a dozen sunburned maidens came my way. But before they saw the creature in the stream, it waved a snout at me, peeped a couple of times, and vanished.

If that wasn't a porpoise frolicking in the Zumbro River on that midsummer day, I'll be a tarpon. Wait. I take it back. If the angels get any more ideas, I'll be swimming in some lake somewhere, someday, and Amanda will reel me in.

Copyright 1998, 1999, 2000 by Francisco Carrera.