Uncle Bill’s Fishin’ Hole
Despite
the 1,281 acres of drop-off’s, channels, bars and weed beds that Stalker Lake
offered, you could almost always find Uncle Bill fishing a fifty by fifty yard
piece of water a hundred yards off from the crooked tree—just East of the
clearing. I’d grown old seeing the small, aluminum boat, nose up in the
water—a lone angler in the back, propped up by his six-horse Johnson.
Almost every evening you could see the unique profile of Uncle Bill’s boat on
the lake. For decades the man and his boat and that piece of Stalker Lake
in Ottertail County was for me, a spiritual touchstone.
Now,
well over a half century old, I reflect on that fishin’ hole on Stalker Lake
in Minnesota—and I reflect on my Uncle Bill. When I was a struggling,
adolescent boy, Uncle Bill seemingly adopted me one magical summer. Uncle
Bill was long and gangly—not good looking. His hygiene was questionable.
He chewed tobacco, smoked a pipe full of cheap tobacco and had a few teeth left
to his smile. Regardless, I had always admired him—always wondered at
him being a fire chief of my hometown’s biggest station. More than that,
I wondered at the man and his approach to life and his approach to . . .
fishing.
Uncle
Bill fished only with a yellow Beetle Spin. That was it. Only one
lure—not even any other colors—yellow—and only a Beetle Spin. With
that one lure he caught every species of fish offered up by Stalker
Lake—Walleye, Northern, Rock Bass, Bluegill, and an occasional large-mouth
bass. He kept everything. Cooked it all. He was a purposeful
angler. His tackle box was small—a handful of shrink-wrapped Beetle
Spins, a pair of needle-nosed pliers and some swivels and line.
One
magical summer I always went out fishing with my Uncle Bill—and it changed who
I am today. I was an awkward teenager then, and found it easier to go
fishing with my Uncle than my parents and brother. It was a kind of
sanctuary for me—a place of magic. It was only my Uncle Bill and me.
It was like we had secrets that were not secrets at all, but whose value was as
if they really were great . . . secrets.
When we weren’t catching fish and within sight of my parents and brother, we would place an old rag onto our hook and enter into a mock struggle against a most assured leviathan. We were quick about landing the wet load of cotton, making sure it at least looked like we were landing a fish. Hell, at one point we had rags—mock fish skewered onto every tine of our stringer—a virtual mother load of fish. Of course we had not caught a fish, but from any view point over fifty yards away, it looked like we were haulin’ ‘em in like a commercial tuna boat.
That
magic summer we coined a term that we were the Great Ones. Now that
I look back after these many years, there was only one truly Great One, and that
was my Uncle Bill. I remember fighting a largemouth bass as my parents and
brother cruised by on the pontoon raft. Uncle Bill smugly stated,
“We’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast.” Uncle Bill’s gift for
over- and under-statement was keen.
Uncle
Bill sometimes wore different colored socks and shoes. While his frugality
reigned in his life, I maintained he did this to entertain those of us who were
observant. He showered less than he could have and he dressed like a bag
man and baffled people, perhaps more than he should have. Hell, the man
had survived the Pacific Campaign of World War II so, who was gonna judge?
We
were out in his fishing hole that night, decades ago and, as a young man, he
spoke to me of Kamikazi’s diving onto his ship—delivering their death and
destruction, burning decks, swimming under flaming oil and how sharks rolled
their eyes before they bit down. I had lived a bit—I had seen the
horrors of Kampala and Ethiopia, but realized I was a foundling in this man’s
world. My God, how can one function through that kind of horror? He
really never talked about it I don’t think—at least until that night.
We caught few fish.
I
remember he was a fireman on the USS Savvo Island. After the war he had
parlayed that duty and hooked up with the Lincoln Fire Department. He
worked his way to Chief. I remember a bad fire he worked—people hurt,
raging inferno at a lumber yard. We watched my Uncle Bill from the
bleachers of a baseball field—my brother and I. Uncle Bill was gently
offering jaw-breaker candy and soft words. This was a man of incredible
strength.
Uncle
Bill had purchased a cabin up in Minnesota one lot over from our family cabin,
which was purchased by my Grandfather in 1939. Uncle Bill’s wife, Doris,
held no truck with angling. So, for a number of summers, I was Uncle
Bill’s fishing companion. I grew up listening to the stories—eating
the hot, cinnamon jaw breakers and later in life, politely passing on the Red
Man chew offered in the small, aluminum boat.
It
seemed as if I caught more fish and better fish with my Uncle Bill than I had
ever before in my life. I don’t know—but it seemed like a special
magic that would come around us when we went out to his fishing hole. The
crooked tree had fallen down years before, and now we had new metrics to find
the location. After the collapse of the crooked tree we marked off of the
three-trunk birch tree and then finally, resorted to the science of electronics.
No matter. One always knew when you were in Uncle Bill’s fishing hole.
In
2000 Uncle Bill scared the hell out of us. Seemed he was gonna die for
sure—the doctors called my father and I down to Texas where he played out half
of his snow-bird life. He didn’t die and my father and I were rotten
glad of it—for he was sure to have left us a legal mess. In the hospital
and after the near miss, my Uncle Bill and I went through a lot of his last
wishes and that was when it was cast in stone.
Upon
his death, Uncle Bill wanted to be cremated and his ashes thrown into his fishin’
hole on Stalker Lake. Those were the instructions to me in the ICU.
It was years later before we needed to consider his request.
For
a few years thereafter, I went up to Minnesota and spent time with my Uncle
Bill. I went fishing with him whenever I could, I cooked for and fed
him—I sat around many a camp fire with him in front of the family cabin.
Every morning he would help me make a fire in the pit and we would study the
flames and embers, each with a cup of coffee and our thoughts. I cherished
those moments, and more so, I loved the times we fished together and caught
enough blue gills and rock bass to have incredible fish fries. We didn’t
talk that much, really, and in the end of the day, sat silent around the fire
pit, listening to loons call on the lake.
Just before midnight I received the call from the hospital in Macallum, Texas. Uncle Bill had . . . died. I sat there in my living room and balled like a baby. Bad news seemed to always trail in at late hours. I stared at the carpet and realized I must take action. I called his step son’s relatives in the UK and we shared our grief after over thirty years of estrangement. I talked to people who I had not even considered in decades.
But
the hurt hung in my gut. My Uncle Bill . . . was dead. No more boat
profile on Stalker Lake—no more campfires—no more . . . Uncle Bill. I
had a hole in my heart that would never heal. Uncle Bill was . . . like a
unicorn—they no longer made such a magical creature. I made
arrangements.
It
was a mid-July day in Minnesota and I had received Uncle Bill’s ashes from the
crematorium in Texas. I inspected the ashes in the shed to make sure there
were no surprises for the ceremony—there were none. Uncle Bill’s step
daughter was there with her family and my mom and dad were there, as well.
The son of Uncle Bill’s step son had come from the UK. We went down to
the family cabin and just talked a bit—the nuthatches and woodpeckers busily
taking food from the feeders. My father had a Gene Autry tape playing in
the background—Uncle Bill’s favorite music. They talked about my Uncle
Bill, though I didn’t say a thing.
Then, we all quietly walked down the path to the water. Among lush smells of mature forestland, we issued onto the waiting pontoon and a Lund fishing boat. The funeral entourage included me, my daughter, Uncle Bill’s British grandson, my mom and dad on the pontoon with the ashes. Uncle Bill’s step-daughter and her family were ferried out to the fishing hole by a family friend in their 17 foot Lund.
I did not need an electronic device to find Uncle Bill’s fishing hole—for I had been there enough to know it in my gut. We anchored. I listened to my father—Uncle Bill’s older brother, as he talked to the ashes that drifted down through the green waters. I motored us back to the dock through tears as I heard a loon cry in the setting sun.