North With Doc: Volume Four

North With Doc — Volume Four

By Greg Knowles

Published by Greg Knowles at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Greg Knowles

Cover illustration by Peter Kohlsaat

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DEDICATED TO

ALL THE MEN AND WOMEN

WHO ENJOY FISHING

NORTHWEST ONTARIO

(AND ANYWHERE ELSE)

AND LEAVING IT

JUST THE WAY

THEY FOUND IT.

Preface

Time flies when you're having fun. This fourth volume of North With Doc episodes begins at the end of 2001 and stretches into 2005. I had been writing the stories for In-Fisherman magazine for twelve years, and the characters were fairly well defined. In fact, I thought they couldn't do much to surprise me that they already hadn't tried. But I was wrong.

For example, in spite of repeated admonitions from Sioux Lookout fly-in guru, Knobby Clark, they still took way too much stuff into the Bush. And most of it had nothing at all to do with fishing. Let's face it: twenty-six pounds of girlie magazines in three big bags takes up valuable float plane space. So do thirty decks of Bicycle playing cards, fifteen cases of Labatt's finest, a Honda generator to charge batteries for a sleep apnea device and enough tools to change the main engines on the Space Shuttle ... just in case.

With careers and raising kids at full tilt, and with me moving from Iowa to Arizona, our annual fishing trip to Canada was often the only time during the year when lifelong buds were all together at one time. Luckily for me, the fifty-one week lapse in outpost fishing camaraderie resulted in aggressive spells of poor judgment and excessive consumption, so it didn't take long for me to get more material for my Bush chronicles.

One other thing that begins to figure in the narrative is the characters are realizing they are no longer in their twenties and thirties, and are not quite as physically able to handle the full-tilt fishing and partying they had once enjoyed.

The boys may be slowing down a bit, but there is still that fire in their bellies. A double dose of Kaopectate is just what the Doc ordered.

Tight Lines & Better Times

Greg Knowles

Table of Contents

Episode 76 – Doc Pulls Off A Snow Job.

Episode 77 – The Fish, Inc. Annual Meeting

Episode 78 – Setting The Drag On Growing Old

Episode 79 – The Bush Dialogues

Episode 80 – Where No Man Has Gone Before

Episode 81 – Hair, There And Everywhere

Episode 82 – Doc Spreads The Joy.

Episode 83 – Salty Doc

Episode 84 – Night Moves

Episode 85 – Hurry Up And Fish.

Episode 86 – Photo Finish

Episode 87 – Doc Moves The Troops.

Episode 88 –Doc Gets Fried.

Episode 89 –Doc Keeps On Ticking.

Episode 90 –Doc Thinks Like A Fish.

Episode 91 –Gack. Snert. Whee-oo.

Episode 92 –What Goes Around

Episode 93 –On The Skids To Middle Age.

Episode 94 –Doc Pedals Some Holiday Spirit.

Episode 95 –Doc Is Politically Incorrect

Episode 96 –Gentlemen, Start Your Engines.

Episode 97 –Doc Gets Even.

Episode 98 –Like A Virgin

Episode 99 –Scratch And Sniff

Episode 100 –Disco Doc

Episode 76

Doc Pulls Off A Snow Job.

Despite six months of hoping and praying to the contrary, Doc's in-laws were coming for the holidays. They would be flying in from their retirement home in Florida. If it snowed—their absolute least favorite meteorological occurrence—they would refuse to leave the house for the duration of their stay.

Mom and Dad just emailed me their itinerary, Mrs. Doc said. They'll be here in two days, so you better get busy cleaning.

As she was on her way out the door to drive to Des Moines for a day of shopping, Doc's wife added that it would be best if they came up with something to do with her folks besides talk about the weather, which is hands down the number one topic of conversation all year round in Iowa, but is extra compelling during the winter months when there are no crops in the ground.

That's why Doc was in his basement, moving his cobwebbed Nordic Track from in front of the dart board, and a tackle box the size of a steamer trunk off the pool table. The exercise machine rolled away easy enough, but the tackle box was a different story. Neither of the catches were fastened when he grabbed the handle so, naturally, the contents dumped on the floor.

Doc's home was vintage 1960s, and was as solid as Aunt Lucy's liver. But while he'd redecorated the upstairs to mirror a Better Homes and Gardens photo spread, the basement was best described as hippie retro.

When Doc surveyed the mess he'd made, he considered running an ad in the Adel shopper (WANTED: arsonist to help move furniture and valuables outside, torch home), and start over with the insurance money. The problem was the rust-colored shag carpet. It was a shade lighter in 1973 before the bottom fell out of the water heater.

Doc leaned over and picked up the body of a stickbait that sported three sets of treble hooks. The lure was anchored so well in the shag loops, it would take tin snips to free it. Wish I could hook a fish that good, Doc mumbled under his breath.

In Canada that previous June, up at one of Knobby Clark's fly-in outposts, Doc had talked the boys and me into flattening the barbs on our hooks. That immediately resulted in far fewer injured fish because, at first, we caught far fewer fish to injure.

They sure do seem to spit the hook easier, I complained.

That's because you've been so lazy in the past, Doc said, counting on all those barbs to hold your catch while you took your sweet time pulling them in.

Need some practice keeping the line tight, the policeman agreed.

Blarrrrrp, the plant manager belched his sentiments.

I like the way northerns come off the hook, the attorney said. Don't even need pliers most times.

Another advantage, the banker added, showing off his thumb wrapped in a fresh Band-Aid, is they come out of me without major surgery.

Doc surveyed the dozens of Rapalas, Dardevles, Big Doctors, Little Cleos, Rat-L-Traps, Krocodiles, Hot Rods, and leadhead jigs imbedded in his carpet, and decided there was only one thing to do. He slipped into boots and a jacket, opened the garage door and drove his new John Deere garden tractor with the enclosed cab and hydraulic blade accessories into the street.

Meanwhile, out in Arizona, I was lounging on the patio in shorts and a T-shirt, sighting in a scope on my Benjamin pellet rifle, preparing for the spring ground squirrel population explosion. While I was inside grabbing a fresh bubbly, I decided I needed to tell someone about the terrific Tucson sunshine, so I called Doc. There was no answer on his home phone, so I dialed his cell, which I swear he even carries into the shower. He answered on the fourth ring. Doc here!

What's all the noise? I asked.

I'm on my mean green snow machine.

Another blizzard?

No, he said, it hasn't snowed in over a week.

Just riding around the neighborhood, getting a tan?

Haven't seen the sun since October, Doc said. Colder than a politician's heart.

I could hear scraping sounds. So what are you doing for the holidays?

Might have company, Doc said. Might not.

Been fishing?

Have a through-the-ice trip planned to Mille Lacs in January, he said. How about you?

Driving down to the Sea of Cortez to wet a line this weekend, I said. Should be perfect, as always.

The engine on Doc's tractor was really laboring. Just wanted to say you're welcome to visit this winter, I offered. You won't need long pants, but sunglasses are required.

I'll mention it to the boss, Doc said. Then, I don't mean to cut you off, but I have to get some work done before Janis gets back from shopping.

No problem, I said.

Later, Doc said, and we signed off.

An hour earlier, there had been not a flake of snow covering Doc's driveway or lawn. But he'd found a huge pile on the parking lot at the nearby school, and another at the end of the street. With expert maneuvering, he'd managed to push several tons against his garage door and bushes, and up onto the front steps. He took a break only long enough to call a Kiwanis friend who had a backhoe with an end loader, and they encased the house in a manmade snowdrift of impressive proportions.

Doc climbed down from his rig, ran around to the back door and retrieved his digital camera. He took several shots, careful not to include the bare roof of the house. He especially liked the one where the flag raised on the mailbox barely showed above the snow.

He put the camera back in the house, and he and his backhoe buddy returned all that snow to where the City of Adel had shoved it after the last storm. Doc thanked his helper, and promised to pay him a liquid salary down at the Rendezvous some night.

Then he put the Deere