Martha Martha!

After 2 ½ weeks of vacation it was wonderful to finally pull up to our house last night. The past two days on the road were a slow shrinking of the world as we slowly navigated ourselves back to our small lives in the South. The boys handled the trip really well, and although exhausted, bounded and screamed through the house, re-connecting with all those toys they had forgotten in what probably seemed like a year away from home in kid-time.

The trip really made the boys grow up in many ways. Joey’s language has exploded as he is now wielding complete sentences. He is also completely confident in locating the diaper changing station in any public bathroom. Jack’s new mantra is now, "I’m gonna do things the big boy way." He informed us last night that he planned on reading newspapers as well as books, because that’s what grownups do.

One of the vacation themes was the catch phrase "tough guy." This anecdote was shouted at any injury or intimidating situation. When Joey would do a face plant on the gravel driveway up at the cabin, or take a big gulp of lake water; or when Jack fell off the end of the pier fishing, or was freaking out about loud fireworks, we quickly shouted "tough guy!" In response, the victim was encouraged to quickly recover by repeating the phrase aloud (in a monster truck voice, of course.) This came to it’s climax yesterday in the car when Jack was having a meltdown over Joey swiping one of his airplanes. When Jack kicked the back of my seat with angry defiance, Chad informed him that we were pulling over for a spanking; Joey looked at him and grunted in a whisper, "tough guuuuy!" It was all Chad or I could do not to cry and choke for the laughter we were trying to conceal in the front seat.

The constant negotiation of exciting and new situations does make your kid’s character grow and change. The outing on lake Michigan on Uncle Bill’s sailboat was a particular challenge. Jack, although at first wary of being out on the deck when the boat would lean into the waves, soon began to enjoy the thrill of the rushing wind and spray of the lake as we cut into it. Joey who loved the experience at first, soon became sea sick. It was a test for him too as he threw up whevever we would pull the boat around.

One day we took the boys to see the IMAX NASCAR movie with Grandma. Milwaukee has one of the bigger IMAX theaters in the country, and Jack was completely transported by the 8 story high screen which wrapped the sound and car of Jeff Gordon completely around him. Jack watched in awe as he frantically steered his own pretend race car--he was IN the race.

The boys also learned the simple joy of jumping through a sprinkler on a hot day, as we spent one afternoon at my aunt Claire’s house. I think I need to do a separate posting for my 98 yr old great aunt. She is a character in a play. She’s sharp as a tack, is still living in her home, playing Bingo twice a week (making a profit at it too) drinking her daily strong "Manhattan" and smoking about a half a pack a day.

After a week spent in town visiting relatives, we then drove further north again to the woods of Wisconsin where we have a family cabin on a private  lake. By "private" I mean, no public boat landings,and no water-skiers.  Just pristine unspoiled north woods beauty.  This was the magical stomping grounds of my childhood. Built by my great-grandfather, and recently renovated by my father and uncle; it is now a wonderful piece of sanctuary that seems apart from the rest of the world. As my brother aptly put it, "this place puts the "B" in boy." Jack and Joe ran around like little dogs for 10 days, fishing, swimming, berry picking, throwing rocks and sticks, catching and mangling frogs, or just wallowing in piles of sand and dirt. They were completely transformed and distracted.  They were never bored, and always hungry.  They played hard and slept hard, and got really grubby in between.

Part of the magic of this place is it’s wildness. For one, wildlife is everywhere. This year the resident loons came and swam right next to us. The bald eagles, huge magnificent birds which have been nesting on the island for 10 years, had 2 chicks in their nest. A few times the eagles and loons would spar at each other; the eagle diving down to tease the loon, who in return squawked and thrashed in the water. They are forever lake rivals, and the lack of a loon chick this year makes us think the eagles were successful in their constant tactics to grab a loon baby. Last year there were two loon chicks, so I suppose things always even out. There was a great blue heron that swooped from bay to bay cruising the shorelines looking for frogs. The frog population was up, and there were huge bullfrogs all over our bay; at night it was almost difficult to sleep with the choruses of humming and spluttering frogs.

Joey in particular was enthralled by the frogs, constantly begging us to get him one.

"Mommy fwag? please? PLEEAASEE fwag? please catch FWAAAAWGGG!"

We would then catch him a frog, and throw it up on the shore, where Joey would hyper-ventilate as he himself hopped behind it, always a split second behind the frog's escape. When he did nab one, it was unfortunate because he would squeeze it like a tube of toothpaste before tossing it back into the lake. A few frogs floated stunned for a minute or so before they regained consciousness and swam to safety. I felt for them, remembering all the ways my brother and I tortured frogs when we were kids (and we had b-b guns.)

We also saw deer, hummingbirds, turtles, and of course fish. This was the summer Jack began honing his fishing skills. Grandpa bought him a sponge-bob practice casting reel, and Jack became consumed with fishing just like the men. If Uncle Bill was on the pier casting for musky, Jack was on the pier casting with sponge-bob. It was really sweet to see Jack grow up in this way. All is right in the world when a little boy is fishing with his Daddy, or Grandpa, or Uncle.

Fishing is a sport of sorts at our lake. Everyone catches pan fish, walleye, or an occasional bass; but the real prize is the musky (or muskellunge to be exact.) In the main cabin the walls are covered with the hanging trophy fish of my grandfather, father, and brother. The catching of a musky worthy of stuffing happens about once in a person’s life time. I am forever on my quest to be the first woman in the family to get my fish on the wall. Every summer I get closer. Last year I scared up about 4 good strikes (when the fish makes an attempt at your lure), and hauled one small one in the boat. (Small being 26" or so.  A legally kept musky is  36", and a trophy is 40+".)

Musky’s are strong aggressive fish. Part barracuda, part alligator, they are the monsters of the lake. Catching them is really physical work. You have to cast as far as you can, and then reel in a large wooden lure as fast as you can while jerking it down. For my brother, who is also a drummer and has a lot of arm strength; fishing for musky is second nature to him, and takes little effort. With the flick of a wrist he can make the lure dance irresistibly below the surface. For me, it’s takes all my body weight and both arms to get the lure to move remotely in an attractive way to a big musky.

It takes about 50 casts before you might even see a musky follow your lure, another 50 to get a strike, and then, if you do get a strike, you’ve got about a 1 in 5 chance of keeping the thing on the line. If a musky doesn’t hit your lure hard, he’ll spit it out pronto, and once he's missed a lure he will almost never attack again. Their elusiveness and mystique conjures up the folklore of the lake, and a sense of superstition of sorts. We speak of them with respect, as if they were fish with souls and personalities. When you catch a musky, before letting it go you have to spit in it’s right eye for luck and growth. Why this is I don’t know "and yet, it’s always been done." We almost never keep a big musky, even if it is legal. It’s only the trophy fish that we consider fair take. The best time to fish for musky is in dark, windy, and overcast conditions. A little rain, and my father and brother are eyeing each other...it’s musky time.

This summer my brother of course caught several small and even technically "legal" muskies; but the two that crossed MY path were remarkable.

Tuesday afternoon I was sitting out on the front patio of the cabin reading. It was a beautiful clear day, the lake was like glass. I heard the loons calling and looked up to locate them. About halfway to the island I could see something white floating in the water. The loons were diving around it, and then disappeared. I fetched the binoculars only to find the white object was in fact the belly of a large fish floating in the lake. A musky I thought? It must be a big fish. I continued reading, but couldn’t stop looking up to see if the fish was still out there.

After about 15 minutes, my curiosity won out. I had to see what it was. Joey was asleep and Jack was out back with the men. I ran down to the shore, grabbed a small trout net, hopped in a kayak, and made my way out to the middle of the lake. As I got closer I realized this was a big fish. As I came upon it, my heart racing, I saw that it was a thrashing, dying musky. OK- I think, well it can’t be too dangerous, it’s almost dead, we could have a nice fish fry at the least.

But can I net it, with this puny little net? I try scooping it out of the lake and the net reaches only as far as his first set of fins right behind his gills. He’s squirming slightly, and I can tell- he's really heavy. So I lift him best I can, balancing him bent half over in this scrawny little net and slowly slide him into the kayak trying to keep myself from tipping over.

I start paddling back to shore, and the huge fish which is in the one-man kayak with me, starts fighting back. I began to realize my predicament. Small tippy kayak, 25 lb. musky with sharp teeth jumping between my legs and feet, and only a small trout net and kayak paddle on board...no life vest. Hmmmm, I start paddling briskly. Luckily, he tired himself out pretty quickly, and gave up by the time I reached shore.

When I got to shore the boys couldn’t believe it. My brother pulled him out of the kayak immediately and started performing what you would call Musky CPR. He held the fish by the tail upright in the live box at the end of the pier, and started pushing him back and forwards, moving water through his gills.

"He’s just been caught by someone and released. He fought hard...look at the hook marks in his mouth, the boat shock on his tail, he’s about done for, but we’ll see, he’s got to get his balance back. Once they get disorientated they go belly up, but you can sometimes revive them if you can keep them right side up and get the water moving in the their gills." After about 10 minutes, the mighty fish started holding himself upright. "I think he’s gonna make it sister, good job, you saved one..."

Jack was enthralled, jumping up and down on the pier, arms flapping. "Can we keep him Mommy?"

"No honey, a musky doesn’t make a very good pet, we’ll have to see if he makes it, and then let him go."

"Maybe we should name him!"

"Sure, what do you wanna name him..."

"Let’s name him Dave!"

"Dave? Dave the musky?? Ok- we can call him that if you want..."

Jack starts cheering for Dave, "C’mon Dave, you can make it!"

After about 30 minutes we decided to give Dave some space, and went up to the cabin for dinner.

We let him spend the night in the live box, and the next afternoon we decided he was ready to go.

We of course had to get a picture. I mean it was my Birthday and all. So I donned my birthday tiara, and my brother strung up Dave for his photo-op with Martha the musky queen before we let him go.

I thought to myself, "This will be the year I get the big one, this means something, everything has to even out..."

That afternoon things clouded over and got windy, and my father and brother looked at each other. But it was MY Birthday, so my dad got the gear together and took my brother and I out, for the big one. My brother was in the back of the boat, I was in the front, my rowing father was in the middle. We were a deadly combination. The conditions and wind were perfect. We hadn’t gotten out of our bay before my brother had one on the line. It was a young, but feisty musky. He fought well, but was hooked horribly, with the lure through the middle of his mouth, hooking it shut. My brother tried to get the hooks out with a pliers while the fish was in the water...no good, he was hooked too well, and was still fighting. My dad reaches for the net, and for whatever reason, my brother grabs the line.

The line snaps, and the fish swims away with the lure still stuck in his mouth.

We sat there in silence for a moment.

"Sister- don’t ever do that! Don’t ever grab the line!"

"I know THAT, if I know anything-Why did you grab it?"

"I don’t know- I don’t know- I’m an idiot, you NEVER grab the line! That just really sucks! That musky is gonna die."

My father intercedes, "all right, all right, things happen"

"Everything evens out on the lake," I point out, "that was for Dave."

"Yeah- but he didn’t have to take my $12 Suick with him! Man I feel really bad, what a horrible way to die!"

My dad starts rowing to the island, my brother lashing himself all the way.

I forgot to mention another element in musky fishing that adds to the challenge, and that is my dad’s 100lb black lab ‘Bono.’ (Bono as in Sonny Bono--who died the year my dad got the dog, not as in U2)

Bono, like any purebred lab, was made for one purpose, swimming after things in the water. Whenever my dad goes out on the lake, fishing or swimming, Bono follows. And it doesn’t matter how far out on the lake we go, Bono will jump in the water and tail us like a big black shadow. Sometimes I fear for him, that he’ll get tired out and drown. But the dog is a water-beast, and seems undaunted no matter how far we drag him. Even the loons get a kick out of it and sometimes toy with him, swimming around and under his wake.

My father then usually spends the entire time we’re in the boat cursing at the dog, yelling things like "Out! Get outa here!" Or my personal favorite, "Get outa here you NAUGHTY DOG!" ( Whenever he yells that phrase, "naughty dog" I find it hard to keep from getting the giggles.) Bono knows there is nothing my father can do, and if he stays within an oars length of the boat, he can do whatever he wants. So he of course swims exactly where we are trying to cast. My brother always gets really annoyed and starts with the Bono banter;

"Dumb dog! Why don’t you tie that thing up! Ruins any fishing right there, he knows it! He knows exactly what he’s doing!"

"Outa here you naughty dog! Bono! Get outa here!"

"I think you guys yelling is what’s gonna scare the fish away!" I mutter.

So we come up behind the island, where Bono has been making a perfect line right up the shore. I plainly state, "well I’ll be the optimist," and I decide to cast right behind Bono, where he just swam.

I start retrieving my cast when my lure apparently gets snagged on some weeds, and I start pulling hard..."wow" I think, "these are some weeds." So I start yanking harder, and realize the weeds have a huge body and tail..."Uhhhhh guys....uh it’s a fish, I got a fish...I GOT A FISH!"

So I panic, and start pulling and reeling for dear life...

My brother starts to coach...

"Wait! It’s a big one don’t pull..."

I get the fish within 5 ft of the boat, my rod tip is bent all the way over, and snap! The line breaks, and off the monster swims. Another Suick gone in another musky’s mouth.

"Sister, that was a mother musky, you can’t just reel those in, you gotta play with the line, let them have it and tire themselves out, or they’ll just break it..."

"Yeah daughter, that was a mama, he was just in those weeds waiting for something good, Bono didn’t even scare him..."

"I know! I panicked! I’m an amateur. Ugh! I can’t BELIEVE I lost it- that was huge, that was a trophy." I start thinking about my life- like it was some sort of defining moment- I always get the big situations and blow it! I never get the big fish in the boat. I put myself in a mood, stewing about the once in a lifetime fish that got away...we cast for another half hour or so and silently returned to shore, all of us tired and defeated.

In the greater scope of being up north, however, "the one that got away" quickly faded in the wild and rustic beauty of the waning light as it hit the lake that evening. Other than Italy, I can’t name a place that I’ve experienced this type of beautiful twilight, which seems to make everything and everyone glow in an almost ethereal way. Watching the boys play in it made me think of watching some old 8mm film from a childhood past.

The beauty & wildness of God in his creation is awesome, and at times on the edge of frightening. Nothing seems to phase it or change it. This lake seems the same as when I was a girl; the woods accented by sinewy white birch trees, the island in the twilight, the smell of the breezes, the brilliant stars above our camp fires, the humming of the frogs, the haunting of the loons as they call out goodnight. The next day promised more fishing. Maybe the lake would not hold exactly what I hoped for, but it would certainly give me more. The goodness and greatness of God in his creation is more eternal and powerful than any moment of loss.