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 The woman of the house was a dead ringer for Ma Kettle. |
Fish weren't biting, but
Ma and Pa kept 'em going
of TheColumnists.com
Fishing on the
lakes of British Columbia, Canada can be almost "spiritual”
in nature. The sound of loons as they call to one another wafting
across the mist of a glassy lake just as dawn erupts over the
tree line will wrap you in a cocoon of tranquility.
I’ll save that paragraph for a travel brochure; my story
goes in an entirely different direction.
During the summer of 1985, we were camping at a small lake in
the Caribou named “Loon Lake.” At about eight miles
in length, it was known as a natural hatchery to thousands of
fish and it had produced good catches of Rainbow trout for as
long as I could remember; this year was different.
Every year we would come up to the lake from western Washington
state for seven days of fishing and usually would have our limits
by the end of day five. It was odd that we had nothing in the
boat by the fourth day and the fifth day was no better than the
fourth.
That night, my brother, my dad and I sat around a large table
in our cabin with a local map spread before us. Desperate times
demanded desperate measures as we pored over the map in search
of a lake close enough to reach the next morning. If we found
one nearby, we would haul our boat out and try our luck there.
“There’s one that’s not too far away” my
brother pointed to a lake located about 10 miles south of our
spot and it appeared to be at the end of a good road. We looked
at the name “Hihium Lake” and my dad laughed. “We
couldn’t do any worse there than here.”
Early the next morning we set out for Hihium. With our boat secured
on top of the truck canopy we barreled down the gravel road with
thoughts of five-pound rainbows dancing in our heads; 20 minutes
later we were pushing our truck through some of the deepest mud
and standing water that we had ever seen. It was like Charlie
and Rosie pushing The African Queen for those last few hundred
yards before they get to the lake. Except for the fact that we
had no leaches, our misery must have been close to theirs. We
pushed and pushed until the lake came into site and oh what a
glorious site it was. It was as pristine as a painting from the
Hudson River School with water as dark as a cypress swamp.
The shoreline was void of structures except for a large cabin
that, we assumed housed the proprietors of the launch ramp that
we needed to use. Before we took the boat off the truck, it was
decided that we should make contact with the folks who lived
there so we trudged up the hill to the cabin. Along the way we
passed something that I had never seen before--a double outhouse.
My dad laughed, “We had those back in Minnesota. It was
a good way to get to know your neighbor.” We laughed as
he continued, “We Norwegians always built them as a side
by side but the Swedes built them two stories high. It was kind
of tough for the person on the bottom so it was important to
get the first seat.” We laughed again.
When we reached the porch of the cabin, the door flung open and
out popped a weathered old timer with a semi-toothless grin.
“Howdy, fellas, looks like you came up to do some fishing.”
My brother spoke first. “That’s what we’re here
for.”
“Before you go fishing, you’ll need to come in and
have a cup of coffee with me and the wife.” The old guy
turned back into the house and we followed.
The inside was a fairly well maintained log home with lanterns
hanging from the open-beam ceiling.
“Hello, there,” said his wife as she came out of the
kitchen to greet us.
I had to rub my eyes. She was a dead ringer
for Marjorie Main, the famous “Ma Kettle” of the movies.
Big-boned and sweet-tempered, she invited us to share a cup of
coffee and some pastry with her and her husband. We obliged and
sat down around a large oak table while a plate of turnovers
and cups of coffee were distributed between us.
The talk had turned to fishing and to the wonderful pastry that
we were wolfing down when her husband decided to let us in a
little secret:
“I’ll bet you fellas are wondering how Ma makes such
a flaky crust for her pastries.”
With our mouths stuffed, all we could do was nod.
“Well, you can give all the credit to that varmint on the wall.”
He pointed to a large bear rug that hung behind my brother.
“He practically ate up our garden
until Ma finally got him with the Winchester.” He smiled
as he took a bite of pastry. “Bear lard makes the flakiest
pastry you could ever ask for.”
We stopped in mid-chew before quickly finishing our portions
and washing them down with our coffee.
My brother was the first to respond, “Hey, that was great,
but I think we should get fishing before the morning goes away.”
I jumped up from the table and headed for
the sink to wash out my coffee cup, but when I got there, I found
that there was no running water. I turned to the old man as he
walked towards the door while pointing to a large bucket near
the wall. “We got no running water up here so we haul it
up from the lake and boil it. All our drinking water comes from
this bucket.”
I thought for a moment that this wasn’t so bad until a bloodhound
came running in from the outside, stopping briefly to lap up
a good quart of water from the bucket before dashing back out
the door; my jaw dropped. My brother and dad looked at me but
no one spoke. It was time to go fishing.
Ma and Pa helped launch our boat and Pa gave us some good tips
for fishing the lake but at the end of the day we were skunked
again. The drive back to our cabin was long and grueling but
we made it back none the worse for wear.
That evening we stayed up late to play cards. As I dealt the
first hand, I couldn’t help but start laughing and that
got everyone going. We had no fishing stories to bring back that
year but we certainly didn’t leave empty handed.
©2007 by Kent Holsather.
The illustration from "Ma and Pa Kettle Go To Town,"
enhanced by a staff artist, is courtesy of Universal-International.
This column first posted June 4, 2007.
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