In the early 80's I was living and working the night shift in Duxbury MN at a facility for kids that bordered a reservation. The only other adult on duty was Skip, a Sioux who lived on the res. Skip and I would talk about fishing and life all night to stay awake and I would drool over his stories of the lake on the res that was closed to non-Sioux. One night we hatched a plan and in the morning he smuggled me to the lake where I fished happily, catching and releasing bass for a couple of hours. Then along came a couple of local guys who DID live on the res and who were more than a little ****** off that I was there. Skip, a decorated Vietnam War vet, practiced the better part of valor when he decided to join me in a retreat rather than face off with his neighbors.

Later that day as we enjoyed some (too many) adult beverages, I hatched Plan Two. He bet me I couldn't take him someplace fishing where HE would be likely to be attacked by "White guys like you were attacked by the Red guys." Never happen, said Skip. Can't be done, said Skip.

It had been raining a lot lately and all the roads in the area were gravel. One in particular had a really big puddle. REALLY big. Like almost as wide as the road and maybe a foot deep or so. Guys working at the local prison had to drive down that road to get to work. So the next morning after work, I load Skip into my car and told him I was ready for the challenge. I drove us to that road, pulled two beach chairs out of the back, set him up in his with a beer and a rod and an umbrella on the little bit of road that was left. We tossed our lines in and in about 15 minutes, I won the bet. Let's just say, we made it out alive but made no friends among the local prison guards. Didn't catch any fish though. Must have been the wrong color bucktails.

After that day we stuck to fishing the normal spots with the normal gear. But the crazies were good while they lasted!