ANOTHER RICHARD LAKE TALE
Lars and Earl, two septuagenarians are sitting by the fire at the lodge one evening. They have been in camp for a couple of days and are not catching many fish. Earl is not in very good shape and needs help getting in and out of a boat. His fishing technique is to cruise the middle of Lynn Lake, the home lake, dragging a giant Ford Fender attractor with a glob worms on a bait hook. He sits on a lawn chair that straddles the center seat, one hand on the outboard control, his rod bobbing away in a holder and he occasional mutters “I think I got one”.
Lars, not withstanding his love of single malts, is in pretty good shape. He is bored with Earl’s worm drowning technique and wants to try fly-fishing. Listening to their conversation, feeling magnanimous, I suggest that Lars should accompany me to Richard Lake the following day.
“Done” says Lars.
In the morning, Lars insists on toting his share of the gear. In fact, he does very well. We hike to the first lake, Gem, and unlock the “ferry” boat. This is a wooden plank Jon-boat. The most important rule of Jon-boats is ‘Don’t pull them out of the water’. The previous group had, obviously, not heard of the rule. The gaps in the floor were ¼” wide. Lars wanted to row but I vetoed that idea. We heave the boat into the water, scramble to get our gear loaded and I row like a madman to get across the lake before the boat sinks completely. We pull the boat onto the log dock just far enough to keep the bottom in the water and I state that the floorboards should swell enough to seal before we have to go back. The trail to Richard Lake is only 100 yards or so and soon we are out on Richard.
I rig Lars up with an Idaho Nymph on a fast-sinking line and, as soon as we clear the shallows, I cast it out for him. I am looking to my own tackle when Lars comments, “Look at that loon following us!”
The next few minutes are just a blur. The Hardy Marquis 8/9 reel on the rod that Lars is holding screams as a fish hits, Lars starts to curse as he realizes that a debacle is coming. There is a major commotion 30 paces behind the boat as the loon surfaces with Lars’ five-pound trout in its beak. This is possibly a record for both of them. Inevitably, the battle is lost and Lars starts to sadly retrieve the limp lime and I am learning a whole pile of new words. Eventually peace and quiet settles in on this sorry scene on Richard Lake. I am now struggling to think of what to say to Lars who appears to be very close to tears. I try “The Idaho Nymph sure gets hits in this lake”. All I get is a few grunts and another string of curses.
We do get more hits and catch a few fish but none of them go five pounds.
That evening around the fire, fortified by single malt, Lars retold the tale of the rogue loon to all present. We all offer condolences. Lars has another single malt ‛with two ice cubes only’.
