The Hen Lake Inlet
Steve waits barefoot on the shore of Hen Lake. Waves crest, leaving a dark line across the bed of pebbles at the concrete boat launch that descends into the water. He paces the beach poking around the sand and cattails collecting flat rocks. As he tosses them sidearm they skip across the surface, breaking the glare of the afternoon sun. Even in early June the weather is still cool. The chill in the air keeps the usual crowds from forming at the public access portion of the lake. Again, checking his wrist for the time there is nothing but a tan line where his watch usually is. He hasn’t worn it. The habit is hard to break.
Steve walks back up the slope. His face flushes with relief at the sound of a truck coming down the dirt road. Seconds later, Marty’s red Scottsdale emerges through the break of trees as it kicks up a cloud of dust. The full size pickup dwarfs Steve’s economical S-10 parked next to the outhouse. An old canoe is angled upside down in the bed of Marty’s truck and extends out and over the tailgate.
Marty springs out of his truck. “Sorry I’m late.”
Steve waves it off.
“Had to change from my church clothes,” Marty says on his way around to the back of the truck. He’s one of those guys who’s always in a hurry no matter what he is doing or where he is going. His tall, lanky frame makes walking fast easy and natural.
“I don’t know why you’d even want this old thing,” he says as he smacks the side of the old, dented canoe.
“It’s better than what I’ve got—which is nothing,” answers Steve as he pulls two cans of Lite beer from the cooler in the bed of his truck and tosses one to Marty. He catches the can with one hand, taps the tab with his fingertips and cracks it open. Steve is quite the opposite of Marty. Tens years or so younger. Short and pudgy. Single. Instead of showering before he left the house he just used the old reliable trick of wearing a ball cap to hide the fact he hadn’t showered or even combed his hair. “And I’m not jaded like you lucky sons of bitches who’ve lived right on the lake for so long they don’t appreciate it anymore.”
Marty smiles.
Steve continues, “I’m just going to paddle out on the water and get away from it all.” He opens his beer. “My truck, my phone, e-mail. Just get away from all this…” he searches for the perfect word, “chaos.” Steve sees an entirely different canoe than Marty does. A fresh coat of paint and few strategic blows of a mallet, maybe a foam cushion for the bench and she’ll be as good as new. The dirty and dented canoe still has plenty of float left in her.
“Are you at least going to hook a few bass while you’re getting away from it all?” Marty asks. “Here, I’ll help you put her in your truck.” Marty sets his beer can on the wheel well then lowers the tailgate and turns the canoe right-side up and flat on the bed.
“Of course. Largemouths, smallies, pike. Whatever’s biting.” Steve answers as he puts two faded oars into the canoe and lifts his end. “Remember that spot where all those lily pads are, just on the other side of the cove?”
Marty’s eyes seem impatient. He had introduced Steve to that spot last summer. “Yeah, I know where you mean,” he says as he walks backward carrying the canoe.
“Not in the truck,” Steve reverses their direction, “in the water.”
Marty chuckles. “Too much chaos?” He asks and looks around. They are the only ones in the public area, at the launch or at the small park next to it.
“I’m going to paddle right down that stream on the other side of those lilies,” Steve continues, “remember we wanted to go back there but we couldn’t fit because we were in your pontoon?”
“I remember you wanting to go back there.” Marty rubs his jaw. “That’s the inlet. Just a spring back there somewhere that feeds into the lake.”
“Well, I just want to see where it goes.” Steve walks his end of the canoe into the water. The temperature is just cold enough to send a chill up his spine, but after a few seconds he finds it refreshing. He guides his end out as Marty loweres the other end. Steve begins to step into it, and then stops. “Shit. Almost forgot my gear,” he says as he jogs back to the bed of his truck and grabs a fishing pole and a tackle box. “I’ll just go back until I find the spring,” Steve says on his way back.
Marty shakes his head and pulls the canoe so it is parallel to the shore. “You know it’s all swamp back there right? That’s why there ain’t no houses or cottages. Can’t build on that ground.”
“That doesn’t matter, as long as the water is deep enough to float down, that’s all I care about.” Steve puts his gear in the canoe and makes one more trip back to the truck.
“You know, I’ll bet you can just use one of those satellite maps on Google and see where the inlet goes, you don’t have to waste your time paddling back there.”
“Waste my time?” He asks while carrying his cooler. “Seeing where it goes while sitting in front of a computer, now that’s a waste of time. Don’t you have any Lewis & Clark in your blood? I want to discover where it goes.” Steve arranges his gear and the seat cushion floatation device with tan-yellow foam bursting out at the corners.
Marty makes his way back to his truck and grabs his beer. “We don’t have much unchartered territory left here in Roosterville. I’m going to conquer the land and everything Mother Nature can dish out on my way.”
“If you say so, boss.” Marty takes a long swig of his beer and finishes it. “I guess it’s all over but the crying?”
“Oh, right.” Steve takes the hint, reaches in his pocket and hands Marty a folded fifty-dollar bill. “Thanks for bringing it down here.”
“You want me to write out a receipt or anything?”
Steve shakes his head. “Nah. I don’t need one.”
Marty opens the cooler and holds a beer up in a permission asking manner. Steve nods. “Remember the two rules about canoeing,” Marty says as he opens the beer.
Steve senses Marty is telling a joke. “What are those?”
Marty walks backward toward his truck. “Rule Number One: Never stand up in a canoe.”
Steve climbs into the canoe, nearly toppling over the other side as he plops down onto the bench. “And the second rule?” He asks as he rights himself on the seat and gatheres up a paddle.
“Never forget rule number one.”
“All right. Thanks,” Steve paddles out away from the shore. “See you at work tomorrow then.”
* * *
Amidst the sun and breeze of a June Sunday, Steve pushes half a nightcrawler onto the curved hook of a neon yellow jig-head and casts his line out just in front the furthest reaches of the lily pads. The bait splashes down, sending rings radiating out from where it enters the water. Floating a good twenty feet from shore, he reels in just enough to keep the line taut.
The far end of the lake doesn’t have any sandy beaches. Just overgrown brush. Weeds and bushes flourish along the bank. Sumac trees are so hearty that the stalks are more like trunks and are thick enough to have bark. They spread in an easily distinguished path and are the tallest of the plants near the water. Willows, oaks and maples stand proud and high further back, but up near the shore the land is ruled by sumac.
The gentle current and motion of the waves turn Steve and the canoe around as he waits for a strike. Backward to his line, he holds the pole up and over his body in one hand and quietly turns the canoe around by maneuvering an oar with his other hand and arm. He guides himself onto the edge of the lily pads. The thick, dense leaves help keep him from drifting. Once he straightens out he brings the paddle back toward his feet, catching the side of it against the thin trim piece on the edge of the canoe with a loud thump. The noise is loud enough to spook any fish that might be nearby. Any fish worth catching anyway, dozens of small bluegill swim next to the canoe undisturbed by the noise. He bites his bottom lip and hopes any bass nearby feel the same as the gills.
Steve, smooth and slow arcs his pole back, creating slack in the line, and then arcs forward again as he reels the line tight. The jig drags the bottom, ten feet deep or so, along the row of the plants. Without warning the line goes tight and yanks Steve’s pole down in a half circle. The strike nearly pulls the pole right from his hands. His heart races as he pulls back hard to set the hook.
This is the thrill that brings him back to the water time and time again. The fish swims into the weeds, jerking Steve and the canoe forward. Steve reels in and the fish swims out counteracting Steve’s sweaty handed efforts. The tip of his pole darts left and right. He steadies the cork covered handle against his stomach and starts to rise to his feet. The canoe rocks, reminding him of Rule Number One. He plops back down. The fish bolts out from the weeds in what turns out to be a fatal mistake.
Out in the deep water there are no clusters of rocks or sunken logs to snag the line. Steve just has to let the fish tire itself out. The bass fights like one of the bigger ones he’s landed in his life, but it isn’t until it surfaces, shakes in mid air trying to throw the hook, and then splashes back down into the water that Steve realizes how big the fish is. Smack. The same sound the kids at the pool make when they do belly smackers off the diving board. A real beast is on the line.
After a respectable fight Steve reels the bass next to the canoe. So exhausted it can’t swim. It only manages to keep itself upright as Steve pulls it in sideways. The curve of its green skinned head breaks the surface. The spines of its dorsal fin stiffen and fan out. Then as if conceding defeat, they lay down flat. When Steve’s arm reaches down for it, somehow, it finds one last burst of energy. The run is short. Nine or ten feet. Steve reels it back up next to the canoe, leans out as far as he can and scoops it into his net. The fish shakes, nearly causing the handle to falls from Steve’s grip. He lets his pole go. It drops down into the front of the canoe and he lifts the netted fish out of the water with both hands. It is an awkward movement to make without tipping the canoe over. Sliding forward as he lifts, he slips off the bench and lands on his ass in a puddle of dirty water. The fish and the net are on his chest. He laughs out loud and doesn’t even notice he is soaked.
With the fish still in the net he hooks on his scale and holds it out in front of himself. The muscles in his forearm bulge out as he holds it steady. Just over eight pounds. He glances around the lake to see if anyone else has witnessed the event as he scoots back up onto the bench. People are out in their yards, but they pay no attention. Even if anyone cared he is too far away to recognize what a catch he has made.
Holding the fish flat against the bottom of the boat with his foot he pulls the measuring tape out of the end of the scale. The numbers on the first section of the tape are barely legible. The ink is chipped away from use. Past the twenty inch mark or so, the seldom used area, the numbers are still clean and sharp. The trophy came in at an even twenty-three inches.
Twenty-three inches. Just over eight pounds. By far his personal best. Worthy of mounting. He couldn’t wait to tell Marty, who had lived on the lake for years and never caught a trophy like this, at work tomorrow. He hadn’t brought a bucket to put any keepers in. Time to improvise. The cooler. Of course. After removing one of the three beers to make more room, he slides the fish out of the net and into the cooler. The ice is half melted. The cubes that remain float in water. The bass is tired enough and has been out of the water long enough that it doesn’t even protest. It just sinks down and rests flat on the bottom.
Steve opens a beer in celebration, wishing someone was there with him to witness it, and to help him commemorate the catch. The thought crosses his mind to go right over to Marty’s place. But he came out here to explore the inlet, not to gloat about his fishing skills. He could do that later, after he finds the source of the stream that feeds Hen Lake.
* * *
Steve paddles upstream against the slow current of the inlet. It is perfect. He can use his energy to paddle in, then after he finds the spring, he can relax while the stream guides him back to the mouth of the lake. No plants grow on the bottom. A stark contrast from the main body of Hen Lake which is among the weediest lakes he has ever been to.
The moving water is pristine. Clean and clear. Mud along the shore and under the water below him is all as dark as night. Plant life thrives along both sides of the small stream. For long stretches there is no visible dirt along either bank. The green of the plants meets the water. Occasional breaks reveal patches of mud thick with footprints of wildlife. Deer, rabbit and coyote have all drank from the stream. The stream starts out at a slight angle, then about fifty yards down it makes a ninety degree turn. Once he is past the bend the lake is already obstructed from view. Venturing into the unknown comes with one downfall: mosquitoes flock to him. He opens his tackle box and roots around in the bottom portion among the zipper bags of soft plastic worms and fake minnows until he sees his spray bottle of insect repellant.
Gliding along through more bends and curves as whippoorwills call out around him, he steers around a fallen tree then hits a shallow stretch. The long dead branches reach out toward him like a giant skeletal hand. Beyond its grasp is just enough room to make it past and continue on. But the water is too shallow. The canoe runs against the bottom letting out a loud protesting scrape as it comes to a standstill. Steve rocks forward and back to force the canoe along. The method is effective. Slow, but effective. Impatient, he puts the blade of his oar against the ground, just inches underwater and pushes in attempt to move gondola style, but the oar merely sinks into the mud. Grainy muck, black as tar, sticks to the paddle. He shakes most of it free with a swing of the oar and is rewarded with a stench that hangs in the air. It smells of rotten compost and stagnant water. Once he has the canoe back in water deep enough to float on he swishes the oar creating a cloud of dust below the surface. The paddle comes out clean but the stink lingers and clings to his nose, his hands and his shirt.
* * *
Steve curses himself when once again he checks his wrist for the time only to recall he hasn’t worn his watch. The backside of it had the words WATER RESISTANT etched onto it. RESISTANT was too iffy for him. If it had said WATER PROOF, he would have worn it. The position of the sun, somewhere below the tree line, coupled with the pain in his lower back and the cramping in his legs tells him he’s been in the canoe for a good couple of hours. Over two, maybe as many as three. He has probably been on the river of the inlet for an hour of that. The journey is slow, but he must be going at least three or four miles per hour. The inlet is much longer than he had expected. He smacks a mosquito biting his thigh. Blood smears in a line across his leg.
Steve considers turning around. He’s back far enough to have a good story to tell, and he needs to get out of the canoe. If it takes him another hour to get back out, he won’t be able to walk upright for a week. Up ahead the stream runs shallow again and turns into a big circle of muck and slop. The swampy area encompasses a good half acre. On the far side the ground rises up in a small hill. Cascading down the center of it is a tiny waterfall. A fresh spring. The source of Hen Lake. Exactly what he set out searching for is there in front of him in all its anticlimactic glory. The arc of water gushing from the ground is all of about six inches in width and two feet of height and has long ago eroded itself into the mound of earth it rises from. Steve feels some satisfaction that he has conquered the river, but no rejuvenating sense of victory. No new found sense of vigor or relief from the aches caused by the discomfort of the canoe’s bench.
The canoe digs into the muck of the swamp. Steve paddles backward to deeper water and with a wide swoop starts to spin. The canoe turns about ninety of the one hundred-eighty degrees he needs and comes to a stop. The rear is hung up in the shallow sludge of mud and dead leaves.
He rocks back and forth. It doesn’t help. If anything he only burrows himself deeper into the muck’s hold. He pushes the oar against the bottom. It just sinks in. He tries to reach out for the branches of trees along the bank. They are too far away. He is stuck. A mosquito flies near his ear. The buzz sound of its wings in his ear send a chill down his spine. With a cupped hand he smacks at his head and pokes his pinky into his ear canal. Few things in this world are as grating as a mosquito buzzing in one’s ear.
Over and over again Steve rocks and digs the oar into the muck, wearing himself out as he pushes. Crevices burp and whistle as water fills them and forces air trapped below the soil to the surface.
“Fuck,” he says to himself. He leans on an elbow and lifts his ass up off the bench so blood can flow and he can reposition his back. It’s not much relief. He has only one more trick to try and free himself from the sludge. He’ll have to get out and push. But it’s risky. Leeches might be in the shallows.
He moves the oar down under the bench. Getting out of a canoe is never easy. It is a game of balance. Too much weight in any direction will tip it. While leaning back and to one side, he licks one leg out and over the opposite edge. As his foot dances across the surface of the water he lifts his body. His foot sinks into the cool muck down to his ankle. The relief of his weight allows the canoe to bob up and float on the shallow layer of water above the earth where he stands, like a flamingo, one foot entrenched and the other hooked over the edge still in the canoe. He shifts his weight to push the canoe back to the deeper water. The canoe glides forward and he tries to hop and jump back in with a burst of momentum. But he can not hop. When he pushes down there is too much give. The muck doesn’t allow him to step off of it, only deeper into it. Down almost to his knee. The inner edge of the canoe digs into the back of his opposite knee. He pulls the canoe closer to himself to ease the bite, and he tries to lift himself back in. The muck protests and its grip remains firm. Even when he leans over and pulls against the far side all he can do is tip the canoe up. The cooler, tackle box, oars and seat cushion shift toward the tilt. It gives him an idea.
Steve grabs the cushion. The shallow water is about the same depth as the thickness of the cushion. He floats it, lifts his opposite leg out of the canoe and kneels on the cushion so his weight is distributed over the soft bottom. Steadying himself against the edge of the canoe he leans on the cushion, grabs the far edge and lifts his trapped leg. He feels the suction of the vacuum below the water. It takes all his strength. Slow and steady. The pull of the muck starts to give. His knee breaks the surface. It’s coming. Grains of dirt and sand scratch against his calf and foot. Steady. Easy.
All at once, the canoe rocks over onto its side. The seat cushion shoots out from under him and skims across the water. The tackle box falls out and into the water next to Steve. The oars crash against the bottom of the bench, but remain in the canoe. The cooler tumbles to its side and teeters on the curved edge of the canoe ready to tip over, upside down into the swamp. His free leg, bent underneath him, sinks into the muck and his trapped leg slips back down, deeper yet, leaving him in a crooked and uneven stance. He rights the canoe. The cooler slams back down. Water sloshes and aluminum tinks against aluminum inside it.
Behind him, the cushion rests against the spindly branches of a fallen tree a few yards behind him where the water begins to deepen. Using an oar he stretches out and pokes at the edge of the cushion. He angles the blade, just enough, against the vinyl cord along the corners and pulls it out of the branches. The cushion floats free and is drawn into the mild current. Steve repositions his grip on the paddle and reaches out again. All he can touch is the edge. All he can manage is to push against the corner, which sends it out of reach and further downstream. The cushion spins in a slow circle on the moving water that pulls it further and further away.
Maybe someone will see it floating. At the mouth of the lake some fishermen or pontooners out for an evening cruise will see it and know someone is in trouble. They’ll call the sheriff. All he has to do is wait. Help will come. Someone will see the cushion. Steve watches as it comes to a stop under the hanging branches of an overgrown bush along the water’s edge. He smacks his hand down on the water in frustration.
Mosquitoes swarm and circle around his head. Steve ignores them, reaches into the mud enveloping his leg, scoops out a handful and tosses it over his shoulder. Then again, digging and throwing, digging and throwing. The water stirs with silt. The mud fills back in around his leg as fast as he can remove it. But Steve is determined. Both hands dig. First they are synchronized, dual action buckets hoeing away in an act of futility. Mud and muck splash across his arms, neck and face.
He must be an idiot. What kind of an outdoorsman with any skill at all manages to get himself stuck in the mud in the middle of fucking nowhere? What was it he said to Marty, back at the boat launch? I’m going to conquer the land. Everything Mother Nature can dish out. Not a chance. Not a fucking chance.
“MARTY!” He yells. The only answers to his cry are those of crickets and frogs chirping.
“HELP!” He yells. He digs. The canoe rocks and begins to drift in the commotion Steve makes in the water. He grabs and pulls it back every few strokes. Daylight fades with his strength. Lightning bugs begin to flash. His voice strains, “HELP ME!” Over and over again, as loud as he can yell, “HELP ME!” His throat, hands and arms are all sore.
Steve positions the canoe so he can reach the cooler. Inside two cans of beer, tiny slivers of ice and a cloudy eyed fish float on their sides. Steve opens a beer and takes a long drink. The carbonation both soothes and irritates his throat. He drinks it all down fast and when the can is empty he holds it up, tilts his head back and catches the last drips on his tongue. He crumples the can, throws it into the front of the boat and leans his head into the crook of his arm. It occurs to him. The mosquitoes. Not that they are too bad, but because they are not as thick as before. They cluster in the small spots where his skin is exposed. They can not bite him where his skin is covered in mud. Immediately he digs in and rubs fresh mud onto his skin where it’s still clean, through his hair, and into his ears. A smile creeps across his lips as he watches the pests buzz around, land on his arm, poke about and fly away again. At least there’s that.
Darkness is as inevitable as hunger. Steve opens the cooler. One beer and eight pounds of fish. He’s hungry, but not for sushi. That leaves the beer. Barley and yeast. That’s practically bread. He takes a small swig and rests his head. Above him, one by one, stars poke through the purple sky of dusk. He goes on nursing the beer, and then when it’s nearly drained, it drops from his hand as he dozes off leaning against the canoe.
* * *
Monday morning’s first light wakes Steve. Shivering as fog rises up like smoke from the water in clouds all around him. Mud caked on his arms is dry and gray. It is cracked like a jigsaw puzzle and held in place by tangles of hair. Somewhere in the haze he sees the silhouette of a man walking toward him. It’s a hunter or a trapper dressed in a red and black checkered flannel shirt over thick Carhartt overalls and one of those warm hats with the flaps that fold down to cover your ears. It’s chilly, but they’re not folded down. The figure comes closer before turning toward the row of trees beyond the hill.
“Hey!” Steve calls out in a raspy voice as he bangs against the canoe to draw attention. The man walks along with striking similarity to that grainy camcorder footage of Bigfoot walking through the forest that they show on the Science Channel. In the face the man looks like Steve’s dead grandfather. Only not as the older man Steve knew him as, more like the younger man in the family’s old black and white photographs. The ones where grandpa wore a suit and tie no matter how ordinary the occasion.
In a wisp of smoke the man is gone. If he ever existed. The chill in the air and the water pulls Steve from his half-dream, half- awake doze. His mouth and throat are dry. And sore from yelling. His stomach pangs. The kind where hunger has actually become painful. He opens the cooler. It’s empty, other than a bloated fish in cloudy water. The lid drops closed as he grabs last night’s beer can from under the bench. It has just a bit of weight to it. One swallow. Not even noticing it’s flat and stale he pours the last of the beer into his mouth. With the empty can in hand he reaches out as far away from himself as he can and dunks the can underwater. Air streams out heavy and steady. The dry mud on his hand darkens and falls away. The bubbles slow to a fine line. Steve drinks the water cold and fresh. His stomach clenches in pain. It doesn’t want water, it wants food.
The sun is obscured by the gray haze that surrounds him making it difficult to gage the time, but it has to be early. Very early. Steve opens the tackle box. There might be a power bar or some candy in it. He flips open the side clamps and pushes the twin lids away. The stacks of compartments spread open from opposite sides in a V-shape. Everything is jumbled together from when it tipped over. The bottom section was a mess already. And there, silver and shiny, is a 3Musketeers wrapper. Flat and empty. He remembers eating the chocolate one lazy afternoon. As he recalls he wasn’t even hungry then, just bored, as the fishing weren’t biting that day. He pushes one side of the racks down in a fit. In the split second it takes to close he sees the shine of the steel end of his cigarette lighter. The one he used to melt the frayed ends of his nylon rope fish stringer.
Steve pulls the lighter out. And right there next to it is his Swiss Army knife. Knocking the tackle box out of the way he opens the cooler. The fish is firm with rigor. It smacks down on the lid. Smack. He pries open the longest blade and scrapes it back and forth along the fish. Scales pop off in all directions. He flips it over and does the same on the other side. Under any other circumstances the knife would be too dull and short to clean a fish, but considering his situation it was just fine. Wet, cracking noises come as he saws at the head that looks up at him with one cloudy eye until it comes free from the body. After one long cut along the belly he pulls long stringy guts out of the inside and tosses them into the shallow water behind him. That might attract some catfish. Maybe he should put some on a hook. He cuts into the side of the fish and removes a long strip then stabs the blade into the thickest part of the flesh. The flint in the lighter teases him, just sparking, until finally it catches and he pushes the meat into the flame. The skin sears and stinks with chars. Holding it there for a few seconds, his stomach rumbles and blurs his sense of time. He bites at the chunk of meat and has to rip it away with his teeth and fingers where it is too soft and raw to bite through. No taste. No texture. Just life giving nutrition. All he does is push it around in his mouth as the hot outer edges burn his tongue, the roof of his mouth and the inside of his cheeks. While he chews he has the remaining chunk, still on his blade, back under the heat of the lighter.
He stands there thigh deep in the cold muck cooking and eating his fish. The sun rises higher, burning away the haze and chill of the morning. Somewhere in the back of his head he tells himself Marty will see his truck still parked at the public boat launch. And when Marty gets to work and sees he’s not there, Marty will know something went wrong. Steve takes another bite of fish hoping that Marty figures it out.
Steve walks back up the slope. His face flushes with relief at the sound of a truck coming down the dirt road. Seconds later, Marty’s red Scottsdale emerges through the break of trees as it kicks up a cloud of dust. The full size pickup dwarfs Steve’s economical S-10 parked next to the outhouse. An old canoe is angled upside down in the bed of Marty’s truck and extends out and over the tailgate.
Marty springs out of his truck. “Sorry I’m late.”
Steve waves it off.
“Had to change from my church clothes,” Marty says on his way around to the back of the truck. He’s one of those guys who’s always in a hurry no matter what he is doing or where he is going. His tall, lanky frame makes walking fast easy and natural.
“I don’t know why you’d even want this old thing,” he says as he smacks the side of the old, dented canoe.
“It’s better than what I’ve got—which is nothing,” answers Steve as he pulls two cans of Lite beer from the cooler in the bed of his truck and tosses one to Marty. He catches the can with one hand, taps the tab with his fingertips and cracks it open. Steve is quite the opposite of Marty. Tens years or so younger. Short and pudgy. Single. Instead of showering before he left the house he just used the old reliable trick of wearing a ball cap to hide the fact he hadn’t showered or even combed his hair. “And I’m not jaded like you lucky sons of bitches who’ve lived right on the lake for so long they don’t appreciate it anymore.”
Marty smiles.
Steve continues, “I’m just going to paddle out on the water and get away from it all.” He opens his beer. “My truck, my phone, e-mail. Just get away from all this…” he searches for the perfect word, “chaos.” Steve sees an entirely different canoe than Marty does. A fresh coat of paint and few strategic blows of a mallet, maybe a foam cushion for the bench and she’ll be as good as new. The dirty and dented canoe still has plenty of float left in her.
“Are you at least going to hook a few bass while you’re getting away from it all?” Marty asks. “Here, I’ll help you put her in your truck.” Marty sets his beer can on the wheel well then lowers the tailgate and turns the canoe right-side up and flat on the bed.
“Of course. Largemouths, smallies, pike. Whatever’s biting.” Steve answers as he puts two faded oars into the canoe and lifts his end. “Remember that spot where all those lily pads are, just on the other side of the cove?”
Marty’s eyes seem impatient. He had introduced Steve to that spot last summer. “Yeah, I know where you mean,” he says as he walks backward carrying the canoe.
“Not in the truck,” Steve reverses their direction, “in the water.”
Marty chuckles. “Too much chaos?” He asks and looks around. They are the only ones in the public area, at the launch or at the small park next to it.
“I’m going to paddle right down that stream on the other side of those lilies,” Steve continues, “remember we wanted to go back there but we couldn’t fit because we were in your pontoon?”
“I remember you wanting to go back there.” Marty rubs his jaw. “That’s the inlet. Just a spring back there somewhere that feeds into the lake.”
“Well, I just want to see where it goes.” Steve walks his end of the canoe into the water. The temperature is just cold enough to send a chill up his spine, but after a few seconds he finds it refreshing. He guides his end out as Marty loweres the other end. Steve begins to step into it, and then stops. “Shit. Almost forgot my gear,” he says as he jogs back to the bed of his truck and grabs a fishing pole and a tackle box. “I’ll just go back until I find the spring,” Steve says on his way back.
Marty shakes his head and pulls the canoe so it is parallel to the shore. “You know it’s all swamp back there right? That’s why there ain’t no houses or cottages. Can’t build on that ground.”
“That doesn’t matter, as long as the water is deep enough to float down, that’s all I care about.” Steve puts his gear in the canoe and makes one more trip back to the truck.
“You know, I’ll bet you can just use one of those satellite maps on Google and see where the inlet goes, you don’t have to waste your time paddling back there.”
“Waste my time?” He asks while carrying his cooler. “Seeing where it goes while sitting in front of a computer, now that’s a waste of time. Don’t you have any Lewis & Clark in your blood? I want to discover where it goes.” Steve arranges his gear and the seat cushion floatation device with tan-yellow foam bursting out at the corners.
Marty makes his way back to his truck and grabs his beer. “We don’t have much unchartered territory left here in Roosterville. I’m going to conquer the land and everything Mother Nature can dish out on my way.”
“If you say so, boss.” Marty takes a long swig of his beer and finishes it. “I guess it’s all over but the crying?”
“Oh, right.” Steve takes the hint, reaches in his pocket and hands Marty a folded fifty-dollar bill. “Thanks for bringing it down here.”
“You want me to write out a receipt or anything?”
Steve shakes his head. “Nah. I don’t need one.”
Marty opens the cooler and holds a beer up in a permission asking manner. Steve nods. “Remember the two rules about canoeing,” Marty says as he opens the beer.
Steve senses Marty is telling a joke. “What are those?”
Marty walks backward toward his truck. “Rule Number One: Never stand up in a canoe.”
Steve climbs into the canoe, nearly toppling over the other side as he plops down onto the bench. “And the second rule?” He asks as he rights himself on the seat and gatheres up a paddle.
“Never forget rule number one.”
“All right. Thanks,” Steve paddles out away from the shore. “See you at work tomorrow then.”
* * *
Amidst the sun and breeze of a June Sunday, Steve pushes half a nightcrawler onto the curved hook of a neon yellow jig-head and casts his line out just in front the furthest reaches of the lily pads. The bait splashes down, sending rings radiating out from where it enters the water. Floating a good twenty feet from shore, he reels in just enough to keep the line taut.
The far end of the lake doesn’t have any sandy beaches. Just overgrown brush. Weeds and bushes flourish along the bank. Sumac trees are so hearty that the stalks are more like trunks and are thick enough to have bark. They spread in an easily distinguished path and are the tallest of the plants near the water. Willows, oaks and maples stand proud and high further back, but up near the shore the land is ruled by sumac.
The gentle current and motion of the waves turn Steve and the canoe around as he waits for a strike. Backward to his line, he holds the pole up and over his body in one hand and quietly turns the canoe around by maneuvering an oar with his other hand and arm. He guides himself onto the edge of the lily pads. The thick, dense leaves help keep him from drifting. Once he straightens out he brings the paddle back toward his feet, catching the side of it against the thin trim piece on the edge of the canoe with a loud thump. The noise is loud enough to spook any fish that might be nearby. Any fish worth catching anyway, dozens of small bluegill swim next to the canoe undisturbed by the noise. He bites his bottom lip and hopes any bass nearby feel the same as the gills.
Steve, smooth and slow arcs his pole back, creating slack in the line, and then arcs forward again as he reels the line tight. The jig drags the bottom, ten feet deep or so, along the row of the plants. Without warning the line goes tight and yanks Steve’s pole down in a half circle. The strike nearly pulls the pole right from his hands. His heart races as he pulls back hard to set the hook.
This is the thrill that brings him back to the water time and time again. The fish swims into the weeds, jerking Steve and the canoe forward. Steve reels in and the fish swims out counteracting Steve’s sweaty handed efforts. The tip of his pole darts left and right. He steadies the cork covered handle against his stomach and starts to rise to his feet. The canoe rocks, reminding him of Rule Number One. He plops back down. The fish bolts out from the weeds in what turns out to be a fatal mistake.
Out in the deep water there are no clusters of rocks or sunken logs to snag the line. Steve just has to let the fish tire itself out. The bass fights like one of the bigger ones he’s landed in his life, but it isn’t until it surfaces, shakes in mid air trying to throw the hook, and then splashes back down into the water that Steve realizes how big the fish is. Smack. The same sound the kids at the pool make when they do belly smackers off the diving board. A real beast is on the line.
After a respectable fight Steve reels the bass next to the canoe. So exhausted it can’t swim. It only manages to keep itself upright as Steve pulls it in sideways. The curve of its green skinned head breaks the surface. The spines of its dorsal fin stiffen and fan out. Then as if conceding defeat, they lay down flat. When Steve’s arm reaches down for it, somehow, it finds one last burst of energy. The run is short. Nine or ten feet. Steve reels it back up next to the canoe, leans out as far as he can and scoops it into his net. The fish shakes, nearly causing the handle to falls from Steve’s grip. He lets his pole go. It drops down into the front of the canoe and he lifts the netted fish out of the water with both hands. It is an awkward movement to make without tipping the canoe over. Sliding forward as he lifts, he slips off the bench and lands on his ass in a puddle of dirty water. The fish and the net are on his chest. He laughs out loud and doesn’t even notice he is soaked.
With the fish still in the net he hooks on his scale and holds it out in front of himself. The muscles in his forearm bulge out as he holds it steady. Just over eight pounds. He glances around the lake to see if anyone else has witnessed the event as he scoots back up onto the bench. People are out in their yards, but they pay no attention. Even if anyone cared he is too far away to recognize what a catch he has made.
Holding the fish flat against the bottom of the boat with his foot he pulls the measuring tape out of the end of the scale. The numbers on the first section of the tape are barely legible. The ink is chipped away from use. Past the twenty inch mark or so, the seldom used area, the numbers are still clean and sharp. The trophy came in at an even twenty-three inches.
Twenty-three inches. Just over eight pounds. By far his personal best. Worthy of mounting. He couldn’t wait to tell Marty, who had lived on the lake for years and never caught a trophy like this, at work tomorrow. He hadn’t brought a bucket to put any keepers in. Time to improvise. The cooler. Of course. After removing one of the three beers to make more room, he slides the fish out of the net and into the cooler. The ice is half melted. The cubes that remain float in water. The bass is tired enough and has been out of the water long enough that it doesn’t even protest. It just sinks down and rests flat on the bottom.
Steve opens a beer in celebration, wishing someone was there with him to witness it, and to help him commemorate the catch. The thought crosses his mind to go right over to Marty’s place. But he came out here to explore the inlet, not to gloat about his fishing skills. He could do that later, after he finds the source of the stream that feeds Hen Lake.
* * *
Steve paddles upstream against the slow current of the inlet. It is perfect. He can use his energy to paddle in, then after he finds the spring, he can relax while the stream guides him back to the mouth of the lake. No plants grow on the bottom. A stark contrast from the main body of Hen Lake which is among the weediest lakes he has ever been to.
The moving water is pristine. Clean and clear. Mud along the shore and under the water below him is all as dark as night. Plant life thrives along both sides of the small stream. For long stretches there is no visible dirt along either bank. The green of the plants meets the water. Occasional breaks reveal patches of mud thick with footprints of wildlife. Deer, rabbit and coyote have all drank from the stream. The stream starts out at a slight angle, then about fifty yards down it makes a ninety degree turn. Once he is past the bend the lake is already obstructed from view. Venturing into the unknown comes with one downfall: mosquitoes flock to him. He opens his tackle box and roots around in the bottom portion among the zipper bags of soft plastic worms and fake minnows until he sees his spray bottle of insect repellant.
Gliding along through more bends and curves as whippoorwills call out around him, he steers around a fallen tree then hits a shallow stretch. The long dead branches reach out toward him like a giant skeletal hand. Beyond its grasp is just enough room to make it past and continue on. But the water is too shallow. The canoe runs against the bottom letting out a loud protesting scrape as it comes to a standstill. Steve rocks forward and back to force the canoe along. The method is effective. Slow, but effective. Impatient, he puts the blade of his oar against the ground, just inches underwater and pushes in attempt to move gondola style, but the oar merely sinks into the mud. Grainy muck, black as tar, sticks to the paddle. He shakes most of it free with a swing of the oar and is rewarded with a stench that hangs in the air. It smells of rotten compost and stagnant water. Once he has the canoe back in water deep enough to float on he swishes the oar creating a cloud of dust below the surface. The paddle comes out clean but the stink lingers and clings to his nose, his hands and his shirt.
* * *
Steve curses himself when once again he checks his wrist for the time only to recall he hasn’t worn his watch. The backside of it had the words WATER RESISTANT etched onto it. RESISTANT was too iffy for him. If it had said WATER PROOF, he would have worn it. The position of the sun, somewhere below the tree line, coupled with the pain in his lower back and the cramping in his legs tells him he’s been in the canoe for a good couple of hours. Over two, maybe as many as three. He has probably been on the river of the inlet for an hour of that. The journey is slow, but he must be going at least three or four miles per hour. The inlet is much longer than he had expected. He smacks a mosquito biting his thigh. Blood smears in a line across his leg.
Steve considers turning around. He’s back far enough to have a good story to tell, and he needs to get out of the canoe. If it takes him another hour to get back out, he won’t be able to walk upright for a week. Up ahead the stream runs shallow again and turns into a big circle of muck and slop. The swampy area encompasses a good half acre. On the far side the ground rises up in a small hill. Cascading down the center of it is a tiny waterfall. A fresh spring. The source of Hen Lake. Exactly what he set out searching for is there in front of him in all its anticlimactic glory. The arc of water gushing from the ground is all of about six inches in width and two feet of height and has long ago eroded itself into the mound of earth it rises from. Steve feels some satisfaction that he has conquered the river, but no rejuvenating sense of victory. No new found sense of vigor or relief from the aches caused by the discomfort of the canoe’s bench.
The canoe digs into the muck of the swamp. Steve paddles backward to deeper water and with a wide swoop starts to spin. The canoe turns about ninety of the one hundred-eighty degrees he needs and comes to a stop. The rear is hung up in the shallow sludge of mud and dead leaves.
He rocks back and forth. It doesn’t help. If anything he only burrows himself deeper into the muck’s hold. He pushes the oar against the bottom. It just sinks in. He tries to reach out for the branches of trees along the bank. They are too far away. He is stuck. A mosquito flies near his ear. The buzz sound of its wings in his ear send a chill down his spine. With a cupped hand he smacks at his head and pokes his pinky into his ear canal. Few things in this world are as grating as a mosquito buzzing in one’s ear.
Over and over again Steve rocks and digs the oar into the muck, wearing himself out as he pushes. Crevices burp and whistle as water fills them and forces air trapped below the soil to the surface.
“Fuck,” he says to himself. He leans on an elbow and lifts his ass up off the bench so blood can flow and he can reposition his back. It’s not much relief. He has only one more trick to try and free himself from the sludge. He’ll have to get out and push. But it’s risky. Leeches might be in the shallows.
He moves the oar down under the bench. Getting out of a canoe is never easy. It is a game of balance. Too much weight in any direction will tip it. While leaning back and to one side, he licks one leg out and over the opposite edge. As his foot dances across the surface of the water he lifts his body. His foot sinks into the cool muck down to his ankle. The relief of his weight allows the canoe to bob up and float on the shallow layer of water above the earth where he stands, like a flamingo, one foot entrenched and the other hooked over the edge still in the canoe. He shifts his weight to push the canoe back to the deeper water. The canoe glides forward and he tries to hop and jump back in with a burst of momentum. But he can not hop. When he pushes down there is too much give. The muck doesn’t allow him to step off of it, only deeper into it. Down almost to his knee. The inner edge of the canoe digs into the back of his opposite knee. He pulls the canoe closer to himself to ease the bite, and he tries to lift himself back in. The muck protests and its grip remains firm. Even when he leans over and pulls against the far side all he can do is tip the canoe up. The cooler, tackle box, oars and seat cushion shift toward the tilt. It gives him an idea.
Steve grabs the cushion. The shallow water is about the same depth as the thickness of the cushion. He floats it, lifts his opposite leg out of the canoe and kneels on the cushion so his weight is distributed over the soft bottom. Steadying himself against the edge of the canoe he leans on the cushion, grabs the far edge and lifts his trapped leg. He feels the suction of the vacuum below the water. It takes all his strength. Slow and steady. The pull of the muck starts to give. His knee breaks the surface. It’s coming. Grains of dirt and sand scratch against his calf and foot. Steady. Easy.
All at once, the canoe rocks over onto its side. The seat cushion shoots out from under him and skims across the water. The tackle box falls out and into the water next to Steve. The oars crash against the bottom of the bench, but remain in the canoe. The cooler tumbles to its side and teeters on the curved edge of the canoe ready to tip over, upside down into the swamp. His free leg, bent underneath him, sinks into the muck and his trapped leg slips back down, deeper yet, leaving him in a crooked and uneven stance. He rights the canoe. The cooler slams back down. Water sloshes and aluminum tinks against aluminum inside it.
Behind him, the cushion rests against the spindly branches of a fallen tree a few yards behind him where the water begins to deepen. Using an oar he stretches out and pokes at the edge of the cushion. He angles the blade, just enough, against the vinyl cord along the corners and pulls it out of the branches. The cushion floats free and is drawn into the mild current. Steve repositions his grip on the paddle and reaches out again. All he can touch is the edge. All he can manage is to push against the corner, which sends it out of reach and further downstream. The cushion spins in a slow circle on the moving water that pulls it further and further away.
Maybe someone will see it floating. At the mouth of the lake some fishermen or pontooners out for an evening cruise will see it and know someone is in trouble. They’ll call the sheriff. All he has to do is wait. Help will come. Someone will see the cushion. Steve watches as it comes to a stop under the hanging branches of an overgrown bush along the water’s edge. He smacks his hand down on the water in frustration.
Mosquitoes swarm and circle around his head. Steve ignores them, reaches into the mud enveloping his leg, scoops out a handful and tosses it over his shoulder. Then again, digging and throwing, digging and throwing. The water stirs with silt. The mud fills back in around his leg as fast as he can remove it. But Steve is determined. Both hands dig. First they are synchronized, dual action buckets hoeing away in an act of futility. Mud and muck splash across his arms, neck and face.
He must be an idiot. What kind of an outdoorsman with any skill at all manages to get himself stuck in the mud in the middle of fucking nowhere? What was it he said to Marty, back at the boat launch? I’m going to conquer the land. Everything Mother Nature can dish out. Not a chance. Not a fucking chance.
“MARTY!” He yells. The only answers to his cry are those of crickets and frogs chirping.
“HELP!” He yells. He digs. The canoe rocks and begins to drift in the commotion Steve makes in the water. He grabs and pulls it back every few strokes. Daylight fades with his strength. Lightning bugs begin to flash. His voice strains, “HELP ME!” Over and over again, as loud as he can yell, “HELP ME!” His throat, hands and arms are all sore.
Steve positions the canoe so he can reach the cooler. Inside two cans of beer, tiny slivers of ice and a cloudy eyed fish float on their sides. Steve opens a beer and takes a long drink. The carbonation both soothes and irritates his throat. He drinks it all down fast and when the can is empty he holds it up, tilts his head back and catches the last drips on his tongue. He crumples the can, throws it into the front of the boat and leans his head into the crook of his arm. It occurs to him. The mosquitoes. Not that they are too bad, but because they are not as thick as before. They cluster in the small spots where his skin is exposed. They can not bite him where his skin is covered in mud. Immediately he digs in and rubs fresh mud onto his skin where it’s still clean, through his hair, and into his ears. A smile creeps across his lips as he watches the pests buzz around, land on his arm, poke about and fly away again. At least there’s that.
Darkness is as inevitable as hunger. Steve opens the cooler. One beer and eight pounds of fish. He’s hungry, but not for sushi. That leaves the beer. Barley and yeast. That’s practically bread. He takes a small swig and rests his head. Above him, one by one, stars poke through the purple sky of dusk. He goes on nursing the beer, and then when it’s nearly drained, it drops from his hand as he dozes off leaning against the canoe.
* * *
Monday morning’s first light wakes Steve. Shivering as fog rises up like smoke from the water in clouds all around him. Mud caked on his arms is dry and gray. It is cracked like a jigsaw puzzle and held in place by tangles of hair. Somewhere in the haze he sees the silhouette of a man walking toward him. It’s a hunter or a trapper dressed in a red and black checkered flannel shirt over thick Carhartt overalls and one of those warm hats with the flaps that fold down to cover your ears. It’s chilly, but they’re not folded down. The figure comes closer before turning toward the row of trees beyond the hill.
“Hey!” Steve calls out in a raspy voice as he bangs against the canoe to draw attention. The man walks along with striking similarity to that grainy camcorder footage of Bigfoot walking through the forest that they show on the Science Channel. In the face the man looks like Steve’s dead grandfather. Only not as the older man Steve knew him as, more like the younger man in the family’s old black and white photographs. The ones where grandpa wore a suit and tie no matter how ordinary the occasion.
In a wisp of smoke the man is gone. If he ever existed. The chill in the air and the water pulls Steve from his half-dream, half- awake doze. His mouth and throat are dry. And sore from yelling. His stomach pangs. The kind where hunger has actually become painful. He opens the cooler. It’s empty, other than a bloated fish in cloudy water. The lid drops closed as he grabs last night’s beer can from under the bench. It has just a bit of weight to it. One swallow. Not even noticing it’s flat and stale he pours the last of the beer into his mouth. With the empty can in hand he reaches out as far away from himself as he can and dunks the can underwater. Air streams out heavy and steady. The dry mud on his hand darkens and falls away. The bubbles slow to a fine line. Steve drinks the water cold and fresh. His stomach clenches in pain. It doesn’t want water, it wants food.
The sun is obscured by the gray haze that surrounds him making it difficult to gage the time, but it has to be early. Very early. Steve opens the tackle box. There might be a power bar or some candy in it. He flips open the side clamps and pushes the twin lids away. The stacks of compartments spread open from opposite sides in a V-shape. Everything is jumbled together from when it tipped over. The bottom section was a mess already. And there, silver and shiny, is a 3Musketeers wrapper. Flat and empty. He remembers eating the chocolate one lazy afternoon. As he recalls he wasn’t even hungry then, just bored, as the fishing weren’t biting that day. He pushes one side of the racks down in a fit. In the split second it takes to close he sees the shine of the steel end of his cigarette lighter. The one he used to melt the frayed ends of his nylon rope fish stringer.
Steve pulls the lighter out. And right there next to it is his Swiss Army knife. Knocking the tackle box out of the way he opens the cooler. The fish is firm with rigor. It smacks down on the lid. Smack. He pries open the longest blade and scrapes it back and forth along the fish. Scales pop off in all directions. He flips it over and does the same on the other side. Under any other circumstances the knife would be too dull and short to clean a fish, but considering his situation it was just fine. Wet, cracking noises come as he saws at the head that looks up at him with one cloudy eye until it comes free from the body. After one long cut along the belly he pulls long stringy guts out of the inside and tosses them into the shallow water behind him. That might attract some catfish. Maybe he should put some on a hook. He cuts into the side of the fish and removes a long strip then stabs the blade into the thickest part of the flesh. The flint in the lighter teases him, just sparking, until finally it catches and he pushes the meat into the flame. The skin sears and stinks with chars. Holding it there for a few seconds, his stomach rumbles and blurs his sense of time. He bites at the chunk of meat and has to rip it away with his teeth and fingers where it is too soft and raw to bite through. No taste. No texture. Just life giving nutrition. All he does is push it around in his mouth as the hot outer edges burn his tongue, the roof of his mouth and the inside of his cheeks. While he chews he has the remaining chunk, still on his blade, back under the heat of the lighter.
He stands there thigh deep in the cold muck cooking and eating his fish. The sun rises higher, burning away the haze and chill of the morning. Somewhere in the back of his head he tells himself Marty will see his truck still parked at the public boat launch. And when Marty gets to work and sees he’s not there, Marty will know something went wrong. Steve takes another bite of fish hoping that Marty figures it out.