minnetonka slumber

"There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.
Fat Marty mumbled as he slept fitfully in the warm Minnesota sun.
We had beached on the leeward side of a little no-name island to do shore
lunch and escape the bucking breakers and the sieve of a boat.
To get Marty ashore was no small task. Someone at the golf resort in Bemidjii
had told him some bear mauling tales and I had to lie to him that bears can’t
swim before he would even get off the boat. And then when I told him to
start a fire while I cleaned lunch, he wouldn’t venture far from the beach to gather firewood.
I returned from cleaning the fish just in time to stop him from pouring gasoline from the
boats reserve can onto the smoldering waterlogged driftwood excuse for a camp fire.
I left Marty sulking in the sun while I rounded up some dry wood farther ashore all the time hoping
I didn’t come across the bear that left his tracks near the beach where I had cleaned the fish.
When I returned Marty was sleeping fitfully propped against sun drenched boulders. Sleeping
the sleep of the gods. I didn’t have the heart to wake him even though he owed me for
disabling my fishing guide.
I got the fire going and as I waited for good coals to develop, I looked at Fat Marty and wondered.
I wondered what was the purpose of his traveling all this way to see me. This man, more comfortable in hand made shoes and custom tailored suits than the wool shirt and yellow rain slicker he now wore, had come a long way to suffer a hangover and serve as an indentured servant to a gonzo walleye guy.
He obviously wasn’t a fisherman, so his story about coming up here for the smallmouths didn’t hold up.
And KD had given him my itinerary so it must be important for us to meet.
But why?
I couldn’t help but believe that this had something to do with that CAFO mess we had gotten ourselves into.
Just as I had the slab bacon and potatoes going and a skillet full of golden brown walleye filets bubbling over the coals, and was about to roust Marty from his reverie, I heard the whine of an over-revved outboard. I squinted at the now calm lake and saw a bright yellow camp boat bearing down on our cozy little camp. As the boat came closer I recognized the tanned leather face beneath a fifty mission crush University of Nebraska ball cap. But without his usual trademark smile, I suspected that bad news was on board the boat being driven by ol’ One Tooth Charlie."

publisher's account of fishing with f. marty may 28. 2001