By John G. White
Two things a lodge owner will never do is trump you at pool nor admit he’s ever tasted a better battered bass or bluegill. The first is known as “lodge pool”; the second, diplomacy. Both are considered job security.
If you’re like me, and you are, you’ll run into the dude about mid-afternoon en route to the fish-cleaning shack and he’ll make due comment on what a fantastic stringer you have, and how the fish just weren’t biting like that last week.
It’ll go something like this: “Great stringer! Buy it at Cabelas? Say, look at all those fish. Some bulls you got, and a momma or two as well,” as he reaches to massage a catch he used to make before he bought the lodge. “They sure weren’t biting like this last week.”
You grin and respond: “Well, heck, Don, why don’t you just mosey on over and we’ll fry some of these babies up. You’ve never tasted anything tastier than our fish batter in your lifetime!”
“I can imagine,” said Don, answering as if he were just smitten by the hard truth. Speaking of truth, fish batters are like snowflakes, DNA, fingerprints and body parts best left hidden. No two are ever alike. Ever. After a few cold ones, even Don will say this doesn’t necessarily make them all good. Except for yours, of course. Lesson three in being a good resort owner.
I use the name “Don” purposely, for he runs this lodge up in Minnesota’s far north country - or as true Minnesotans call it, “Way Up North.” This is different geographically than “Up North” and simply “North.” To a true Minnesotan, there is no respectful fishing south of State Highway 7, which cuts diagonally across the state through the heart of Minneapolis and St. Paul, from the bookend borders of Wisconsin and South Dakota.
Don’s resort is on Woman’s Lake, right near Walker, which is right near Bemidji which is right near Canada. “Way Up North” in other words. It’s a rocky, tree-lined and picturesque lake, and his resort - All Seasons - is a place even Hemmingway would have enjoyed. Clean and simple, painted and groomed … so nothing is out of place nor in the way. Don was in the midst of some serious life changes when he left The Cities for life Way Up North.
We are actually old friends. Work colleagues. He was the production manager of a magazine I edited. He laid out the ads, after which I filled the editorial hole he had left behind - the sort of work to give one pause for exploring whims of where you’d rather be, such as running a fishing paradise Way Up North on Woman’s Lake. So this is where ol’ Don buried his severance and sorrows.
But, before we take in Don’s present state it is best we revisit his past, for the sake of perspective. Our printing firm had 1,800 employees in its heyday, and was largely an “extended” family. Somewhere, on every working day, someone was having a birthday. Rumor has it that Don had a nose as sensitive for chocolate as is a blood hound’s for plasma or a coyote’s for furry baby lambs. A knife would no sooner touch the cake than Don would arrive with a plastic fork. Almost daily Mr. Big Guy would pass Don in the hallway and ask, “Found one yet?”
“There’s one somewhere,” he’d sniff, taking on the mystery as would a strident Sherlock Homes.
“Good work, my boy! You know my extension.”
Now Don cleans cabins, chalks up for lodge pool with surly teenagers while their father’s angle for walleye and repairs enigmatic engines. This was where Don caught us with the neat stringer and filet knife.
“So,” I continued, “we’ll fry ‘em up about 7:30 or 8.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, wiping the last tinges of engine grease off on a raggy old towel.
Fact was he didn’t come knocking until about 9, and seemed somewhat surprised when we answered the door. “Figured you’d gone out fishing,” a big grin parting his washed and rosy cheeks.
“Well, we would’ve but we were waiting for you. Say, how about a cold Bud and some crispy fillets?”
“Gosh,” he said, suddenly beaming like a full moon shimmering across Woman Lake, “I’d love some.”
As Sharon served him a couple of prime slabs and I popped the can of brew, Don straddled a chair as practiced and easily as a ballerina does a pirouette. “Mmmmm,” he moaned as he bit into the cooled but crispy fillet, his smile encroaching the lobes of his ears. “Just delightful. Simply superb!
“Little Cajun mixed in with the corn meal. For the pop!”
“Oh, my yes,” he said, and I smiled right along with him. In all of our years of friendship, after all those cakes, I’d never seen Don appear happier. “Say,” he said, suddenly rising from the chair, “Number Eight has a plumbing problem. Drop off the recipe before you leave. That’s a sure fire winner! Mmmm, mnnnn!”
We stood by the screen door, arms draped around one another, as Don was enveloped by the darkness headed toward Cabin Eight. We then left for some night fishing but not before seeing him straddling a chair at the dinner table of Number Eight. Actually, as we were parking the boat an hour or so later, Don was backing out of Cabin Two, saying, “Now, make sure you drop off that recipe before you leave.”
After our fish were cleaned, and another beer downed, my wife headed to bed. That’s when I noticed Don stoking up a bonfire down by the sand pit, so I strolled down. “I suppose,” I said, plopping into a canvas chair, “that you’ve had every type of fish batter there is.”
Don smiled weakly. “Matter of fact. No two are ever alike,” he said, poking the coals with a stick. “I figure I’ve had 13,799 versions of Saltine batters. Some Ritz. All the corn meals - blue, yellow and white. I’ve had ‘em rolled in Corn Flakes by Kellogg, Corn Flakes by Post, Corn Flakes by Our Family. Rice Krispies and Triscuits. Rolled in toasted and crumbled French, rye, San Francisco sourdough, wheat and sunflower. Dipped in Bud, Leinenkugel, Jax, and every Miller and Heilman brew sold. I’ve had ‘em in mashed taco chips, sun chips, potato chips and pretzels; dusted in wheat, oat, flax and potato flours, and rolled in almonds, peanuts, hickory nuts, cashews and pecans. Wet, dry, dipped and rolled. Basted in lemon, lime and orange. They’ve been deep fried, stir fried, oven fried, sauteed, baked, boiled, solar roasted, barbecued, blacked and raw. And, I can’t even remember the brands of all those boxed batters.”
He stopped for a brief rest before wearily adding, “I don’t know if there’s a batter I haven’t tasted,” then as if suddenly remembering I was a guest, he added with a smile, “and they were all might good.”
“If you could choose just one, Don, what would it be?”
“Chocolate cake,” he answered, rather emphatically.
–
About the Author:
John G. White, runs a small country weekly in the Minnesota prairie country, and when counting was important had freelance credits in more than 70 magazines. An avid warmwater fly angler, he ties flies and builds rods and cedar strip canoes.