Minnesota Œmuscle fishing¹

By Jim Pjuimer
Posted 5/29/03

Minnesota Fishing Note:

Minnesota "Muscle Fishing" was invented by the Dutchmen. All it takes is a cane pole, 100# test line, an 80# 20-inch steel leader, a Dare Devil, and a firm lack of patience. You see, it's difficult, if not impossible, for a Hollander to sit still - especially in a boat. The Dutch solution is trolling. Cruising the weed lines, sometimes six poles deep, around and around they go until that pike hits. Then, it's 4th of July on-a-stick!

Troll, troll, troll your boat,

Gently 'round the lake;

Only stop to land a fish,

And catch up to our wake.

Al, despite being Norwegian, had a weakness for cane poles. Unlike the Dutchmen, however, he preferred to still fish. Still fishing requires the patience of a mail box, a bobber nearly as big, and a fillet-size sucker minnow.

We rowed out to the "spot," anchored the Gå Bli Nå, and each stuck a minnow on our hook. Al lifted his long cane pole high in the air. Holding on to the leader, he took a quick survey of the weeds and let go of the line. The minnow swung in a slow, breathless arc, ending in a vertical plop. I had to stand in order to cast my Zebco. Mindful of where my uncle's head was, I carefully lifted my huge bobber and struggling minnow as high into the air as I could. With a mighty heave, I sent the pair on their way like a Will Rogers rope trick.

"Good cast," Al said.

I replied, "Seen better."

Fishing was slow that afternoon, and we settled into dovenskapp (laziness). Under a warm, June sun, surrounded by the rustling of young leaves, we dozed, and so did the pike.

Not all fishing stories are about catching fish. We never had a nibble that day, but it didn't matter. You see, for a few hours, our world was perfect. The warm breeze, the soft whispers of the birch; it would be a toss-up between staying in that moment forever or hopping on the Oliver and driving down the trail forever. Trying to find the words to describe June in Minnesota is like making a bad cast--it always misses the mark.

We arrived back in Summer Lake at 5 p.m. Oliver Standard Time--without supper. Instead of fresh fish that evening, we had leftovers with no mention of cherry root beer. Al and I were well behaved.

After supper I walked over to Harvey's place. He was out on the street playing catch with two of the locals.

"Hey, Jim," he yelled. "Want to play catch with us?"

"Sure," I said. We threw a rubber ball back and forth and got to know each other. The smaller of the two kids was Jimmy Eigersund. He was nine years old and had three older brothers. His dad owned the garage just up the street. Harvey's other friend was Calvin Drammen. He had an older sister Karlinda (that he warned us about) and two brothers. His dad owned the C-Saw Lumber Mill which was just south of Bob's Garage.

Jimmy Eigersund was a fast thinker but a slow talker. Whenever he'd try doing both at the same time, he'd have to stop thinking halfway through his sentence in order for his words to catch up to his brain. Everybody liked Jimmy and I liked him too. Calvin, on the other hand, seemed to have the metabolism of a squirrel, he was permanently stuck in road gear.

When we got tired of playing catch, the four of us took turns riding Calvin's "sykkel" (bicycle) up and down Bergen Street. Passing by Marlo's, we'd give the folks on The Porch a "hats off." They would chuckle, return the salute and continue conversing in Norwegian. Calvin's sykkel (like most of the bikes in town) was a three-wheeler. It looked like a tractor, rode like a tractor, and handled like a tractor. It had two wheels in back, one smaller one in front, a steering wheel instead of handle bars, and best of all--a tractor seat! A special two-speed gearbox gave you the choice of cruisin' in road gear or going slow and pulling wheelies to your heart's content.

The sun set at 8:59 that evening. As the irridescent glow of the lake filled the valley, Harvey asked Calvin about the "what's" and "why's" of the strange lake glow. "Back in 1948," Calvin began, "a flying saucer crashed into the lake and sunk down to the bottom. Every evening after sunset the space people try to get their engine started. That's where the glow comes from. My dad said they come from Mars."

"How come there wasn't any glow last night?" Harv asked.

"Because it was cloudy," Cal shot back. "They don't KNOW how to drive through clouds, because they don't HAVE clouds on Mars, stupid."

Harv looked at me, I just shrugged my shoulders and said, "That's what Al told me." Even though my uncle had told me the truth behind the lake glow (fluorescing of calcite rock) I wasn't going to tell him.

I had so much to write in my journal that night, I didn't know where to begin. After some careful thought, I began: "Very Good day; almost Okay."