Chapter 1 - Pickerel Lake

There’s a big, long turn before the last road that takes you straight to the lake, and I can always tell when we are taking that curve. After that, the next several miles are a straight shot of little hills that roll at a steady pace for several minutes. Even asleep, I could always tell when we were getting closer to the lake, because the smell in the air would change. I was always awake by the time we hit that last hill, because you can look out and see the large northern section of the lake. That was always my favorite part of the drive, coming over the top of that hill and seeing that big, beautiful lake we loved.

Our favorite fishing spot is on the southeast corner of the lake, which is exactly the opposite side of where the road brings you. As you come down that last hill, the road feels like it’s going to take you right into the lake, and it would, if you didn’t stop at the stop sign. In the summertime you would have to turn left or right and keep driving around the lake, either direction being relatively the same distance. That was always the hardest part of the drive for me, because once you see the lake, you can’t wait to get to fishing. Of course, we could have settled for a fishing spot closer to this side of the lake, but that’s like fishing for perch, when you could be fishing for walleye.  

In wintertime, however, the rules change. Once the lake freezes over, it becomes the highway and you can just drive across it. Sure, it’s still a bit of a drive to get to our fishing spot on the other side, but it’s different somehow, less tiring, as if being close to the water makes everything better. Someone would even plow the trails on the lake after new snow falls on the ice, like they’re making roads, so the drive is as smooth as…well, as ice, I guess. The ice road takes us past the state park that lies at the corner of the north and south parts of the lake. There’s always a bunch of ice shacks near the state park, and on weekends there are trucks and people everywhere. Once you pass the park, then it’s a sharp right turn down the southern leg of the lake where our spot lies.  While the northern part of the lake is large and deep, the southern part is much narrower, with more shallow areas along the shore. Those shallow areas are where the walleye live, zigging and zagging between the weeds.

No matter the weather, whenever we hit the lake, my best friend would always reach over and roll down the window for me, so I could stick my head out for the rest of the way. That day the air was sharp as it poured through the open window, enough to freeze the hairs in your nose. But the smell of that crisp clean air, with its slightly musty aroma, was enough to wake anybody’s senses. It was a refreshing change from the heavy diesel fuel smell of the truck’s heater. Not many of the fish shacks were occupied that day, only a few of them had a car outside or smoke coming out of their chimney. This was the normal scene during the week, which was okay by us - less people meant, well, less people.

Our favorite spot is on the southeast shore, where a freshwater spring feeds the lake year-round. Because there is always water coming up from that spring, the lake here never fully freezes over. In January, the open water is not much larger than a doggie pool and it’s too shallow to fish. But as soon as the spring thaw begins, that pool grows large and wide like an Olympic swimming pool. While the rest of the lake is still frozen over, this little gem of a spot is open and big enough to cast from shore.

Spring was our favorite time to fish, as if they had just woken from their winter slumber, and this was the best place on the lake to catch them. That day, spring was still far off, but the open water near the spring made this a prime spot for ice fishing. I think the fish like to stay close to the open water, like they’re waiting for the opportunity to escape or something. It also means the ice is not as thick, and it’s dangerous to drive on if you get too close, so we got to park the truck at a safe distance and walk the rest of the way.

After he parks the car, my best friend, Mark, gets to unloading the gear from the truck. Fishing rods, tackle and bait, plus a blanket for me and chair for him. Mark gets straight to work clearing out the ice buildup on our fishing holes, while I run around and check the perimeter. Once the perimeter is clear, I make several circles around on the ice as fast as I can. It’s always the first thing I do when we get there, because exercise helps to warm me up some, and it’s a lot of fun to run on the ice. I’ve gotten pretty good at running on the ice, if you ask me. Sometimes Mark will try to chase me, but he’s never caught me yet.

As soon as the holes are cleared and I’ve warmed myself thoroughly, Mark will throw down a nice wool blanket for me to lie on. He always brings another blanket to cover me up, in case the wind is blowing hard – which it wasn’t that day. The wool blanket is soft and warm, even if it smells a bit like Mark’s grandfather. I lie down on the blanket and get straight back to my nap, while Mark baits his rods and drops his lines through the holes. He always adds these little bells to the rod, which alerts him every time he gets a fish. Once everything is set, he grabs his chair and sits down next to me, picking up his book and thumbing through until he finds the corner he bent over to mark his page.

I still remember how warm the sun was on my coat that day, for a moment, if you close your eyes, you could almost forget it’s still winter. There was almost no wind, which is kind of unusual for South Dakota this time of year. But you wouldn’t hear any complaining from Mark or me, no wind makes it feel like it’s almost spring. The fish weren’t really biting, which wasn’t that unusual, but catching fish is only part of the reason you go fishing. We could sit out there all day and go home completely empty-handed, and we still had a great day.

Old man Erickson’s cabin was just up next to the spring that fed the lake, and he was pretty much the only other person who would fish this far south in the wintertime. Like us, he never bothered with those silly ice shacks people hauled out on the lake each winter - he preferred to fish right out in the open. And he always fished in the same spot, using the same one hole he dug early in the season. Mr. Erickson’s fishing spot was on the other side of the spring, right out where he would sit on his dock in the summertime. In summertime there was little chance we could hear one another; you would have to yell or something. In wintertime, however, sound carries across the ice as smoothly as a sled going downhill, which meant we could hear Mr. Erickson’s every cough and sniffle. I’m guessing that meant he could hear us just as well, and I would sometimes look up whenever Mark farted, just to see if Mr. Erickson had heard it.

We don’t know how often he came out to fish, because we didn’t always see him when we came out. But what we do know is, when he did come out to fish he never had to wait very long before he caught something. Mark says Mr. Erickson is a ‘seasoned fisherman’, which I guess means he’s better at fishing than we are. I guess one fish was all he ever needed, because that’s all we ever saw him catch at one time. When he had caught his fish, he would head right back up to the cabin and disappear. Mark says he only ever took one fish a day because there’s no Mrs. Erickson to help him eat it, although he’s not sure if there ever was a Mrs. Erickson. I don’t know much about those kinds of things, but Mr. Erickson sure seemed to have much better luck fishing than we did. Some days, on our drive home, Mark would say something like “Did you see the size of that walleye Mr. Erickson caught today, Mac? Boy, that was sure a nice fish.”

Mark always called me Mac. He always tells people it’s because Mrs. Henry is too formal, like I’m some sort of schoolteacher or something. But the truth is, it was Mark’s Mom who gave me that name before she passed, I think saying Mrs. Henry out loud just hurts a little too much. He used to call me Mrs. Henry, but after his Mom died he started calling me Mac…and you know what, I kind of like the name. Anyway, it sounds better than what Mark’s dad always calls me.

Like I said, we didn’t always see Mr. Erickson when we came fishing, but when we did, we never spoke. Despite the fact that, we’re always the only ones fishing at this end of the lake this time of year. I don’t think we’ve ever said one word to him, I guess none of us had any interest in starting up a conversation. That’s not why you go out fishing anyway; Mark would always say ‘if you want to have a conversation, you can go to church.’ Not like a conversation with old man Erickson would be of much use anyway, he rarely spent more than a few minutes out before he caught his one fish and headed back inside.

Like I said, in the cold winter quiet of the lake, you could hear almost every noise Mr. Erickson made. That day, Mr. Erickson was making quite a lot of noise as he was reeling his fish in.  Mark and I watched, politely of course, as Mr. Erickson tried to get the fish through the hole, his rod bent like a horseshoe. Mark put his book down on his knee when he saw how bent the rod was; a bend like that usually meant it was a really big fish. We’re always eager to see just how big Mr. Erickson’s fish are, since we rarely catch one ourselves. Anyway, Mr. Erickson really seemed to be struggling that day. He would stumble forward every now and then, as the fish was fighting back. All in all, it looked like Mr. Erickson was losing ground…and the fish.

And that’s when it happened.

As Mr. Erickson was struggling to pull the fish through the hole, the line snapped, throwing old man Erickson backward onto the ice. You could even feel the hard ‘thump’ Mr. Erickson made as he fell back, a sound that echoed across the lake. Mark wasted no time, dropping his book as he rose and ran over to where Mr. Erickson fell. Mark’s my best friend, so of course, I was right on his heels the whole way. Mark paused briefly, as we closed in, to see if Mr. Erickson was going to be able to pick himself up without our help. But as soon as Mark saw the blood spilling out on the ghost white snow, he ran right over and fell on his knees.

Old man Erickson’s eyes were closed, and the blood appeared to be coming from his head, which he must have hit when he fell. Mark placed his hand on Mr. Erickson’s shoulder and asked, “Are you okay, Mr. Erickson?”

“I’m fine, boy,” old man Erickson replied after a moment, his eyes still tightly closed.

“There’s a lot of blood, Mr. Erickson,” Mark continued, “We need to get you some help.”

“No, no, I don’t need any help,” Mr. Erickson responded, opening his eyes and looking up at Mark.

Mr. Erickson tried to lift himself up off the ice, while Mark kept a respectable distance. Just as it looked like Mr. Erickson was about to stand on his own, he began to stumble backwards again. Mark swiftly dipped his head under Mr. Erickson’s arm, and caught him, using his weight to help him get his balance. Once he thought he had regained his balance, Mr. Erickson tried to push Mark away, which only made him stumble again. Mark did not give in, he moved right back in and held tight, just to keep Mr. Erickson on his feet.

“Mr. Erickson, you’re in no condition to be walking right now.” Mark insisted, “If you’re not going to let me get help, at least let me help you back up to the warmth of your cabin.”

The blood was running down Mr. Erickson’s ear and onto his neck, and he was having difficulty opening his eyes. When he managed to get one eye open, he looked into Mark’s face as if he was deciding whether he would let Mark help him or not. “Okay, boy, help me up to the cabin then.”

Mark reached into his pocket with his free hand and grabbed his handkerchief, handing it to Mr. Erickson. “Take this, Mr. Erickson, hold it to your head to see if you can stop the bleeding some.”

Mr. Erickson reluctantly took Mark’s hanky and held it to the back of his head as they both walked slowly towards the shore. I took the lead walking up to old man Erickson’s cabin, so I could warn them of any slippery spots along the way. Mark was right behind me, helping Mr. Erickson walk slowly up the snow-covered steps. As we walked, you could tell he was regaining some of his strength, but he had lost so much blood. He may not have been dizzy anymore, but Mark still had to bear a great deal of the load. Mr. Erickson was just a bit shorter than Mark, but his shoulders were broad and he was stouter around the midsection. Mark had to keep his knees bent as they walked, but he was a strong young man, so he made it look easy. It took some time, but we were finally able to get Mr. Erickson through his cabin door and seated on a chair in the living room.

“You have any bandages or something we can dress that wound with, Mr. Erickson?” Mark asked as he searched the room for any signs of something he could use to wrap Mr. Erickson’s wound.

As soon as we got inside, I checked the perimeter, which is what I’m good at. Old man Erickson’s cabin was warm and cozy, and smelled just like Mr. Erickson, which is to say that it smelled of wool, smoke and old books. There was a fire going strong in the fireplace, and the walls were covered with shelf after shelf of books. There were so many books, they were also stacked on the floor up against the shelves, and stacked on various tables and chairs around the room. In fact, just about the only chair that wasn’t covered in books was the one old man Erickson was sitting on.

The kitchen was the exception, as it had a single chair next to the table, that was open and looked ready for Mr. Erickson to sit down and eat his dinner. You could see the door to the one bedroom in the cabin, the only part of the cabin you couldn’t see standing in the doorway. The corner turn made it impossible to see fully inside the bedroom, and I wasn’t comfortable enough to stick my head in and check. So, I was satisfied with the fact that the cabin appeared to be empty, except for the three of us. Still, I got the feeling that if I were to turn that corner into the bedroom, I would find even more shelves filled with even more books. There was a rug on the floor in front of the fireplace, so I walked over there and lay down, to warm myself a bit by the fire, while Mark attended to Mr. Erickson.

Mark had managed to find a towel in the kitchen, which he handed to Mr. Erickson to replace the handkerchief that was now soaked in blood. Mr. Erickson tried to get up from his chair but immediately fell back in as he tried to stand. You could tell by the look on his face and his constant grunts, that he was a bit frustrated with everything that was going on. I’m guessing the pain didn’t help his mood much, but he sure didn’t seem happy to have visitors.

After several more failed attempts to stand up, and several more grunts and mumbles under his breath, Mr. Erickson finally called out to Mark, who was still looking around for some sort of bandage. “Boy, never mind the bandages. Just go to that shelf over there and grab me the cup that’s sitting next to the model ship.” Mr. Erickson raised his hand and pointed in my direction, to one of the shelves next to the fireplace.

Mark abandoned his search and walked my way, following Mr. Erickson’s finger to a shelf, where he saw a model of a Viking ship and a small cup sitting next to it. Mark took a moment to admire the model ship before he grabbed the cup down from the shelf and turned towards old man Erickson. “This cup, Mr. Erickson?” he asked, holding it out for Mr. Erickson to see.

“It’s the only cup over there, boy,” Mr. Erickson grumbled. “Of course, that’s the one. Now, go fill it up with some water from the kitchen and bring it to me.”

“Right away, Mr. Erickson,” Mark replied, hastily moving towards the kitchen to do as he was told. After filling the cup with water, he returned to Mr. Erickson’s side, placing the cup in his free hand. “Here you go, Mr. Erickson.”

Mr. Erickson took a big swallow from the cup and leaned back into the chair, dropping his arm to his side again. Mark grabbed the cup from his hand and went to fill it up again. “Here’s some more water, Mr. Erickson,” he said, giving him back the cup. “If you have a bandage or something around here, Mr. Erickson,” Mark asked, “I can help dress that wound.”

Mr. Erickson took another, smaller drink from the cup, then gave it back to Mark. He took the half-empty cup and looked for a place to set it down, but seeing there was no room on any table, he placed the cup on the ground beside Mr. Erickson’s chair.

I was thirsty, you have to understand. You may not know this, but the cold winter day can make you really thirsty, especially after sticking your head out the window with your tongue hanging out. I don’t normally like the taste of lake water, but the water that comes from the spring that feeds the lake, well, that is mighty tasty water indeed. Mr. Erickson’s cabin was the only cabin on the lake that got its water straight from that spring, and I was not about to let good water go to waste. I only got a few opportunities in the past to taste that delicious spring water, as Mark would never let us get close enough, when we were sure Mr. Erickson was home. So, it was only when we knew he was out that Mark would dare get close enough to the spring for me to steal a taste.

What happened next was beyond my control, so let’s just get that straight from the start. After all, right in front of me was some of that delicious spring water. I was quite certain Mr. Erickson didn’t need it anymore, so I figured he wouldn’t mind. He was likely going to toss it down the drain anyway, so why should I let it go to waste. I quietly walked up to Mr. Erickson’s chair and helped myself to some of that delicious spring water in his cup.

Mark had exhausted his search for some kind of bandage for the wound and returned to Mr. Erickson’s side. “Do you not have any bandages, Mr. Erickson?”

“Don’t worry about the bandage, boy, it’s time for you to go,” Mr. Erickson called out, his eyes still closed and his hand still holding the towel Mark gave him to the wound. “See yourself out and close the door behind you, if you please.”

 “Well, if you say so, Mr. Erickson, you sure you’re gonna be okay?” Mark asked, standing up.

“I’ll be right as rain, boy,” he declared proudly.

Mark looked down at me and gave me that crooked smile that said he had done all he could, and it was time for us to leave.

“Grab the cup and bring it with,” a voice said.

The voice didn’t come from inside the room; it seemed like it came from inside my head. Mark froze and squinted at me. Then his hand slowly reached towards the cup, as if the echo had reached his head too. He kept moving, without taking his eyes off me, until he felt the cup. He picked it up and shoved it into his pocket, and we both turned and made our way to the door. We had just reached the door when Mark turned around and called back. “You take care of yourself now, Mr. Erickson, you hear.”

“Son!” Mr. Erickson called back, stopping both Mark and me dead in our tracks. I thought for sure he was on to us, but instead he just said, “I want to thank you for your help today. Stop by next week and I’ll get you a new handkerchief.”

“Oh, you’re very welcome, Mr. Erickson,” Mark replied, “don’t worry about the hanky, I got plenty.” He then closed the door and turned to following me down to the lake.

After we got to our fishing spot, I looked up at Mark and heard that voice in my head again. “Let’s pack up and get out of here.”

Mark stared down at me for a moment, then smiled and set to packing our gear. I helped by grabbing my blanket and bringing it back to the truck with me. Mark opened the door to let me in first, then loaded our gear in the truck bed. Gear fully loaded, Mark jumped in behind the wheel and turned on the ignition. As he pulled the truck into gear and began driving away, he looked over at me and asked, “Hey, Mac, why did you have me steal that cup from Mr. Erickson?”

Brian A. Ask