Read Chapter 1

Chapter 1 – Pickerel Lake

They call me Mrs. Henry, and my part in this story began on a sunny winter’s day.

As I said, the sun was big and bright that day, enhanced by endless sheets of pure white snow that covered the fields as far as the eye could see. On days like this, especially when there is no wind, the sun can be warm and inviting, making a South Dakota winter almost bearable. My best friend and I were in his truck, heading toward our favorite fishing spot on Pickerel Lake. It was such a beautiful day, you could almost forget the truck’s heater was struggling to keep the cab warm. It’s not a log drive to the lake, but since the windows were rolled up, I decided to take a nap along the way.

Once you hit your last turn before reaching the lake, 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 hit the last hill before the lake, as the steady ups and downs change just enough to make it noticeable. When you reach the top of the last hill, the largest part of the lake comes into full view. That was always my favorite part of the drive, coming over the top of the hill and seeing that big beautiful lake.

Our favorite fishing spot was 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. The stop sign was the end of the road, at least as far as roads go, because from there it was just a dirt road down to the water. In the summertime you would turn left or right to keep driving around the lake, either direction being relatively the same distance to our favorite spot on the other side. That was always the hardest part of the drive for me, because once you see the lake, you can’t wait to get fishing. Having to drive all the way around the lake was tiring, and it seemed to last forever. 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, you can take the dirt road after the stop sign and drive yourself right down on to the lake. Sure, tt’s still a bit of a drive to get to our fishing spot on the other side, but it felt different somehow, less tiring, as if being close to the water made everything better. They even plow new snow as it 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 they were trucks and people everywhere. Once you pass the park, it’s a sharp right turn down the southern leg of the lake.  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 what time of year it was, whenever we hit the lake, my best friend would reach over and roll down the window for me, so I could stick my head out for a better view. 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. No matter what, 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 almost all the way down at the southernmost end of the lake, on the east shore, where a freshwater spring feeds the lake year-round. Because there is always water coming up from that spring, the water here never fully freezes over. In January the open water is no larger than a doggie pool, but as the spring thaw begins, it grows large enough to cast from shore. Of course, open water also means less ice below to drive on, so we park the truck at a safe distance from the spring and walk to our spot.

Once we arrive, my best friend gets straight to work cutting a few holes to fish through, while I walk around and check the perimeter. As soon as the holes are dug, Mark (that’s my best friend) will throw down a nice wool blanket for me to lay on, along with another to cover me up if the wind starts to blow. The wool blanket is scratchy but it’s warm, and that’s all that matters, even if it smells of fish and mold. I lay down on the blanket and go back to my nap, after making sure the perimeter was clear, of course. Mark baits his rods and drops his lines through the holes he dug, then grabs his chair and his book and sits down next to me.

I remember how warm the sun was on my coat that day, as I lay there listening to Mark flip the pages of his book, waiting for the bells on his rods to jingle. There was little to no wind, which was kind of unusual for the plains of South Dakota, but Mark and I weren’t complaining. Mark wasn’t having much luck catching anything, but that was only part of the reason you go fishing - if you went home empty-handed, you still had a great day.

Old man Erickson lived just up along the old spring that fed the lake, and he was pretty much the only other person who would fish this far south in the winter time. Like us, he never bothered with those silly ice shacks, he preferred to fish right out in the open. And like us, he always fished in the same spot and used the same holes, so he only had to break through the half inch or so of ice that would freeze on top overnight. He only ever fished through one hole, unlike Mark and I, but he was always luckier than we were, and he never went back empty-handed.

We never spoke to Mr. Erickson, nor he to us, we didn’t even nod or wave when we saw each other on the lake. We had a mutual respect for each other’s privacy, something that is hard to find in the rural areas of the upper Midwest, where everyone’s always so eager to say hello. Went did our fishing, and old man Erickson did his, and that’s how we liked it. Of course, we didn’t fish the same as Mr. Erickson, at least Mark and I weren’t as lucky as he was. Winter or summer, old man Erickson could drop a line into the water and have a fish in a matter of minutes. One fish was all he needed, then he would wrap up and head back up to the cabin. Sometimes Mark would ask me if I saw how big Mr. Erickson’s fish was, then, without even waiting for me to answer, would make some comment about how lucky he was, especially when we didn’t catch anything.

In the cold quiet of the lake, it wasn’t hard to hear when Mr. Erickson had his fish, and Mark and I would always look up to see if we could catch a glimpse. That day, Mr. Erickson was making quite a lot of noise as he reeled the fish in, which meant he had a really big fish on the line. Mark and I looked over and watched as he struggled to pull it through the hole, his rod bent like a horseshoe. We were trying not to be too obvious, as we watched Mr. Erickson shuffle his feet around the hole, looking for a better angle. I looked over at Mark, and he shot me a quick smile as to acknowledge he was as aware as I was that old man Erickson had a real monster on his hands.

And that’s when it happened.

As Mr. Erickson was struggling to land the monster, a hard tug from the fish caused the line to snap, which caused old man Erickson to slip and fall backwards. We could hear and feel the hard ‘thump’ as his head hit the ice, and Mark immediately rose from his chair. Following Mark’s lead, I jumped up too, ready to help. Mark held steady for a moment, mostly out of respect for Mr. Erickson’s privacy. But when he noticed that Mr. Erickson was not moving, he sprung into action and ran towards him, with me at his heal.

When we reached old man Erickson, we could see a large pool of blood that encircled his head. His eyes were closed as Mark knelt down next to him and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Are you okay Mr. Erickson?” Mark asked, not sure if he was dead or alive.

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

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

“No, no, I don’t need any help.” Mr. Erickson responded, as he opened his eyes and tried to stand himself up. He was almost completely upright when he stumbled to his left and right into Mark, who caught him and tried help him steady himself. Mr. Erickson tried to push himself away from Mark, but he got dizzy again and Mark had to move back in to steady him.”

“Are you sure Mr. Erickson?” Mark insisted, “That’s a nasty cut you got on your head and you lost quite a lot of blood.”

Mr. Erickson, recognizing his inability to stand on his own, finally agreed. “Maybe if you could just help me up to the cabin boy.”

“Absolutely Mr. Erickson,” Mark replied, ducking his head under Mr. Erickson’s arm to stand him up straight. “Just hold on to me and walk slowly.”

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 across the ice. As we walked, you could tell Mr. Erickson was regaining some of his balance, but the loss of blood was affecting his strength, so even though he was not as dizzy anymore, 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 a bit stouter around the midsection. Mark had to bend his knees to keep his shoulder under Mr. Erickson’s arm, but Mark was a strong young man so he made it look easy.

It took some time, but we were able to get Mr. Erickson into his cabin and seated on a chair in his living room. Mark went to the kitchen to get something to stop the bleeding on Mr. Erickson’s head, while I checked the perimeter. Old man Erickson’s cabin was warm and cozy, and smelled exactly like Mr. Erickson, that is to say wool, smoke and old books. There was a fire going strong in the fireplace, and the walls were covered with shelves full of books. There were also several tables and a few more chairs in the living area, all of which were piled high with more books. The kitchen had a small table and chair and, with the exception of the chair Mr. Erickson was sitting on, appeared to be the only two items in view that were not piled high with books. You could see the door to the bedroom, but the corner turn made it impossible to see inside. Still, one got the feeling that if you were to turn that corner, you would find even more shelves filled with more books. There was a rug on the floor in front of the fireplace, so I walked over there to warm myself a bit, while Mark attended to Mr. Erickson.

Mark had managed to find a towel in the kitchen, which he handed to Mr. Erickson to help stop the bleeding. Mr. Erickson tried to get up from his chair, but immediately fell back only halfway into his 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 either, but he sure wasn’t happy to have visitors.

After several minutes of trying to stand up and several more grunts and mumbles under his breath, he finally called out to Mark, who was looking around for some sort of bandage. “Can you do me a favor boy? Just go to that shelf over there and grab me that cup next to the model ship.”

Mark looked up and saw Mr. Erickson pointing to a shelf along the wall. As he walked toward the shelf, he could see a model of a replica Viking ship on the second shelf from the top, with 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.

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

“Right away Mr. Erickson.” Mark replied, hastily moving towards the kitchen to do as he was told. Having filled the cup with water he returned to Mr. Erickson’s chair and placed the cup in Mr. Erickson’s free hand.

Old man Erickson took a big swallow from the cup and leaned back into the chair, holding the cup out in the air for Mark to grab. Finding no place on any table to put the cup, Mark placed it down on the floor next to Mr. Erickson’s chair.

“If you have a bandage or something around here Mr. Erickson,” Mark asked. “I can help dress that wound.”

“Just grab me another towel from the kitchen boy” Mr. Erickson replied. “to replace this one.”

Okay, what happened next, I am not totally proud of, to be completely honest with you. Given the benefit of hindsight, it was probably not the right thing to do, but quite honestly there’s nothing I can do about that now, so let’s just move on, okay?

I was thirsty, you see. Sticking your head out the window, with your mouth wide open, letting in the winter cold can make anyone thirsty. I’m not all that fond of lake water, but the water that comes from the underground spring that feeds the lake is mighty tasty water indeed. Only a few times in the past have I had the pleasure of drinking that spring water, and I remember how delightful it was on the tongue. Mark hardly ever let me get close to the spring, unless he knew Mr. Erickson was gone and couldn’t see us.

Still, I wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to savor some of that delicious spring water, whether Mr. Erickson was hurting or not. So, I walked quietly up to the cup, just sitting there on the floor next to old man Erickson, and helped myself to some. Okay, I drank the rest of it.

What happened next was beyond my control, so let’s just set that straight from the get go.

Mark had swapped out the blood soak towel Mr. Erickson was holding to his head with a fresh one, and went to drop the soaked towel in the kitchen sink.

“I’m afraid it’s time for you to go my boy.” Mr. Erickson called out, his eyes still shut from the pain. “See yourself out and close the door behind you.”

Mark had turned and was walking back from the kitchen when he answered. “Yes sir, Mr. Erickson, if you’re sure you’re gonna be okay.?”

“I’ll be right as rain my boy.” Mr. Erickson declared proudly.

As he passed Mr. Erickson’s chair, which I was still standing in front of, I heard a voice in my head say to Mark “Grab the cup!”

Mark stopped for a second and looked down at me.

“Grab the cup and bring it with us.” That voice in my head said again.

Mark reached down and grabbed the cup, then he followed me as I turned and headed towards the door.

As Mark was just about to close the door behind us, he called out “You take care of yourself now Mr. Erickson.”

“Son!” Mr. Erickson called back. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome Mr. Erickson.” Mark replied, closing the door and following me down the porch steps.

After Mark finished packing our things back into the trunk, he jumped behind the wheel and reached for the ignition as he closed the door. Just as he was putting the truck into gear he asked out loud, “Hey Mac, why did you have me steal that cup from Mr. Erickson?”