North With Doc: All Weather Doc

“When you go way up there in Canada, what happens when it rains?” Aunt Lucy said.

“We go fishing,” I said. “That’s why we’re there.”

“Well, I don’t understand that at all,” Aunt Lucy said.

“Why not?”

“Put yourself in the fish’s shoes. Would you be biting if the weather was awful?”

While Aunt Lucy only wears shoes to bowl and to do the Boot Scootin’ Boogie down at the VFW, I can’t quite get my head around shoes on a fish. But I do understand her basic message. Why venture outside when outside is un-comfy to the nth degree?

Forty years ago when we began fishing Knobby’s fly-in lakes, weather simply wasn’t a concern. Sure, it rained some years. It does that in early June, which is prime time for our annual trips north. When we were barely 30, and considered ourselves immune to the more unsavory of atmospheric elements, a little discomfort was part of the experience to share when we got home. Knocked ice off the boat seats? Check. Too windy for shorelunch? Check. Snow, sleet, driving rain? Check. Our rain gear was a hat and a garbage bag. Later, some of us moved up to those see-through plastic poncho things you can get at football games.

One year after an especially cold and miserably soaked week on the water, Doc showed up at our planning session with a surprise.

Doc said, “How many years have we tried to cut corners to do these trips as cheaply as possible?”

“All of them?” the policeman said.

“That is correct,” Doc said. “And what have we gotten for our trouble?”

“The discomfort of leftover hotel toilet paper?”

“Generic, oily peanut butter?”

“Wet feet?”

“Exactly,” Doc said. “It’s time to invest in a better time.” He opened a cardboard box, pulled out a large bright yellow article of clothing that had arms and legs, and said, “Rain suit.”

“Looks like three of us could fit in that,” the attorney said.

“If one of us wasn’t Doc,” the banker said.

“What did that set you back?” I said.

“Forty-five bucks.”

“That’s half a car payment.”

“And used only one week a year, it should last longer than your car,” Doc said.

I can’t recall if we all ran out and bought rain gear for that year’s trip north with Doc, but we eventually agreed there was little reason to be uncomfortable in the boats.

Today, as extreme weather seems the norm, preparing for every eventuality has turned what were once wasted days into productive outings, and more fun than a human being should be allowed to have.

It was just after noon. The rain that had delayed our Sioux Lookout departure was now a mere mist as we watched our float plane get airborne from our remote outpost on Kezik Lake. In the time it took to stow our gear, claim bedroom space, and rig rods, an increasing drizzle became a steady patter on the cabin roof. No big deal. We were ready for it.

The kid was proudly pulling on a new camo rain suit that had more zippers than a Levi’s factory. “This is so fancy, I could show it off on a runway,” the kid said.

“And probably get hit by a taxiing plane,” the policeman said.

“Not that kind of runway,” the kid said.

Doc wore his third or fourth XXXL Big Bird rubber suit for the fifth year in a row, and it looked almost new, except for Rorschach splatters of pike slime, and black mold growing under the arms.

“You put that away wet again, didn’t you?” I said.

“Maybe a little bit,” Doc said. “Tossed it into a big Rubbermaid container in the garage when we got home last year, and forgot it might still be a bit damp.”

“The good news is it smells better than your cigars,” the banker said.

I snapped closed the fly on my rubberized pants that were held up by wide suspenders. The six-year-old matching coat had fallen apart on the last trip, so I replaced it with a hooded unit that kept me dry as the fourth martini at a senator’s fact-finding lunch.

The policeman wore a one-piece coverall suit with deeper pockets than Captain Kangaroo’s. He pointed out its strategically placed front door. “Just in case,” he said.

The banker’s robin’s egg blue suit reached to his ankles, and was topped by a broad-brimmed hat with a leather tether designed to sluice the gathering rain off the back.

Not to be outdone, the attorney strutted his outfit that featured a neoprene outer shell lined with flannel. It even had brass grommets under the arms to wick away perspiration. “As much as this cost,” he said, “if it doesn’t keep me dry, I’m gonna sue someone.”

Boots laced and hoods and hats in place, we hermetically sealed fishermen grabbed our tackle, shuffled across the plywood floor, and took a look out the front window. The downpour was so intense, we could not see the boats that were less than 100 feet away. In fact, it was coming down like the proverbial bovine/slate phenomenon.

“Man, I can’t see going out in that,” the kid said.

“We’d be bailing the boats constantly,” the banker said.

“At least we’d be dry,” the attorney said.

“True,” I said.

“Well, I came here to fish,” Doc said, “and that’s what I am going to do.” He went through the door, onto the screened-in porch, and stepped off the last of three wooden steps.

The rain had loosened the sod under the grassy path. Doc’s feet went up, his butt went down, and he slid a good 20 feet like he was on a luge track. Miraculously, his tackle box remained closed, and he didn’t break either rod.

Through the solid curtain of rain we saw the yellow blur of his rain suit as he thrashed around trying to stand.

“I think Doc’s in trouble,” the policeman said.

“No doubt about it,” the attorney said.

“So what do you think?” I said. “Break out the cards and snacks?”

“Great idea,” the kid said. “I’ll put a couple more logs on the fire.”

We quickly stowed our fishing tackle, and shucked our rain gear.

A few minutes later we hear a clump! clump! on the porch, the door slammed open, and Doc entered. What a drippy, muddy mess.

“Wipe your feet,” the attorney said.

“Were you born in a barn?” the banker said.

While the policeman rescued Doc’s rods and tackle box, I grabbed a wad of Bounty paper towels, and quick picked up some of the mud and moisture.

“Sooo,” I said. “How are they biting today?”

Although the rain pounding the roof was loud, Doc’s vocal outburst was even more thunderous.

It’s been a while since I studied music, but after his fortissimo reached a crescendo, then died to sotto voce, Doc said, “I though you guys were right behind me.”

“We were,” the kid said.

“Way behind you,” the policeman said.

“When you hit the skids, it seemed prudent to stay dry inside,” the attorney said.

“So I was kind of a guinea pig for you?”

“To mix a metaphor, more like a canary in a rainstorm,” I said.

“I could stand to mix a metaphor about now,” Doc said, and he stripped off, hung his sodden outerwear near the stove, and created “The Metaphor” out of a large lemon and several different spirits. I doubt it would one day be all the rage in upscale New York nightspots, but Doc enjoyed it immensely.

The rest of that day the storm raged on. Some of us passed the hours reading. Some played cards. Some napped, but the rat-a-tat on the roof and ka-booms of rolling thunder made it difficult. In the dead of night, the downpour suddenly ceased, and sleep came fast and deep.

Always an early riser, I was up and out at first light, and headed down to the boats. As far as I could tell, the nearest cloud was floating over Winnipeg, leaving us with clear skies from horizon to horizon.

I don’t know how much rainfall equates to eight inches in a boat bottom, but that’s what I was dealing with. At least it wasn’t over the top of my waterproof boots. I had already bailed more water than the Titanic’s ballroom could hold when Doc arrived.

“You ever smelled air this fresh?” he said.

“Every time you put out your cigar,” I said.

“I will refrain from enjoying that despicable habit while helping you empty the lake from these boats.”

“I appreciate that, Doc. You’ll find a cut-out milk jug floating in there somewhere.”

We worked steadily for a good 20 minutes, then fired up the engines, and drove around a while with the hull plugs pulled. That drained the last inch or two that we were unable to scoop out.

The rest of the party had breakfast ready when Doc and I were done, and we wasted no time devouring sausage, eggs, fried potatoes, and toast.

The banker checked the thermometer on the porch. “It’s already 65, guys. I’m thinking shorts and T-shirts.”

“And tennies,” the attorney said.

“I’ll ice the coolers,” the kid said, and six minutes later we were on the water, dressed like college kids on spring break.

We figured all that rain washed a lot of bugs and worms into the lake, and maybe triggered a feeding frenzy, as the walleye bite was off the charts. Pike were more finicky, maybe because of the turbid water near the shore. But we caught and released dozens of each to make up for the day before.

Late afternoon left us with a bit of sunburn, and monstrous appetites for the stringer of two-pound walleyes we kept to eat.

We managed to stay awake for a Northern Lights show, and sometime during our dreamless slumber the clear skies were replaced by a stiff cold wind pushing ranks of low scudding clouds.

Inside the cabin the next morning it was chilly enough for a fire, jeans, and flannel shirts.

“What a difference a day makes,” the attorney said. “If it gets to 50 today, I’ll be surprised.”

Out came the wool socks, insulated boots, and long underwear. Several of us had lightweight windbreaker jackets. The rest opted for hooded sweatshirts. We all had hand towels to dry hands after boating fish, defeating the frosty finger factor.

The pike catch was much better that day, and even though Aunt Lucy would disagree, the walleyes didn’t seem to mind the topside wind chill. Spaghetti with meatballs and garlic bread made for a cozy meal that night, and a marathon game of cutthroat pitch ended hours before the gentle glow of light in the east turned to a spectacular sunrise.

It was a good 20 degrees warmer that morning, so we left the jackets and sweats in the cabin, and enjoyed the day in comfort catching fish. What a concept.

The rain returned in a sun shower the fifth day, and we were well prepared for it. Chamber of commerce weather saw us packing for the return flight to Sioux Lookout.

In the 1933 classic short, A Fatal Glass of Beer, legendary comic actor W.C. Fields famously said, “It ain’t a fit night out for man nor beast.” Sure, there are times when that is true, as in Doc’s ill-fated mud slide. But due to our cigar smoking pal’s insistence so many years ago, investing in a better time has absolutely paid off. Thanks, Doc.

---

North with Doc columnist Greg Knowles lives in Green Valley, Arizona. A 5-­volume set of the first 20 years of North with Doc is available in e-reader form at amazon.com.

---