North with Doc: Doc's Diet

Knobby’s float plane left Sioux Lookout less than an hour before, a dropped us at the only cabin on the picturesque lake. While the massive area had undergone logging and mining activity decades, the six of us had the huge lake in the Northwest Ontario Bush all to ourselves.

The kid caught the first fish. It darted out from the reeds to smack his spoon. “About pulled the rod out of my hands,” he said, unhooking the scrappy 20-inch pike.

“Must be pretty weak hands to be challenged by that scrawner,” the policeman said.

“These hammers are strong enough to punch your lights out,” the kid said, making his hands into fists. “That’s if a guy your age has any lights left.”

“There may be snow on the roof, but there’s still fire in the furnace.”

“You might wanna check your thermostat,” the kid said. “I don’t see any smoke coming from the chimney.”

“Tell you what, my adolescent friend,” the policeman said. “Remember this moment 20 years from now. All those minutes and hours and day months in between will have vanished like they didn’t even happen.”

“Okay, I get it,” the kid said. “I should make the most of every day, because time passes so fast.”

“Exactly.”

“Did you do that?” the kid said.

“For 90 percent of my life so far, absolutely not,” the policeman said.

“You put the other 10 percent to better use?”

“Yup. Family, friends, and these annual trips,” the policeman said.

“Any more advice?”

“Shut up and fish.”

Two other boats, one with Doc and me, and the other with the attorney and banker, were making quick drifts at the edge of a rapids still running fast from a late ice-out. We scored walleye doubles on nearly every pass.

“I wonder if other fishing parties do as well as we do up here,” Doc said.

“I doubt it,” I said. “We set a pretty high bar.”

The banker missed a hook-up on a bottom-dwelling walleye, and when his jig was almost to his rod tip, a pike broke the surface, hit it with a swirling lunge, and the drag sounded like opening a 20-foot zipper on a tent door. Eventually the pike spit the hook and got away with the banker’s paddle-tailed swimbait.

“Salted minnows might not have the action of the paddles,” the attorney said, “but walleye like ‘em just fine.”

Doc and I jigged until the bite slowed, then we veered off from the others, and weaved our way through islands and narrows in search of the next honey hole. I was idling along, suddenly realizing we’d had no breakfast before flying in early that morning, and I pulled a Ziploc filled with mini candy bars from my foul-weather bag. I selected a few, and offered them to Doc.

“No thanks,” he said. “I brought my own.” He reached into his bag, and retrieved a foil wrapped chunk of something.

“The heck is that?” I asked, as he tore the foil with his teeth.

“Granola bar,” Doc said. “High protein, low fat.” He took a crumbly bite.

“What’s it taste like?”

“Honey flavored cardboard.”

“Sounds yummy,” I said. “Didn’t they have tofu?”

“Not funny,” Doc said.

“Why would you do that to yourself?”

“Doctor’s orders.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Doc said. “My last physical? I stepped on the scale, and the LED readout exploded. A medical assistant turned the repair bill into my insurance company.” Doc took another dusty bite. “I have plenty. You care for one?”

“I’ll do my best to resist,” I said, gobbling another chocolate artery clogger.

“Actually they aren’t too bad,” Doc said, “but not very filling.”

“You been on this diet for a while?”

“Just started today,” Doc said. “I figured the farther away from civilization I am, the less temptation to overeat.”

“And you will accomplish this weight loss by snacking on granola bars instead of Snickers?”

“That and exercise.”

“Up here? Like sitting in this boat for 10 hours a day?”

“I will take hikes.”

“You do realize this is bear country?”

“I brought some pepper spray.” “Pepper cheese might be a better

deterrent,” I said, “and if you don’t see any bears, it’s good to eat.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Doc said.

“Maybe a bear will take a bite out of your butt,” I said. “That would be a fast way to lose 60 pounds.”

Doc whoofed a cloud of cigar smoke at me big enough to set off a smoke alarm in an Amazon warehouse. I held my breath, and quick closed my Snickers bag to avoid contamination.

We chanced upon another honey hole where we scored dozens of walleyes, and kept six for dinner, per previous agreement with the rest of the guys.

Daylight lingers longer in June in the northern latitudes, and it was well past six when the kid and I made fast work of cleaning the fish. The attorney and banker, who had set the table and were enjoying a pre-meal cocktail on the deck, watched Doc coat his bare appendages with bug spray, grab a tree branch for a walking stick, and stomp off into the woods. As I arrived at the cabin with the filets, the banker said, “What’s the deal with Doc?”

“Had a physical, and his doctor ordered him to slim down,” I said. “Part of it is exercise.”

“Last exercise I saw Doc do was bending an elbow to drink a beer,” the banker said.

Not 10 minutes later, Doc, somewhere in the distance, expelled a string of not so nice words that bounced across the lake, and echoed among the islands.

“Sounds like the bug spray may not be doing its job,” the attorney said.

Not five minutes later, Doc stumbled into the cabin clearing, swinging his stick like a helicopter rotor. He let go another high-volume vulgarity, and a pair of courting loons in the middle of the lake went under and stayed there.

“Back so soon?” the policeman said.

“That spray has enough Deet in it to stop a charging rhino,” Doc said.

Maybe the mosquitoes didn’t read label,” the kid said.

“I’m starving,” I said. “Let’s get this show on the road.” Doc, you gonna have one of your birdbath-sized cocktails before we cook?” the attorney said.

“I brought some sparkling water,” Doc said.

“As a mixer?”

“No, instead of booze.”

That pretty much stunned us all to silence. Doc was serious about this diet thing. He lit the oven and cranked it to 350. “My fish has to be baked, not fried,” he said, and busied himself by minimally seasoning said scrap of fish. As he slid it into the oven, he gazed longingly at the monster skillet of canola oil beginning to bubble on the stovetop.

While waiting for our filets to turn golden brown, five of us grabbed handfuls of salt and vinegar potato chips, mixed nuts, and thick slabs of cheddar cheese. Doc, on the other hand, was about to feed on what looked like a poker chip topped with a cucumber slice.

“What’s that on the bottom?” I said. “It’s so flat and thin I could use it for a guitar pick.”

“Melba toast,” Doc said.

“Toast is a whole slice of wheat bread with real butter and grape jelly,” the attorney said. “What you got there is not toast.”

Doc took a bite, and the thing shattered into four pieces.

“How is that in any way edible?” the attorney said.

Doc collected the shards, and swallowed the tasteless mess. He watched us gleefully inhale 80 calories a bite, and I swear I saw a tear trickle down his cheek. He grabbed what remained of the cuke slice, and ate it faster than a congressman can sign up for a junket to Bora Bora.

“Don’t overdo it with the greenery, Doc,” the policeman said. “You remember Aunt Lucy’s older sister? She loved cucumber sandwiches, and she weighed 300.”

“But didn’t she put butter, mayo, and cream cheese on them?” I said.

“Sad but true,” the policeman said. “She’d eat a dozen in one sitting, and wash them down with a couple Dr. Peppers, but she swore it was the cukes that added the pounds.”

“Doc,” the banker said, “I feed treats to my dog that are about three calories each, and your so-called appetizer can’t be much more than that. You keep this up, you’re gonna pass out from malnutrition.”

The policeman shredded some iceberg lettuce, and divvied it into six bowls. I added a handful of the aforementioned cuke slices, as well as cherry tomatoes, chopped green onions, and sploshed on a massive dollop of blue creamy cheese dressing. The others made salads like mine, but chose French or Ranch. Doc ate his with a drizzle of vinegar. The attorney plated our fried fish, and Doc extracted his baked filet from the oven. It looked like a chunk of jack oak bark.

Conversation lapsed while we washed down the terrific food with wine and other spirits. Doc ate in silence, sipping his sparkling water, and not especially savoring anything.

“What’s that stuff people inject to lose weight?” the kid said.

“Tried that,” Doc said.

“Did it work?” the banker said. “A little at first,” Doc said. “Had to quit because of the side effects.”

“Like what?”

“Heartburn, gas, diarrhea, dizziness.”

“After sharing a boat today, that sounds normal for you,” I said.

Doc threw a roll of paper towels at me.

“What’s your target weight?” the attorney said.

“Anything less than what I am now,” Doc said.

“If it’s just a few pounds, why not wait until you get home to work on it?”

“I promised my girlfriend.” “Girlfriend?” the banker said. “I don’t see no girlfriend here.”

“Maybe she’s in the back room,” the kid said. He jumped up, ran to the bedroom, returned, and said, “Nope. No girlfriend.”

“But I promised,” Doc said, shaking his head at the unfairness of it all. Somewhere after doing the dinner dishes, playing Pass the Ace, and before the crack of dawn, a bang-clatter-crunch in the kitchen startled us awake.

The kid said, “What’s that horrible noise?”

“Sounds like a clogged garbage disposal,” the banker said.

We climbed out of bed as a group, crowded into the kitchen and, lo and behold, the horrible noise was Doc. He had an upended bag of chips in one hand, pouring them into his mouth like a fat-filled water- fall, and held a handful of nuts to inhale in the other. There was also a spoon in a half empty jar of peanut butter, and a bottle of red wine, also half empty.

We stood there for a few seconds before Doc swallowed 400 more calories of junk food, and said, “When I get home I’ll explain to my girlfriend that a week in the Bush with my buddies is not a good time to cut back on food and drink.” He took another hit on the wine. “But there’s a problem.”

“What’s that?” the banker said. “She wants proof that I ate the crappy health food I brought.”

“Proof? How do you expect to do that?”

“Not take any home,” Doc said.

“Well, we can help you with that,” I said, and I tossed a couple chunks of Melba toast into my mouth. In solidarity with our long-time Canadian fishing comrade, the rest of the guys dug into Doc’s healthful hell.

“Another thing,” Doc said.

“Yeh?” the kid said, granola bar crumbs littering his unshaven jaw. “I also promised her I’d quit smoking my stinky cigars.”

I spit a wad of Melba toast all the way to the cabin door. I hadn’t had a better laugh in years. When I could catch my breath, I said to my larger than life friend, “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.

---