North with Doc: Doc's Fatal Attraction

“Not of this world,” the kid said. “The Death Star exploding.”

“Sounds like someone is sliding a steamer trunk across the floor on the story above,” the attorney said. “If we had a story above.”

“An 18-wheeler in the shop getting its tires rotated,” the policeman said. “That’s what I’m hearing.”

“The klaxon dive horn in a submarine movie?” the banker said.

“A barge loaded with scrap ductwork running aground on the Mississippi,” I said.

“I got one more,” the kid said. “The noise Aunt Lucy would make with a nest of yellow jackets after her.”

As was our decades-old tradition, when we arrived at one of Knobby’s Northwest Ontario outpost cabins, we cut cards to choose where we’d sleep.

Most of the cabins were set up like a boot-camp barracks with one big room and rows of beds. This one also had what we called a bridal suite. It was the only bedroom with a door. Doc drew a king, and chose the much-coveted privacy of a space all his own.

One other thing about Knobby’s outpost cabins, all the bedrooms had a view of the pine log supports and plywood roof, so even Doc’s walled off area was open to the ceiling. In other words, his privacy factor, and ours, applied to sight but not to sound.

The kid said, “I’ve had enough.” He walked over to Doc’s door and pounded on it until the hideous snoring stopped. It was all at once almost too quiet.

“Doc? Are you still breathing?” the kid said.

“No thanks to you,” Doc said. “I was all set for some funny business with Morgan Fairchild.”

“What’s that?” the kid said. “A fancy New York investment banker?”

It took almost 15 seconds for Doc to start laughing, and the rest of us old timers joined in.

“What?” the kid said.

“Morgan Fairchild was an actress,” the attorney said. “For some of us, she was the woman of our dreams.”

“That was 50 years ago, “ the policeman said.

“When we still had dreams,” I said.

We each did our part to set the table, prepare breakfast, wash and put away dishes, wipe off the dining/card/rod-rigging table. Some of us re-tied knots, some packed coolers with drinks and ice, some studied the lake map to plot the day’s search for pike and walleye.

“Where we headed today?” the policeman said.

“How about below the rapids?” the banker said. “We’ve always done good there.”

“You suppose more of Knobby’s parties fish there than anywhere else on this lake?” the kid said.

“Pretty close,” the policeman said. “There and the walleye honey holes we fished downstream yesterday.”

Doc said, “Even though this lake is huge, in all the years we have fished up here, we have covered just about every foot of shoreline, and circled every island. Maybe we missed some spots in the deeper center, but that’s it.”

“But you always come back to the hot spots,” the kid said.

“In times of high water, low water, cold fronts, whatever,” Doc said, “previous success is the strongest draw.”

“Take our experience times how many others have been here,” I said, “and there are very few places, if any, that haven’t seen a hook and line.”

“Enough talk,” the attorney said. “Let’s go get ‘em.”

It was a 30-minute full throttle run north and west of the cabin, but we knew the landmarks well, and skirted the islands, idled through barely submerged fields of Buick-sized boulders, and pulled into the wide flume that drained the lake above.

The policeman was the kid’s boat partner. When his depth finder found a hole just off the main flow that sloped from 8 to 15 feet, he shifted to neutral. The other two boats with the rest of our party were within conversation distance.

I threaded a salted minnow on a jig. Doc went with a ‘crawler. The attorney tossed a silver-over-copper spoon. The banker chose a Rapala deep diver. The policeman tested a jig with a chartreuse twister. And the kid...

“What in the world is that?” the policeman said.

In his left hand the kid held a coil of bright-red 3/4-inch nylon rope. It was connected to a round shiny object he held in his right hand. It looked like a giant silver hockey puck with a chrome-plated loop on top where the rope was attached.

“A two-sided fishing magnet,” the kid said.

“I didn’t know fish were made of iron,” the policeman said.

“No, but hooks are,” the kid said.

“That’s not much of a magnet,” the banker said.

The kid read the label. “Neodymium iron boron. Pull strength 1,000 pounds.”

“Won’t need quite that much to retrieve a rusty fish hook,” Doc said from our boat 20 feet away.

“How many hooks and lures you figure you’ve lost right here?” the kid said.

“Dozens,” the attorney said. “And a lot of spoons with single trebles, as well as crankbaits with double and triple trebles.”

“Before we used quality fishing line and learned how to tie knots, I bet we lost half our tackle every year,” the banker said.

“Well, I’m going to give it a try and see what I can find,” the kid said. He tossed his magnet for a while and got nothing at all.

“I think we’re too close to the rapids,” the policeman said. “The spring ice-out probably scours the bottom clean every year. Let’s move on into the quieter pool where there’s still about 15 feet of water and see what happens.”

Fifty feet in, the kid tossed his magnet, and surprised us all with what was once a plastic handled filet knife. With gloved hands he pried the rusted blade from the magnet.

We all cranked in our lines and watched the kid at work. It took a lot of tosses, but he managed to land a snap stringer, several spoons of various sizes, and even a Lazy Ike-looking thing that could have been there for decades. The Ike stuck on the magnet with only the stub of a treble hook and the eye where the line was once attached.

“Made a believer out of me,” I said. “I’m surprised all that stuff hasn’t rusted to dust by now.”

“Depends on the composition of the steel,” the kid said. “The book about magnet fishing says most hooks will break down in 30 to 60 days in fresh water. Of course, it’s much faster in the ocean.”

“As interesting as this is,” Doc said, “I want to catch something a bit more lively than a rusted chunk of metal.”

“Just a few more minutes?” the kid said.

“Sure,” the policeman said. “But let’s move to a different spot.”

After another 20 minutes of tosses and retrieves, the kid pulled in a crescent wrench.

“You gotta be kidding,” the policeman said. “Who would be using a crescent wrench here?”

The kid said, “You got me. Tightening an engine mount bracket and it dropped over board? We’ll never know for sure.”

More tosses produced another spoon, then the next try the magnet held tight. The kid dug into his kit of accessories and grabbed a small grappling hook that was attached to an even stronger line. He gauged the distance to the magnet, and after half a dozen throws and retrieves, the grapple made firm contact. “Something heavy,” the kid said.

“What do you think it is?” the policeman said.

“I don’t have a clue,” the kid said, “but probably not a bicycle.” He pulled in both ropes, and brought up a mushroom anchor. The grapple had caught a still-attached chunk of woven cotton rope. “Must weigh 8 to 10 pounds,” he said.

“This is getting crazy,” the policeman said.

“Okay, a few more,” the kid said. He changed the direction of his tosses. The magnet was stuck again.

“Another anchor?” the policeman said.

“Let’s find out,” the kid said. He worked the grapple until it caught on something near the magnet. This time it pulled in a lot easier than the anchor.

“Holy moly, it’s a tackle box,” the policeman said as he saw it emerge from the tea colored water.

Sure enough, it was an ancient metal box that the grapple had miraculously snagged by the handle. The kid lifted it gently. Water poured out, but no tackle. A spoon and a jumble of hooks and swivel snaps was stuck to one corner at the bottom, and in a coil of braided line was a hopelessly rusted pocket knife. The kid closed the lid, and wiped the slime off an aluminum diamond shaped name tag under the handle. He could just make out VICTOR.

Doc and I motored over to check it out. When I pulled alongside and saw the box, I said, “I was about six when my granddad gave me a Victor. My first real tackle box.”

“Anything in there?” Doc said.

“A useless pocket knife,” the kid said. “Not much else. But I bet there are other boxes on the bottom in these lakes with lures inside that could be restored and be worth some money.”

“You’re probably right, “Doc said. “Who would have thought...” He got a weird look on his face, and grabbed his chest and the side of the boat near the kid.

“You okay, Doc?” the kid said.

“Need some fresh air,” Doc said, his breathing fast and shallow. Then suddenly gasping, he pushed our boat away.

“Air doesn’t get much fresher than this,” the policeman said. “Maybe last night’s 32-ounce cocktail is catching up to you.”

Doc forced a smile, and took some deep breaths.

The policeman and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders. Strange behavior from Doc was nothing new.

A minute later, Doc said, “I’m okay now. Let’s go fishing.”

It was an excellent day on the water. Pike were plentiful, and several required a landing net. Walleyes were practically jumping in the boats, and we kept six two-pounders for dinner.

After we’d eaten and cleaned up, we were at the table getting ready to play cards, and the banker said, “Hey, kid. Give us a closer look at that magnet.”

So the kid brought his fishing magnet case to the table, and sat between Doc and the banker. “Gotta keep it in this case or it would probably pull nails out of the walls,” the kid said. “This thing is so powerful it is hard to pull things loose.”

To demonstrate, he took the magnet out, and stuck a butter knife on one side. It was all Doc could do to pull it off. Then, like in the boat that morning, Doc turned deathly pale, fought for breath, and even slumped over to one side. His eyes began to roll back in their sockets.

“Help me here!” I said, and the attorney and I picked him up and carried him to the couch where Doc slowly got his wind back.

“What’s going on here, Doc?” I said.

“No idea,” he said.

“You had that heart attack some years ago,” I said.

“They did bypasses,” Doc said. “I’m doing just fine.”

“You still on meds?”

“Well, yeah,” he said.

“Is that all?”

“Oh, and I had a pacemaker installed last fall.”

“What?” the kid yelled. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“No big deal,” Doc said.

“Unless you get too close to a magnet,” the kid said. “Didn’t the surgeon warn you?”

“Maybe I forgot,” Doc said. “I thought it was enough I can remember it’s an ICD. An implantable cardioverter defibrillator.”

“The instruction manual says a magnetic field can interfere with the electrical impulses of an ICD,” the kid said. “It could shut down. You could have fainted and fallen. You could have died.”

“Then I better keep my distance from your fishing magnet. Is that what you’re saying?” Doc said.

“And tell your cardiologist what happened here,” the kid said.

“I will,” Doc said.

The kid helplessly shook his head, and said, “Doc, the rest of my life I would not have gotten over causing your death.”

“I know the feeling,” Doc said.

“You do?” the kid said.

“I can’t even get over Morgan Fairchild,” Doc said.

Although the magnetic attraction may have had fatal consequences, we somehow managed to enjoy yet another week in the Northwest Ontario Bush, and we all lived to laugh about it.

Thanks, Doc. 

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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.

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