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A TRUE LAKE ADA FISH STORY OF "MR. BIG" 

by John Lilja

Some of you may remember "Mr. Big". He was a giant fish in one of the funny paper comic strips years ago, who wore a gun and holster, smoked cigars, and generally acted very, very tough. And nobody better mess with "Mr. Big". 

This story is about how I actually messed with him, and it was a memorable encounter. 

It all started on one of those glorious July mornings when the loons called to me about 5 AM, telling me to get up and enjoy the perfect day now dawning over Lake Ada. I quietly slipped into my "first light" fishing attire, and went out the door into the breathless dawn. 

It was an absolutely gorgeous morning. The lake was a sylvan mirror without a ripple anywhere. A lazy wisp of morning mist still hovered low over the water, and the loons were the only sign of activity. 

I quickly loaded the boat and slipped away from the dock, using the oars as quietly as possible. This was one of those awesomely beautiful mornings which commands respect. The rising sun was still behind the trees on the east side of the lake, but was casting a rosy glow over the blue bowl of the sky. 

After rowing out a few hundred feet, I started the twenty horse Mercury and headed out to my favorite spot, where I expected action, but hadn't really planned on what I got from "Mr. Big". 

Since there was no wind, I cast out a 5" sucker minnow hooked just below the dorsal fin on a no. 3 Kahle hook, held up by a 3" red and white round bobber set at five feet. All of the above were at the end of an old 20# black nylon line on a free spin level winder with a star drag. 

The big sucker was swimming around in lazy circles for just a few minutes, when I saw him try to become a flying fish! I knew something special was about to happen when my minnow tried his best to get out of the water. 

Moments later, the big red and white bobber disappeared below the glassy surface with an audible swish. 

Knowing that only a very large fish goes after a 5" sucker, and takes him down with such authority, my heart pounded as I waited out the reappearance of the bobber. I used this time to raise the twenty horse out of the water, as I watched the free-spool steadily unwind, as though the ancient black nylon was connected to a truck heading east. 

Then, as it almost always does, the bobber emerged. I waited until it started its second steady move, this time north along the weed line. It was now or never. I locked the free spool and gently took up the slack. As the black nylon started rising out of the water, I set the hook. 

I couldn't believe the weight on the other end of that line. It was as though I'd hooked a pickup truck with great moves. 

Thus began a twenty minute struggle with "Mr. Big", which included him dragging my boat; me putting down the twenty horse to chase him when I was running out of line; the screaming of the drag; getting this great fish near the boat only to have him head out again... 

My left wrist was becoming tired and shaky. I wasn't sure what I'd do with him if I somehow managed to get him into the boat. But it was "Mr. Big" who provided the answers. In the last minute, he turned and headed rapidly towards my boat, ala "Jaws". I could almost hear the drumming music. 

With his approach, the line went slack. I reeled in quickly...too quickly; and to make sure I wouldn't lose him, I tightened up the star drag...again, too much... and then, there he was! A monster Northern, just eight feet from the boat on a collision course; with a head 8 to 10 inches across and a body about 5 feet long, surfaced as if to show off, or maybe to reward me for my efforts. 

And then he plunged suddenly into the depths, leaving me with a last view of a tail nearly a foot across. 

My too-tight star drag undid all my previous efforts, as the old black nylon burst with a twang like a busted guitar string. 

In a way, I was glad. I sat there in the boat, somewhat shaken, but full of admiration for "Mr. Big". I hope that some day you too will have the opportunity to meet this fabulous denizen of Lake Ada. 

He's still out there. Tum ta Tum Tum!!

Travels, Far and Deep 

We took a long car trip this summer, all the way to another country. On the way home, we took a detour that wasn’t far, but deep. Let me explain. 

First, to cross into Canada, my husband and I had to prove who we were, and that we were not a threat to the country we were entering. Were we carrying firearms? No. Fireworks? No. Gifts? Uh, nope, hadn’t thought of that, even though we were visiting old friends. 

The guard asked my husband how the woman in the passenger seat was related to him. It was hard to answer with a straight face, but we remained serious, figuring that being a smart(bleep) about illegal drugs or TB could get us turned away from the North Dakota–Manitoba border, or worse. 

So we crossed over, and kept driving into Winnipeg. We visited Bob’s old friends and colleagues from the decade he lived there. Over a very short five days, I learned a little bit about Canada, though not nearly enough to make wise, sweeping statements. It’s a terrific place and the only time I knew I wasn’t in Kansas anymore – excuse me, Dubuque – was when I saw traffic signs in French and parking hours in military time. Their money is also prettier, their gas more expensive (at $1.10 per liter, it looks tantalizingly cheap, until you do the math), their politics more diverse. 

But as I said, it was a short visit, and all too soon, we had to head back. I had plans in mind for that return trip, a detour that turned out to be both more difficult and more magical than I’d expected. 

There is a lake in Minnesota named Lake Ada. I want to say my family went there every summer when I was young, but I know the tricks of memory. It was probably only five or six years, maybe from the time I was 8 until I was 14. (I remember bringing a portable record player and albums by the Beatles and Bob Dylan during my final years, which must have been a pain for my parents.) One year my best friend came along, but mostly it was just me and my sister and our parents. Some of our relatives stayed in the other cabins, so it felt like our version of the Kennedy compound, minus the sailboats. 

The place we went to was called Kitzmann’s Resort, but it was as far from swanky as you could get. The cabins had running hot and cold water, flush toilets and showers and a fully equipped kitchen, but beyond that, all was rustic. The mosquitoes got in at night, and beach sand coated the floors despite the foot bath just outside the screen door and the broom my mother was always wielding. But for two weeks, it was home, and what a glorious home it was. 

We kids spent our days on the sandy beach just outside our cabin doors, splashing into the water, jumping off the dock, giggling as sunfish nibbled our feet. When we’d had our fill of the clear lake water, we’d spread our towels on the beach and bake in the sun. (Don’t tell my dermatologist.) One evening during each stay, we would even wash our hair in the lake, doing long surface dives to rinse it clean. 

The men went out fishing before dawn, and the women fried their catch for dinner, neatly sliding into their prescribed roles except when my feisty Aunt Louise suited up in her mosquito hat and life jacket to catch her own string of walleyes. 

It was bliss, though I’m sure my father, our only driver, might beg to differ about the 800-plus miles, round trip, as might my mother about the two weeks of meals she planned like an Army mess cook, packing non-perishables into boxes and strategically fitting everything into the Buick Invicta station wagon that served as the family covered wagon. She even sewed curtains for the windows along the side of the back, so someone could sleep back there on the way. 

It had been decades since I’d seen Lake Ada. The cabins where we’d stayed had long been sold to private owners. A few family members still went there for the summer, finding another resort on the lake, but for me, it became a few glowing pages in a photo album: the lake at sundown, my sister under a pine tree, my cousins water skiing. 

To say I was apprehensive as we approached the area where the map said Lake Ada would be is putting it lightly. Whenever I do a guided imagery and am asked to imagine a peaceful, safe, beautiful place, it's that beach I call to mind. How could it live up to that kind of burnished memory? 

But then we rounded a turn, and there it was: the lake of my childhood, the lake of my fantasies. I couldn’t find a public beach or even a place to pull over. I nervously tried a narrow gravel road and we found ourselves right behind a row of cabins on the south side of the lake – the very spot, I suddenly realized, where our resort had been. The lake glistened in the sun, the pines stood tall and fragrant, the beach was as sandy as in my best memories. 

We didn’t stay long. I had a major headache and the hours and miles before we would be home loomed ahead of us like a sharply pointed finger. Oddly, this glimpse was enough. It felt like a dream – a good one, where you get to be in precisely the place you’ve been wanting to get back to for so long. 

To get into and out of Canada, you need documentation. Going back to your childhood is even harder. It takes a light but determined heart, and the willingness to dream while you’re wide awake. I can tell you, it’s worth the trip. 

submitted by Pam Kress-Dunn
pam2617@yahoo.com