The Lure of the Lake

The Lure of the Lake

It had been years since I'd seen Uncle Roy. He was not
the role model my mother would wish for me. He was hard
drinking, uncouth, unsanitary, and for the most part
unemployed. The family black sheep.

As a twelve year old, I'd stared in fascination at his
right hand with just a jagged scar where the middle finger
should be. Now in the cheap casket, dressed in out of date
Sunday clothes, he lay with hands folded, exposing the three
weather beaten fingers and a gnarled thumb.

"Great man, your uncle. But he was driven by a
powerful hate. ---

"Undertaker shouldn't a shaved him. Never seen him
without his whiskers. ---

"Always hounded by lots of the big name fishing pros.
---
"Not goin to missed by most. I'll miss him though. --

"Told him that whiskey was goin to get to his liver.
He never listened to me."

The speaker droning in my ear was Nate. No one in
Beaver River knew his last name. Just Nate. He was a life
long friend of my Uncle Roy Nevers.

"Nate, I'd like you to stay out to the cabin. Stay as
long as you've a mind to. I think Uncle Roy would have
wanted that."

Wiping a tear from his eye with a filthy red bandana,
Nate said, "Come out to the cabin, Boy. There are some
things you should have. And know."

* * * * *

"Have a beer, Boy.

"I seen it happen. The finger thing. He didn't fish
in those days. We were just floating in a canoe on the
lake, drinkin and talkin and sunnin. Mostly drinkin.

"Roy flung an empty into the lake and collapsed against
the stern with his hand trailing in the water. Then I saw
it. five foot long. About twelve inches between the eyes.
Just gliding toward the canoe and the hand. Biggest,
meanest lookin muskie I ever saw. In a rush he grabbed that
hand and after a shake of his head which lifted him half out
of the water, he made a dive for the deep.

"We damned near turned the canoe over. Roy screamed in
surprise and then pain. He jerked his hand back in, and
blood was pumpin everywhere. Seein that finger twitchin on
the bottom of the canoe had me reachin for another beer.

"When we got back to the cabin, we could see that the
hand was chewed up bad. Should have gone to Doc Stringer in
Beaver, but Roy still owed him for the canoe. Roy poured
whiskey over his hand, and we wrapped it in rags till the
bleeding stopped.

"And that, Boy, is how Roy Nevers lost that finger."

"My God, Nate, that sounds like the biggest fish story
I ever heard."

"Over on the wall. That photo in the frame. It's your
uncle with that muskie. See, Roy was a slow man to anger,
but when he did get riled there was hell to pay.

"Went out that very night and borrowed a rod and reel
and some lures. By sun up we were in our leaky row boat
headed for the crime scene. He had me rowing back and forth
while he threw those plugs. Wouldn't come in till
afternoon. Grabbed a bite, and then back out until dark.
Our backs and hands were aching, but next morning it was the
same thing.

"Finally after eight days of hell, Roy caught him.
Fought him for about 15 minutes then dragged him up to the
boat, whacked him with a bat, and hauled him aboard. We
went ashore and snapped that picture.

"Well, I thought it was over, but no. Roy wanted every
muskie in the lake dead. He wanted every muskie everywhere
dead. I told you there was hell to pay when he was riled.

"Each morning he would climb in that boat with a bottle
of whiskey and his fishing equipment. Sometimes I went with
him, but more often he went by himself. And he caught
muskie. Sometimes five and six in an afternoon."

"What about the limit?" I asked.

"Have another beer, Boy.

"Roy didn't recognize no limit. Didn't recognize no
open or closed season. Never got caught. Wouldn't have
stopped if he had. He was obsessed.

"Use to sell muskie to disappointed vacationers around
the lake. I'll bet there's a lot of muskie over fireplaces
in the Midwest which were caught by Roy -- regardless of
whose name's on them today.

"Anyway, wasn't long before word got out about this guy
catching messes of muskie. Those fishing pros, the ones you
see on television, start nosing around to see how it's done.
Roy, he won't have nothing to do with them. So they take to
hiding, --- watching him through binoculars. What they see
is Roy catching 'em in the shallows, the weed beds, the drop
offs, the shoreline, open water, everywhere.

"Then it had to be in the lures they said. Roy knew
that he was being watched and made a great show of putting a
grasshopper on a hook with a piece of lake weed. All the
next week the fool pros and vacationers were fishing muskie
with grasshoppers and weed. Caught zilch of course.

"When the muskie played out, Roy started fishing the
surrounding lakes with just as good results. He was famous
in a 40 mile radius as, The Legend. Kept catching through
the years till he died last week.

"Anyway, he liked you, Boy. Said he hoped his sister,
your mom, didn't poison your mind against him. Said
everyone wasn't born to be a doctor or college professor.
Some are just born to enjoy more basic things in life --
like drinkin and fishin."

"Thanks Nate. Thanks for sharing that with me."

"One more thing, Boy, he would have wanted you to have
this old muskie rod and tackle box. Not worth much, but
they're thick with memories and the life of Roy Nevers."

* * * * *

I left the lake and the town of Beaver River that day
expecting never to return. That evening I laid the rod and
tackle box on my kitchen table.

Picking up the well worn pole, I examined it carefully.
It had a faint smell of old fish or maybe of Roy Nevers,
about it. It was stiff with just a bit of flex. The
plating on the eyelets was worn and the wrappings were
frayed. Roy, as you might expect, had departed this world
with a backlash in his reel.

The tackle box also smelled -- of old lunches and boat
bottoms. I opened the latch. The covers folded outward
exposing rows of wooden and plastic muskie lures with
cracked paint and rusted treble hooks.

In the bottom compartment was a wad of sandwich paper,
an unopened can of beer, and a pair of long nosed anglers
pliers. Feeling below the waxed paper, I pulled a container
into the light.

It appeared to be a jewelry or watch case with
decorative metal filigree. I pushed on the latch and it
sprang open. There laying on red velvet was that ghastly
middle finger. It was a horrible shade of black, and the
nail was still intact. Screwed into the front under the
finger nail was an eyelet with a swivel. Two sets of
business size treble hooks were attached underneath.

I sat drinking the can of warm beer wondering if there
would not be one more trip to Beaver River and the lake.
END

Story ID:	549
Written by:	Dick Dunlap (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Fiction
Location:	Beaver River Wisconsin USA
Year:	1954
Person:	Roy Nevers