Highway 2 runs the length of Washington state and Idaho west to east. It courses through the Cascades and drops down slightly to the plateau of eastern Washington and leads to Spokane. This is high desert country where the predominant color of the landscape this time of year is golden brown. It’s dry. It’s big sky country. The hills roll slightly like rumpled bed covers.
The amazing thing is there is water. Rivers snake their way, mostly dammed so as to provide irrigation for the produce grown in abundance here. Where we are headed, Williams Lake, there are what they call “pothole” lakes. Seemingly scooped out of the rock by God’s giant steam shovel and filled with pure spring water, these potholes are an amazing source of respite from the high desert heat. Although it is only in the high 80’s as we swing through here, we’re told it is a cool summer. The usual summer temps this time of year are high 90’s to 100 or so.
Williams Lake is a primo example of a pothole lake in this region. It is created and sustained by over 100 underwater springs that it full and well over 200 feet deep in places. Cool, clear, refreshing, and loaded apparently with trout species. People say that if you can’t catch fish here you just as well give up fishing. Klink’s resort is a wonderful little world of weekending locals who love hanging out at the lake. Some folks stay there 6 months out of the year and then head for warmer climes come fall. They say the winters here are cold and snowy. The Klinks have been here for some 30 years or so and they’ve built the warmest little resort you can imagine. The little restaurant on site serves wonderful meals. You wouldn’t believe what they can do to a hamburger! This oasis is simply a joy to stay at. We were so glad we found it, albiet for just two days as we gave our generator a rest.
During the early morning I watched as two little fellas walked over to the dock, poles in hand, intent on bringing home the evening meal. Some things surely never change. As I sat in the morning sun watching these two friends walk down the dusty road on their mission my mind flashed back to when I was 10 years old. My two older brothers, Mike and Norm, were in the Seminary studying to be priests. This was about a mile and a half from our house on Ridge avenue in Webster Groves, MO. Kenrick it was called, named after an archbishop of the ST Louis Diocese. Kenrick was a fairly vast expanse of woods of perhaps 100-150 acres left standing amidst the old suburban enclaves of Shrewsbury and Webster Groves. Creeks flowed through the woods and there was a pretty little lake with a perfectly placed peninsula where you could fish the lake from three different sides. It was maybe 15 feet deep at its most reclusive core. This was an eternity of deepness to us. Within that dark and deep recess lurked catfish of untold size, perhaps as large as a school bus. We were sure of it.
Mostly when we fished there we caught bluegill, too small for even us to eat. There were thousands of the little rascals and catching them was fun. It always became a game of who could catch the most. Though the seminarians would chase the errant kids away who tried to fish there, I was always left alone. I would proudly say, ”My brother is a seminarian here...Norm Jump.” The reply was always the same. “ Well, ok then. Norm is a great guy. But be careful, alright? Do us a favor and clean some of these bluegills out of here. There’s just too many of them.” Even though we lived really close to the seminary, my brothers stayed at the seminary and did not come home at night. It was as if they were a hundred miles away at school. I guess it was the rule that you had to stay there.
One morning after a long night’s relentless rain, Rick Guenther, one of my really good friends from Holy Redeemer grade school, and I walked over to Kenrick cane poles in hand with a can of dug up worms. I remember it was a bright crisp Saturday morning in the fall and it was sunny of about 60 degrees or so. Colors were just starting to grace the trees around the lake. One particular maple tree on the peninsula was already a dusky red color about the shade of a red delicious apple. That particular morning we decided to fish by the overflow pipes opposite from the point of the peninsula.
The bluegill were particularly hungry that Saturday. There was bait in the water washed down from the evening’s rain. A feeding frenzy was in process. ..so much so that we started to get tired of the same old size, same old bluegills. Rick decided to try something I had never seen done before just to break the boredom. That’s what little guys do most of the time. Rick took one of the smaller bluegills and ran the hook through its back, ensuring it wouldn’t get off, but giving it room to wiggle and try to get free. He said he saw his dad do this once. “What the heck...let’s see what happens”, he said.
Almost instantly his bobber sunk clean out of sight. This was not the usual tap, tap, tap of the bluegill on the bobber. There was no visible sign of the red and white bobber. It had gone to the very depths of the lake for sure. For a few seconds neither of us could believe our eyes. This had never happened here before. Rick regained his composure, if a ten year old can have such a thing. He yanked for all he was worth on that cane pole and set the hook. By God, he had something...and it was big! Back and forth that line ran, first to the left and then back to the right. Rick wasn’t going to let that fish go deeper. He kept the cane pole pointed skyward trying to lift that bad boy out of the depths. I thought for sure that cane pole would snap in two.
Finally, after what seemed like ten minutes, but was probably one, he wrassled that creature to the shore. It was the big daddy of the lake...at least to us it was. I stared at that fish in amazement. Rick pronounced it a channel catfish. “It’s a four pounder for sure!” he pronounced. “What are we gonna do with it?” I yelled. “I’m gonna take it home. My dad will know how to clean it.” “But, how are we gonna do that? It’ll die before we can walk all that way. I know they rot real fast after they die. You can’t cook a rotten fish can you?” I responded. We were momentarily stumped.
Gazing around and pondering on the situation, it dawned on Rick that nature had provided just the answer to our predicament. Nature had provided the meal, nature would provide the solution to the puzzlement as well. “ I can keep it alive in the puddles along the way.” Rick surmised. Sure enough, off we started on a run. Every so often in the street lay the next puddle and there Rick’s prize catfish would suck in whatever oxygen there might be from the recent rainwater. Puddle to puddle we made it to my house where we rested the fish and ourselves. It being Saturday, my dad suddenly figured out some work that needed to be done that I had to help him with. Rick was on his own now, another two miles to his house. He was confident. “I gotta go before the puddles dry up.” Rick said. And off he ran, cane pole, can of worms, and the Big One from Kenrick Lake dangling from his stringer. Rick was bringing home dinner.