locks and remember some of the sad stories of the fishermen who would come in to the P.O. and fawn for long moments over the photos and absolutely beg for just the tiniest clues as where they could find such delicious smallmouth action.
The Postmaster's blue eyes twinkled, and he rubbed his palms together with smug satisfaction.
"How pathetic!" he snickered, and then remembered one tale of a young man named Tom from California, who had lived in Wisconsin once, and had himself become hooked real bad on bass fishing.
The man stood under his cowboy hat for a half hour, twirling his mustache, staring at the pix of Don holding this bronzeback and that -- two twenty-inchers caught on consecutive casts within five minutes on light fly tackle, the obligatory shots of a pair caught through the ice, just to let you know it wasn't a seasonal sort of prowess he possessed, stringers full of smallies caught as a child on a cane pole back in the days you still kept them and ate them, photos with uncles, grandfathers and his daughters all holding their hereditary legacy of fish tradition up for the camera.
It brought big watery crocodile tears into the corners of the California man's eyes, and you know what he said?
"Dude, sometimes... I get all my gear together -- all of it -- tackle box, Rapalas, Mepps, rods and reels... and like... I wander around the reservoirs out there in California knowing full well that there aint no fish in them, casting, like, just going through the motions."
Don could still picture that funny, forlorn fella, in his shorts, knobby knees and cowboy hat jumping from rock to rock around this massive man-made lake, not a cat's ass of a chance in the world of catching a fish, but doing it anyway, out of sheer love of the sport. It made an uncomfortable shiver run up and down his spine. It was pitiful. It was comical. What a shame, he could sympathize.
But even that wistful former Wisconsin fisherman couldn't coax the secrets out of Don.
It was a tough situation for the hapless unfortunates, for neither Don nor the Prof drank, and neither availed themselves of careless talk, especially when it came to smallmouths.
Don and the Prof were lifelong buddies, born and raised in the North Country. They had maintained a friendly but serious rivalry in all sorts of activities ever since they were kids. To tell you the truth, it was the Prof who was the athlete of the two and seemed to win at everything from softball to football to track to volleyball. And although Don did well with his fine, blond Scandinavian looks and found a wonderful girl to marry, it was still the sports star, the Prof.who "played the field" with unbridled glee.
There was always good-natured ribbing involved, and Don took it like the genteel man that he was, biding his time, showing his ever-so stone-like Viking patience, until well beyond graduation, and the Navy years after the War, when the two friends reunited, and the swamper went on the other foot.
As you grow older, things change, and the sporting life drifted from organized team efforts to individual outdoor sports, aka hunting and fishing, golf and horseshoes, and it was in these activities that Don excelled, leaving the Prof hanging on his suspenders.
It had been that way for years, and the Prof was well aware of his own vulnerabilities, and Don's charitable help in becoming the second-best smallmouth angler in the area, and had helped him found Smallmouths Anonymous to begin with.
May 21 st to June 21 st is primetime smallmouth fishing in Wisconsin's North Country, anyone will tell you that , but having the skill, knowledge, and wherewithall to become proficient at landing big bronzebacks on a consistent basis is another matter.
You have to know where to go, and what bait to use.
That June afternoon came, when the two men stood out on Lakewood's main street, after the Post Office had closed a tad early for a weekday and as the sun shone down Highway 32 over the A&W Root Beer Stand, the two friends just stood there a moment and sucked in a lungful of early summer.
"Smells mighty fishy to me today," says Don.
