Mountain, Wisconsin Smallmouths Anonymous
North Country E-Tales Fiction: a "fish" story, pure and simple
... as told by George E. Wamser
Don the Postmaster and the Professor munched the best American fries with onions in the whole world at The Timberline in Lakewood, and compared notes on the upcoming meeting of The Mountain Smallmouths Anonymous chapter in a subdued voice.
Subdued and covert , because diners in a small town have ears and today, as usual, a half dozen other members of the MSMA were in the room hunched over enormous plates of apple cinnamon flapjacks, blackberry pie, crispy bacon, eggs over easy, sunny side up and scrambled with a hint of black pepper, s*** on a shingle, toast buttered lightly, hot coffee and iced cinnamon rolls that made a big-city mall C inna-bon look like a pathetic home-ec student's first attempt at baking.
Still, all ears were tuned into whatever tidbit of fishing intelligence might slip from the lips of the two most secretive and successful smallmouth bass fishermen in the entire trio of Lakes Country townships, while they planned their trip for that very afternoon.
Some of the eavesdroppers unabashedly leaned in the general direction and cupped a hand to one ear.
Not well known to the outside world, Smallmouths Anonymous was not an organization to help you quit fishing for smallmouth bass, but rather, a support group of fellow sportsmen and women dedicated to helping an angler deal with the circumstances and emotional baggage surrounding the holy pursuit of the only game fish that ounce for ounce, pound for pound, was the fightin'est critter to come along since Muhammad Ali.
The membership knows what I'm talking about.
Plus Don and the Prof had a secret.
ust try keeping a secret in a small town.
There is something inside every successful smallmouth fisherman that makes the proud showing of his personal photo gallery of caught-and-released bronzebacks a mandatory expression of ego. Especially when the average size ranges in the 19- to 25-inch category, and especially when said fish were conquered by fly rods!!
Because he was the town postmaster, Don's photo collection graced the wood frame around the old brass bars of the postage-stamp window for all to see, and the images so proudly displayed there weren't quite fair to show, in the true ideal of sportsmanship, even though they were quite real and legit and equally incredible. Why? Well, for two reasons.
First, your best friend and confidant, the Prof, couldn't share the limelight as easily, without the public venue for display (and quite frankly, being the Wabeno High gym teacher didn't offer the same opportunities for subtle homage and enshrinement, as did the most well-traveled place in the entire town -- the Post Office). The bait shop and gas station were close seconds, and the Prof took good advantage of them, but, seeing's how the owners of those establishments were also members of Smallmouths Anonymous, and seeing's how their personal success rate was embarrassingly beneath both the Postmaster and the Prof, the Prof's rogues' gallery of glorious monster smallies always seemed to end up shoved behind gory photos of deceased 10-point bucks, hapless and hopelessly dead wild turkeys, shots of the grandkids' bluegills, and NASCAR ads for Copenhagen snuff, a Mark Martin Viagra clock or ice cream chip-burgers.
It was a less than satisfying experience for a proud man.
Second, putting your amazing catches out there for the entire world to see, made folks curious, nosy, and for the fly-fisherman in pursuit of the wily smallmouth bass, this this is an emotion bordering on obsession. Hence the formation of the MSMA, to begin with!
Cont. p.2
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