By Rodney Bernu

Special to the Dispatch

In the 1930s, before the invention of television and other distractions, it was common for farm families to spend their free time enjoying the simple things in life like family picnics, visiting friends and neighbors, and of course, fishing.

From the time I was five years old, my parents let me stay on a short two or three day visit at my father’s sister’s 60-acre farm in Heinola, Minnesota. It was at this time that I had my first introduction to fishing because my aunt and uncle took me with them when they went on fishing trips to the local lakes around the Ottertail area.

On one such occasion, Uncle Sander decided to fish Lake Buchanan because it was known for its large northern pike; and also, because in the 1930s it had been stocked with walleye that had grown close to two pounds in size.

It was a beautiful fall morning; after milking the cows and the farm chores were done, we loaded the fishing babe poles and gear, including the minnows that Uncle had picked up earlier, and left for Lake Buchanan.

Uncle Sander drove us to his friend’s farm on the east shore that had lake access and a dock. We transferred our minnows and cane poles into the rowboat that uncle had rented and rowed to one of his favorite fishing holes.

Fishing was good. In a matter of several hours we were near our limit. I was sitting in the center of the boat with my pole hanging off the edge of a drop-off that angled down from ten feet deep to thirty-five feet when suddenly, the tip of my cane pole dipped down so violently that it was almost slid out of my hands. I held on tight as it swept sideways and kept pulling the tip of my pole under water. I yelled “Help. It’s a big one. Take my pole.” He quickly set his aside and grabbed mine. Being an experienced fisherman, he knew that it was a large fish so he kept tension on the line and played it back and forth in an effort to tire it out.

My Aunt and I excitedly watched as the monster suddenly broke the surface and splashed water on us as it sprang several feet high in the air in an effort to free itself. Uncle kept the pressure on. He was doing his best to tire the monster out but it was still full of fight. Every time he got it near the boat it would skim the surface and violently flip, twist, and turn as it tried to break free.

After wrestling with it for half an hour, we knew that it was a large northern pike. It finally tired and quit fighting, so Uncle succeeded in bringing it to the side of the boat. My aunt and I watched in awe as he reached down with his gloved hand and held the monster by its gills while he removed the fishhook. As he was hoisting the six foot long 45 pound monster into the boat it suddenly used every ounce of energy that it had left and flipped its tail so hard that Uncle lost his balance and almost fell overboard as it slipped loose from his grip and escaped back into the depths of Lake Buchanan.

Sitting at the kitchen table that evening enjoying our walleye diner, Uncle said, “That was your fish. It would have been recorded as the ‘prize’ catch of the year and probably made the front page of the Ottertail newspaper.”

Nodding my head in agreement, I laughed and said, “Wow, Amen to that!”