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What's that smell?

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The Outdoors
Lead Summary
By
Scott Rall, outdoors columnist

I called my son Brandon on Saturday of Memorial Day weekend to thank him for his military service. He was deployed twice to Afghanistan and Iraq back when things were pretty hairy for our service members.
I asked him if he wanted to take his two daughters fishing for any part of the weekend, and we started reminiscing about one fishing adventure we had when he was little.
Brandon and his twin sister, Brittany, were about 5 or 6 years old at the time. I had gotten a super-hot fishing tip about a local lake in Nobles County, and at the time my wife was working 3 p.m. to midnight at the local hospital, so if I was going to go fishing, it had to be a family affair. We added the resident cocker spaniel to the mix as well.
I met my tipster just coming off the lake with his limit that he caught in about 20 minutes, and he gave me three of the hot-colored twister tails in a color called bubble gum. I was all set. We unloaded the boat and with pop, snacks, and a dog in tow, we were off. We only motored about a quarter mile to the rocky shoreline on the east side, and I dropped the trolling motor to start a slow stroll to what was going to be a great night.
I tied on the right stuff and told the kids to make sure they didn’t spill the pop in the boat. Before I started, I poured them each an orange soda and threw out two rods with a bobber and bait to float behind the boat as I slowly moved along. As I was readying to make my first cast, I heard a holler, “I am snagged.” I fixed the snag and then tried to make my very first cast again. I had raised the bobbers so the bait was only a foot or two under water, thinking this would solve my snagging issues.
I maneuvered for my first precision cast, and a strange sound appeared in my ears. It was the sound of a 32-oz. bottle of orange soda that was pouring copiously out unto the carpet in what appeared to be slow motion.
Now this is far from the first thing that has gotten spilled in this boat. I did what I could, and the dog was helping lap up what he could get. What followed were two more snags and some more unorchestrated chaos.
It was during a lull, that I was just about to make my first cast, and I heard the sound of a potato chip bag that exploded when Brandon tried to open it. The chips fell right where the pop had spilled. As I again picked up my rod, I was informed that one of them had to go the bathroom.
Perfect timing. Handled that, and as I picked up my fishing rod yet again, it became abundantly clear that 40 million flies had found the chips mashed into the pop-soaked carpet by four little feet until it looked like orange mashed potatoes.
Things were looking pretty bleak. Another boat came by in the meantime, and it was a friend of mine who had come on the lake after we did. He and his wife were already halfway to their limit. It was time to make things happen. I picked up my rod and made one incredibly poor cast and as the jig did a perfect rendition of a gymnast in the uneven bars by wrapping around a branch 120 times, I knew my troubles were not over.
I broke the line, tied on another jig having lost one of the three magic bubble gum twisters, and knew I had to be more careful. I earlier had considered duct tape to subdue my little fishing partners but though better of that idea. I was just about to make my second cast when at the top of a little child’s lungs I heard, “What’s that smell?”
What I thought were challenging events up to this point were only the warmup band of this fishing adventure. Rosco, the cocker spaniel, had laid out a nice soft No. 2, and those same four little feet transformed it into a thin coating of doo over the entire length of the boat’s carpet.
I paused for a moment and surveyed my current situation: 40 million flies, orange mashed potatoes, boat carpet that looked like the floor of a hog building, and two kids that wanted nothing but out.
As I hung my head in utter despair, I pulled up the trolling motor and headed to the landing where I met that same couple loading their boat ahead of me with a limit of 12 nice walleyes in the 16- to 18-inch range.
Kids with shoes removed and a boat on the trailer, I headed home on what young kids today call the walk (or in my case) the drive of shame.  When I got home, the only conceivable solution to a boat interior that looked like a landfill was the garden hose. I put the kids to bed and fertilized my front yard with 30 minutes of homegrown pressure washing.
The bite lasted about two weeks on this lake, but I never made it back to try again. As unsuccessful outings go, this one topped the list, but today those little feet are attached to two adults 36 years of age. Memories outdoors are the most vivid. I fished for thousands of hours with those two kids, and I would not have traded a single minute for anything in the world. Now I hope to have the chance to repeat those memories with four grandchildren. But no orange pop is allowed.
 
Scott Rall, Worthington, is a habitat conservationist, avid hunting and fishing enthusiast and is president of Nobles County Pheasants Forever. He can be reached at scottarall@gmail.com. or on Twitter @habitat

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