Tamarack River Ghost (12 page)

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Her eyes caught his. Her question was a serious one.

“No, generally not. But I don’t know about the Tamarack River Ghost. Over the years, lots of folks claim to have heard him, claim to have heard the log driver’s song and the tinkling of a little bell. I don’t know what to make of the stories; people that tell them surely believe what they’ve experienced.

“I’ve heard about the ghost several times since I’ve been here,” Natalie said. “Even heard it was the main reason that the Tamarack River Golf Course development went under.”

“I heard that same story,” Josh said.

“Just this spring I heard another one,” said Natalie. “A young couple was paddling down the Tamarack River. They’d been camping, and they wanted an early start, so they were in their canoe before the sun had come up. It was foggy and dead quiet. After a half hour of paddling, they heard the tinkling of a bell. When they glanced toward shore, through the fog and mist, they saw a man wearing a felt hat and a checkered shirt. He was standing there, staring at the river and smoking a pipe. They could smell the burning tobacco, a sweet, not unpleasant aroma. Alongside the man stood a big dog. When they got closer, they waved, and just like that the man and dog disappeared into the fog. A bit later, they pulled their canoe on shore and walked the short distance to Christo’s for breakfast. While eating breakfast they asked the waitress about the man and the dog. ‘Oh,
you saw the Tamarack River Ghost and his dog,’ an old timer overhearing their story told them.”

“Quite a story,” Josh said. “Almost makes you a believer.”

“It does,” said Natalie. “This young couple swore by what they saw.”

Shortly after midnight and considerable dancing, Natalie caught Josh yawning.

“Any time you want to go home, just say the word,” she said, smiling. She had her hand on Josh’s arm. She had the nicest, warmest smile; her hand was warm and friendly.

“I’m sorry,” Josh apologized. “I guess I’m out of practice. Been a long time since I’ve had this much fun.”

“I’m glad.”

Natalie drove them back to Willow River, parked in front of Josh’s apartment, and turned off the Honda.

“Thank you for a great evening,” Josh said as he reached for the door handle.

She pulled his arm away from it.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“About what?”

“About accusing you of tipping off Dan Burman.”

“Apology accepted,” Josh said. “Thank you again for dinner and a great evening.”

“You’re welcome.”

Josh reached for the door handle again, opened the door, and stepped out into the night. He walked toward his apartment door, turned, and waved. Natalie waved back before starting her car and driving off.

Josh’s mother had taught him well. When someone gives you a present, or does something nice for you, you send them a thank-you note. An e-mail message doesn’t count. It must be a handwritten note, placed in an envelope and sent through the regular mail. The day following dinner and dancing with Natalie, Josh penned the following note:

He folded the message, placed it in an envelope, and then realized that he didn’t know Natalie’s home address. He wrote her DNR office address on the envelope and then wrote personal across the bottom. He hoped some office worker wouldn’t slit open the envelope and cause Natalie some embarrassment. But at this point, he really didn’t care. He had a great time and he wanted her to know it.

Those who’ve lived in Wisconsin know that November is usually the transition month from fall to winter, no matter that the calendar says winter
doesn’t begin until December 21. By Thanksgiving week, when the annual deer hunting season rolled around, the first snow had usually arrived and daytime high temperatures struggled to reach the high twenties.

This November, several nights in a row area thermometers showed zero degrees, which meant the smaller lakes had frozen over, as had the backwaters of the Tamarack River.

Josh wanted to ask Natalie out for dinner, but he knew that deer hunting season was one of the busiest times of the year, so he did not contact her. He was pleased that her work had made the lead story of the
Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
:

The week after deer season, when the hullabaloo about how many deer were shot in the state and why the DNR wasn’t doing a better job of managing the deer herd had subsided a bit, Josh’s phone rang.

“
Farm Country News
, Wittmore,” Josh answered.

“This is Natalie.”

“Natalie, how are you?”

“Surviving.”

“Say, I saw your Freddy story in the paper. Good one.”

Josh heard Natalie chuckling.

“The reason I called is, I was wondering if you’d like to do a

ride-along—come with me tomorrow afternoon while I check some fishing
licenses. I’m going over to the Tamarack River. It might be a chance for you get another Tamarack River story.”

Josh glanced at his calendar. “Sure, what time?”

“How about I pick you up at your office at 1:30? I’ll have my truck.”

How different Natalie looked when she was in uniform! And she was different. Josh looked for a hint of the attractive young woman who’d bought him dinner and who had snuggled up to him when they danced. This Natalie, this woman with a pistol on her belt, was all business.

“What’s this?” Josh asked when he climbed into the pickup. He saw a leather-bound book lying on the seat. He picked it up.

“Oh, sorry,” Natalie said as she took the journal from Josh and stuffed it in the glove compartment. “It’s just my journal.”

“You keep a journal?”

“I try to. I don’t have a whole lot of time to write what I want to write.”

“I’ve got the same problem,” said Josh. “What I write is for the paper— seldom do I have time to write anything for myself.”

They continued driving, neither speaking.

“Nice day,” Josh said, breaking the silence. A bright sun on the fresh snow made everything sparkle.

“Beautiful day. Should bring out the ice fishermen. Ice fishing is usually best soon after the lakes freeze—the fish are still pretty active then,” Natalie said.

She parked the big pickup in the parking lot at Tamarack River Park.

“Looks like I was right,” Natalie said as she counted the cars and pickups in the lot.

The backwaters of the Tamarack had been a favorite ice-fishing place for as long as anyone cared to remember. A recently frozen area just around the corner from the park already had a half-dozen fishing shanties on it.

“You ready?” Natalie asked. She pulled on her parka. “Can get a little chilly out there with the north wind coming down the river.”

“I’m ready,” said Josh. He had a camera and a clipboard.

The first shanty they came to looked new. It was constructed of plywood with two-by-six runners underneath. A puff of wood smoke came from the stove pipe stuck through the shanty’s roof.

As they approached they read the little sign above the door, “Oscar Anderson & Fred Russo, R.R. 1, Tamarack Corners, WI.”

“In case you didn’t know,” Natalie told Josh, “there are several laws that refer specifically to ice fishing. One is that shanty owners must have their name and address on the outside.”

Natalie knocked on the door of the shanty. “Conservation warden,” she said in a firm voice.

“Come on in.”

Upon entering, Natalie and Josh spotted two older gentlemen hunched over holes drilled in the ice. They each held a jigging pole, a short fishing pole with thin monofilament line attached.

“How you guys doing today?” she asked, by way of greeting.

“Fair to middlin’,” answered Oscar as he pulled up his line.

“How many lines you got in the water today?” Natalie asked. She talked quietly.

“Well, let’s see. I got one, and Fred’s got one,” Oscar said. “When you get our age, about all we can handle is one line apiece. Takes a younger guy to keep up with three lines.”

From the answer to her question, Natalie quickly determined that these old fishermen knew that three lines was the limit.

“Could I see your fishing licenses?” she said politely.

“Yup, you sure can,” Fred said as he began digging for his billfold buried deep within his heavy woolen trousers. Oscar began looking for his license as well.

Natalie glanced at computer generated, not-very-fancy-looking licenses and said, “Aren’t you the guys who caught that big northern that burned down your shack a few years ago?”

“We are,” said Fred. “Biggest dang fish we ever caught. Mean bugger, too. Came right up out of the fish hole, one just like this ’un. Fish took after us. Started floppin’ around the shanty liked it owned the place. Well that damn fish tipped over our stove. Fish burned down our shanty, right down to the ice.”

“I read the story in the paper,” Natalie said, smiling.

“Yup, people didn’t believe us. Didn’t believe that big old fish had
done what it did,” said Oscar. “But we know the truth, don’t we Fred? We know what happened.”

“What’d you do with the fish?” asked Josh, quite taken by the story.

“Well that’s the problem. When that old fish tipped over our stove and the shanty began burning, we got the hell out as fast as we could. You suppose we could find that fish—cooked or not? Nope, couldn’t find ’im. Musta flopped back down the hole. That’s what musta happened,” said Fred.

“So what’ve you caught today?” asked Natalie, changing the subject.

“Nothin’. We ain’t caught a single fish. Not one. Too nice a day, I guess. Fish takin’ a vacation,” said Oscar.

“Good day for fishin’ though. Good day to be out on the ice. You wanna stop back a little later, we’ll be fryin’ up some of my venison sausage. Pretty good stuff.”

“No thanks,” said Natalie. “But thank you for the offer—and good luck.”

“Thanks. Kinda looks we’ll be needin’ a little luck if we’re havin’ any fish for supper,” said Oscar.

“What a pair of characters,” Josh said when they walked toward the next shanty. He remembered that his father had talked about Oscar and Fred.

“That they are,” said Natalie. “But they’re good guys. Salt-of-the-earth types who wouldn’t do anything wrong if their lives depended on it. Wish we had more of them around.”

Josh noticed that several people were moving around from shack to shack. Obviously, the warden’s presence on the ice had not gone unnoticed.

The next shanty, a few yards beyond Oscar and Fred’s, had seen better days. At one time it had been covered with black tarpaper, which now was coming lose in several places. A piece of cardboard covered what had once been a window. The door hung crooked on its hinges. The words “Dan Burman, R.R. 1, Tamarack Corn________” had been painted in white on the shanty’s wall. The words were badly faded, and part of the address had ripped away. Both Natalie and Josh recognized the name as that of the person Natalie had accused of game poaching.

“Conservation warden,” Natalie said as she knocked on the sagging door.

She knocked again. “Conservation warden—anybody home?” Both she and Josh heard scrambling inside the dilapidated shack.

Natalie pushed open the rickety door to find Dan Burman and his son Joey frantically stuffing panfish down the ice hole in the middle of their shanty. Josh stayed outside.

“Conservation warden,” Natalie repeated. Josh was astonished at how much authority she could put into her voice. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Catch and release,” Burman muttered. Both of his arms were wet to his elbows. Joey had just handed him a good-sized bluebill that he was prepared to push down into the fish hole. “Catch and release.”

“I don’t think so,” Natalie said. “Just stop what you’re doing and show me your fishing license, Mr. Burman.” Joey dropped the bluegill back in the pail that stood next to him. Burman pulled out his billfold, found his license, and handed it to the warden, who looked at it and handed it back without comment.

“How old are you, son?” Natalie asked, looking at the nervous young man sitting on a wooden bench nailed to one side of the shanty.

“I’m . . . I’m fifteen,” the young man stammered.

“Yeah, he’s fifteen,” the senior Burman said. “Big kid for his age. Good fisherman, too.”

“Mr. Burman, is this your fishing shanty?”

“It is. Seen better days, but it’s every bit mine,” Burman said, a hint of a smile on his face.

“How many fish you got in that pail?”

“What pail?”

“That one standing next to your son.”

“Got a few keepers. Most we throw back. Got us a few keepers in the pail. Make a few good meals for the family.”

“What do you say we take the pail outside and count your keepers.”

“OK by me,” said Burman. “Joey, grab up that pail and take it outside.”

“Would you dump the fish out of the pail, please,” Natalie said to the young man once they had all exited the shanty.

Joey dumped the flopping fish and water onto the ice. Burman, his eyes adjusting to the bright light outside the shanty, focused on Josh.

“Say, don’t I know you?” Burman asked. He had several days’ growth of whiskers covering his craggy, weathered face.