“That jerk Hummel. You know, the one with all the connections in D.C.?”
“What can we use from these reports, and how can we use them?”
“You’re the one with the big title and salary. I just follow your orders, and do your bidding.”
“Don’t be an ass Jack, and help me figure this out.”
As we all know our history books tell us that General Douglas MacArthur died in May of 1946, just before the start of World War III. We’ve been taught that the great General died of a heart attack while hiking in northern Wisconsin. This is the myth we’ve all been spoon-fed by our teachers and the historians. In fact, the true story is much more surreal, and not terribly, shall we say… heroic.
The first of May was a gorgeous spring day. The sun was out and the sky was a crystal-clear blue. It was the kind of sky that you could only get in remote areas and this was just about as a remote an area as you can get, at least east of the Mississippi. This beautiful day just happened to be occurring in northern Wisconsin on the Wolf River. It is a land of towering white pines.
These pines made a whispering noise when the wind coursed through them. Their thin needles in bundles of five, caught the wind like no other tree can. You could almost hear the ancestors of the original inhabitants passing down their stories around the campfire, from generation to generation, in the whispers coming from these ancient giants.
The remaining Native American populations were all on reservations by now, and the Wolf ran right through one of these reservations. The once-proud Menominee Nation now predominated in this backwater of backwaters. They welcomed the few visitors that came long distances over the mud roads with open arms. They were eager to earn good money guiding tender-feet and city slickers on whatever adventure they wished to enjoy up here in the land of the truly sky-blue waters.
What brought the distinguished visitor from his duty post in Japan here to Gardner Dam on the Wolf River in early May, is still quite a mystery. The locals knew that you could catch some great fish with flies this time of year, but it took the right day, and the right old wily fisherman to bag some of the best-fighting, and more importantly, the best-eating Brook trout anywhere in the world. Brooks and Browns were what you wanted out of the Wolf. The Rainbows were fine but the Brooks and Browns melted in your mouth when they came out of the pristine waters near Gardner Dam.
The Wolf River flows into Lake Winnebago and then out to Lake Michigan through the Fox River and Green Bay. Industries along the way gradually made the best water on earth into a slightly less drinkable concoction. The paper mills along the way and the farms around the shores of Lake Winnebago added funny tastes and smells to it. That water was gradually diluted by huge Lake Michigan mingling with the waters of the other Great Lakes being further diluted so that the water that eventually went over Niagara Falls and up the Saint Lawrence River and Seaway into the gigantic North Atlantic, was reasonably clean again. The Great Lakes held eighty-five percent of North America’s fresh water but no one cared about that now. They were used for commercial fishing and to cool, lubricate, mix with all manner of industrial endeavors, including human excrement, then poured back into the lakes and rivers and eventually, the ocean.
For reasons unknown General of the Army, Douglas MacArthur, along with a small entourage decided to drive up from Chicago to try their hand at fishing on the Wolf River. Mac was in Chicago as part of a good-will tour. Some say the tour was a slap on the wrist from Truman. He was dragged away from his duties in Japan and made to complete this tour while he was on his way to Washington to meet with the President. The designated route included stops in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Denver, St. Louis, Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland and Pittsburgh.
Perhaps it was because one of MacArthur’s subordinates used to tell stories about Gardner Dam and the Wolf River, or perhaps it was because of some obscure article Douglas read as a boy that drew him to the rapids of Gardner Dam. All we know is that he ordered his unhappy band of not-so-very-merry men to arrange a fishing trip, and that Gardner Dam on the Wolf River was to be the destination.
To be sure, sticking his thumb in Truman’s eye was a large part of it too. He was always known for being frustratingly late, when it suited his mood and his mood was not terribly good, after having been dragged halfway around the world on the orders of an ex-artillery captain.
The group of twelve showed up in two Packards and a Hudson. The local inhabitants were puzzled as to his appearance but were delighted to have the General’s early-season business. They assured him that they would have the best guide who could not only show them how to fly-fish, but also show them where best to fish and what flies would achieve the desired results. They helped the General’s aides erect some splendid looking army tents complete with all the amenities, and everyone had the best night’s sleep they’ve had in a longtime.
The next day was the day we started this story. Everyone was eager to try their hand at fly-fishing. Even the grumbling aides finally got into the spirit of things and were anxious to get into their waders and start slinging flies around.
Ten and two, the old guide kept repeating to the group. The group made a valiant effort not to look foolish in front of their peers. MacArthur was a natural, or maybe he picked it up along his many travels around the world or when he was with his father stationed out west. He quickly grew tired of the routine and wanted to start catching fish for breakfast… or at least lunch.
The fishing camp was set up in a beautiful area which had been cleared years ago for a Boy Scout camp. But today it looked like the headquarters of a military campaign. Come to think of it, so did the Boy Scout camp. Tall pines ringed a large clearing and eagles could be seen looking for the same fish as the fishermen.
The General broke away from the rest of the sometimes struggling group and grabbed one of the guides and an aide. They walked towards the sound of rapids. The Wolf was flush with fresh run off from some late-spring rain storms and was running high and fast. The standing waves of the mighty Wolf rivaled any out west and the chute that was known as Gardner Dam was a slight narrowing of the river. The dam made a deep pool, where the big trout could be found. This is where the granddaddies of Brookies and Browns hung out, and the guide of course, knew this and directed Mac to stand on the bank and throw a few practice casts.
On the third cast there was a strike, and the General calmly pulled in a good-looking twenty-six inch Brook trout. It was as beautiful a fish as you would ever see. The guide assisted with netting the fish then promptly grabbed it by the gills, and broke its back. That was the proper way to end the life of such a magnificent fish. There was no gradually drowning in a bucket for this wily trout. Its death was instantaneous and painless, one would suppose.
Then, for the next hour there was nothing. The guide tried everything in the way of flies that would bring another rise out of the hole. The hole is very big and the General, for all his skill and vigor, could not reach even halfway across. He decided to wade into the water just before the rapids where the river was running fast but not too deep. In this way he believed that he could reach another portion of the pool. With his waders up to his chest, it was a comfortable endeavor even in the cold waters.