The Bullhead Queen: A Year on Pioneer Lake

The Bullhead Queen

The Bullhead Queen 123 B uried somewhere in the weeds at the far edges of our yard lies the Bullhead Queen. A remnant of our family ’s past, it has been neglected so long that I cannot even find it in the lush growth of summer. Rather, I wait for it to reappear each fall when the tall grasses, struck by frost, die back and reveal the Queen, faded and aging fast. Despite her grand name, the Queen was little more than a wooden raft, something Huck Finn might have recognized. I’m not certain she was even seaworthy or if her builders ever took her out for a spin on the lake. I’m quite sure I would be the last to know. The Bullhead Queen was nailed together by my oldest son and one of his friends, our next-door neighbor. They worked diligently one summer, salvaging wood from discarded construction lumber, measuring, sawing, pounding, painting. They even fashioned a chair of sorts, so that the person propelling the craft would ride high out of the water. On the back of this chair is the Queen’s finest feature, a credible depiction of a bullhead, rendered in leftover oils from a paint-by-number kit, complete with beady eyes and whiskery barbels. The Queen’s shipwrights were fourteen that summer, old enough and vigorous enough to be consumed by masculine restlessness, but too young to work at paying jobs or drive cars. The ironically named Queen represented an escape from the female-dominated world of their mothers and sisters, and promised autonomy on the high seas of Pioneer Lake, bordering our backyard. As the summer wore on and it became evident that the Queen would not be completed before the start of school, their ardor did not flag. The dream of independence was enough to sustain their effort. The Queen was aptly named, as bullheads are the dominant fish in Pioneer. As a consequence, they reigned as the chief piscine interest of the boys. Both families had only recently moved to Pioneer’s shores, and together the boys honed their fishing skills. During the first summer, they focused on the simple mechanics of fishing. The lake and the bullheads were wonderful teachers. They learned to be creative with bait—corn, marshmallows, bits of hot dog could draw a bite. They learned to be wary of wicked spines when extracting a wriggling fish from a hook. They learned how to clean a fish and, after that, discovered that bullheads were perhaps not the best for eating. Then summer drew to a close and the tackle boxes, rods, and reels were stashed in the corner of the garage. But the education continued. In the halls of the middle school, a common topic among the boys in the Chisago Lakes area was the art of angling. Some had fish houses on the lakes in winter. Some hauled sleds out and tended open holes. Everyone shared information on what was biting and on what type of lure was preferred. In the spring, the boys came home from school talking about crappie holes, panfish, and fivepound northerns caught in shallow water by people standing on docks. The boys became immersed in a whole culture of fishing. One of the sacred texts of the sect of the angler is a monthly magazine, In-Fisherman: The Journal of Freshwater Fishing. In-Fisherman is distributed nationally, but it comes 124 The Bullhead Queen out of Brainerd, arguably the fishing capital of Minnesota. Each issue sports well-written articles on all aspects of fishing . There are regular columns, even one dedicated to philosophizing about this addictive activity. The fourteen-year-olds read the magazine religiously. The boys, who had previously gone on jags involving dinosaurs, birds of prey, and natural disasters, now turned their focus on finny denizens of the deep. One perennial topic in In-Fisherman that especially intrigued them was the Bass Tournament. From reading the magazine, they learned that fishing could appeal to their competitive natures, as well as satisfy that primal urge to hunt. The money, the glamour, and the lure of competition made a bass tournament so attractive. But the future in which they actually might enter a bass tournament was a long way off. Fourteen is a pivotal age for boys. Moody, energetic, but often aimless, they are cutting their teeth on new thoughts, trying on adult intellect. It...