Fishing for Ukraine

By Dennis Walton

Fishing for Ukraine is a novel of fiction. The story takes place in southwestern North Dakota. The hero, Henry, the small town insurance agent, has a love of art, history, fishing, and women. Each chapter has something about fishing in them. The drug trade from Mexico to Denver through Rapid City to the fictional town of Grainville, North Dakota and up to Canada includes four murders. The mail order bride from Odessa, Ukraine is the main female character. The history of Odessa and the local history of southwest North Dakota and northwest South Dakota is intertwined in the story along with the life style of the people. The novel has a surprise ending which leaves the reader asking what was real and what was fantasy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dennis Walton
• Release date: Mar 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458049452

Dennis Walton

Born and raised on a farm near Haley, North Dakota. Ranched in South Dakota. Moved to Ames, Iowa attended and graduated Iowa State University. Married 30 years and writes fiction and children books.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Henry Stachelczvki believed that life was simple. So was fishing. All he needed was a five-foot Shakespeare Ugly Stick and an Abu Garcia reel, and he was on his way. The pistol-grip Ugly Stick provided control when he cast out the floating Rapala. The Abu Garcia reel with its silver and black exterior was flashy. The star drag was sensitive, easily adjusted when he fought for the North Dakota northern pike. The drag controlled the tension of the twelve-pound monofilament line when he cranked them in. Thumb on the indented black release, Henry was glad his index finger fit the trigger perfectly.

Watching the weather on TV Wednesday night, Henry had realized the next day would be perfect for fishing. A high-pressure system had hung over the area for several days, and he'd been waiting for a change in the weather.

His mom had based her weather predictions on the barometer hanging on the utility room wall of their southwestern North Dakota farmhouse. Each day she tap-tap-tapped the barometer to tell whether the pressure rose or fell. Verifying his own prediction, Henry tap-tap-tapped the barometer hanging by the entry to the kitchen in his home in Grainville; the dial moved from 30.2 to 29.8. With a smile, he realized the low-pressure system was on its way and his wish to fish soon would be granted.

In celebration of the approaching front, Henry popped the top of a Coors and dialed his retired dad in Spearfish, South Dakota. The phone rang twice, and Henry's father answered.

Hi, Dad.

Hey, cowboy. What's up in Grainville? said August Stachelczvki.

Oh, not much, answered Henry.

What do you mean? There must be something . . . Did anyone die, get married, have a baby or an affair?

Well, let me think . . . Remember Carl Reiner?

Yes.

Well, he was found dead along a trail. His car stalled, and apparently he walked in that snowstorm two weeks ago, before he collapsed and died. He was overweight, and they think it was a heart attack. Dad, you know what all that bacon fat does to people, don't you?

Yes, Henry.

Well, let's see . . . what else? The café downtown is still losing money, and they're thinking of closing it down.

Henry, you know that won't happen. The co-op will take it over and keep it running just like it did the grocery store in the 1970s. Besides, if the café closed, where would all the old people go to play their morning cards?

You're probably right. Makes sense to keep it open at least part of the day—say from 6 am to 2 pm, said Henry.

Yep, that's an option . . . Say son, what have you heard about the coal-gasification plant?

Nothing new, Dad. I think it may be a few years.

Oh, well. I guess it doesn't matter to me, semiretired and all. Hey, that brother of yours has decided to drive truck, and he's going to school in Rapid City for five weeks—to learn how. Funny that a farmer has to learn how to drive a truck.

Good for him, Dad. He'll enjoy having a steady paycheck and benefits. Besides, he only farms six months of the year . . . Dad, I'm going fishing in the morning. Want to join me?

I can't. Your mom and I are going to Mitchell to visit friends, and we're leaving early. But catch a couple for me. Oh . . . how's your insurance business doing?

Great, Dad. It keeps on growing.

Good. Well, good luck fishing.

Okay, Dad. You and Mom have fun in Mitchell, and tell the Corn Palace hi for me. I have to get ready for tomorrow. Bye for now.

Okay, see you soon. Bye.

After downing the Coors and doing a little multitasking with the fishing tackle, Henry climbed the staircase to his bedroom. Passing a family picture, he was glad his parents were alive and healthy so they could enjoy the stories of his coming-up catch . . .

Henry got up early Thursday and immediately fixed his breakfast: Let's see . . . bacon and coffee, some scrambled eggs and whole-wheat toast, orange juice, some of that European butter I bought at Campbell's Health Food Store in Dickinson.

He snickered. "I'm going to remember forever that article in The Sunday New York Times talking about the woman from California eating bacon and coffee every morning for breakfast and living to be 112." His own big daily breakfast was a carryover from his childhood on the farm—leaving off the pancakes and homemade chokecherry syrup, of course.

Breakfast done, it was time for a shower. That accomplished, Henry stopped at the mirror behind the bathroom door, surprised to see his formerly athletic physique starting to sag. His shoulders were broad as ever, but a glance at his paunchy stomach reminded him of someone he didn't want to be—Uncle Fred. He should have foregone the beer the night before for a three-mile run, as he had done in his younger days.

Cleaning up was always a chore, but it was worth the breakfast he'd made. Henry quickly put the dishes in the dishwasher with last night's cleanup. He washed off the counter at which he always ate breakfast. Passing the stove, he noticed last week's bacon grease was still in the covered dish. He never cooked with the grease, but he couldn't get away from the habit of saving it, just as his mother did. He dumped it into the garbage under the sink, put the dish and the lid in the washer, added the Cascade (Don't need any spots—might have to entertain the ladies), and pushed START.

Walking through the hallway and into the garage, Henry turned to what he needed for fishing. Sometimes he forgot to bring a bag of ice for the cooler or a fillet knife and sharpener, but not today. He would clean the fish and put them on ice as soon as he caught them. No sense having to clean fish later. The Marina Bar and Grill would be open that evening, and some old friends might show.

What else to bring? Let's see . . . The net, fishing pole, weights, leaders, a new Rapala and an old one for fishing behind the dam, smelt for the big northern pike in the lake . . . and for Henry, sandwiches, coffee, candy bars, and beer.

Oh boy, I forgot my food. Henry made his way back to the kitchen to make coffee and sandwiches. This was beginning to feel like work.

Henry found the leftover roast beef in the fridge. The Hardy boys would be proud! Hmmm . . . Ketchup, mayo, (hold the mustard), add fresh bread and butter, Stam chocolates from Iowa, and some leftover raisin cheesecake, the coffee, and a six-pack of Coors. As rural as Henry might seem, he had picked up some citified ways while traveling. He was caught between two realities—those of rural North Dakota and the rest of the world.

After packing his provisions into the small cooler and pouring coffee into the thermos, Henry made his way through the hallway into the garage, where Old Blue was waiting. The blue Jeep Cherokee Sport had just been detailed, and it looked classic, magnificent, as ever. Opening its rear hatch, Henry carefully placed the fishing tackle and provisions inside, checking twice to be sure everything he needed was there. He didn't want to forget something and have to return.

Backing from the garage into the street, Henry rolled down the window to breathe the sweet morning air. He could smell the moisture and knew rain would bless the land a few hours later. Looking east into the morning sun, he reached for his sunglasses on the dash. He put them on, daydreaming he was as handsome as Guillaume Apollinaire in the painting by Giorgio de Chirico, just in time to see a mule deer standing in the road, twenty feet away.

City deer, safe from hunting inside the city limits, were the worst pests. Henry laid on the horn so the deer would move; still, it just meandered into the trees north of the house. Watching it leave, Henry wished he had some of the deer jerky left from last winter: Oh well . . .

Turning south, Henry headed through town, or what was left of it. A village of about thirteen hundred residents, most over sixty and only a few young families, Grainville was shrinking. Heading past the grocery store, the grain elevator, the Catholic church on the east side and the Lutheran church on the west, then two bars and up the overpass, Henry drove about a mile south and encountered more wildlife—the local pheasant population.

Mild winters and abundant local feed added up to a pheasant-hunting paradise. Back when Henry was growing up, you could hunt just about anywhere. But the rising cost of land had brought on pay-to-hunt—unless you were the good friend or relation of an owner. Henry was glad he had just purchased pheasant—pen-raised and butchered and with no shotgun damage—from Pheasants Forever. Damn tasty when prepared in wine sauce and herbs, the way he had learned in France.

The road cleared of pheasants, and Henry put the pedal to the metal. He was eager to get to the lake.

Chapter 2

The lake was still ten miles away, to the south, then the west. Henry loved living where he had grown up. You could see for miles and miles. Glancing to the east, he saw the hog-confinement buildings constructed near the site of the old red schoolhouse. He had attended that one-room school from first through eighth grade. Shut down because of consolidation, the school had been moved to Grainville and remodeled into a house. The hog structures had gone up in the 1980s in an attempt to add employment to the area as well as some money to the coffers of its investors.

Henry had lots of memories of his early life. Many teachers had passed through the red schoolhouse . . . his first two years there had been a waste of time, according to Henry's parents, as he didn't read until third grade. Gerty Polaski, a feisty Polack, was the teacher who had made him into a decent student. She taught three years there, staying with relatives, before she moved back to Chicago to marry.

The next teacher was Henry's favorite. The pretty twenty-two-year-old had a playful personality. She taught Henry in the sixth and into the seventh grades. Henry had the biggest crush on her, and Karen Beacon thought the world of Henry, too. Driving to school one day in September 1974, she collided head on with a neighbor and died instantly. A young woman in the other car, headed on her honeymoon with her husband, also died in the crash. Her husband lived, though he was badly injured. That was the saddest day of Henry's young life. He thought of his teacher often, keeping her spirit near, almost into high school.

Henry's neighbor Linda Weaver taught the last two years of grade school there. Many people affectionately called her by her nickname, Windy. She thought all boys were like her son—out to cause trouble—which Henry never did. That didn't keep her from blaming him, though . . .

Driving another mile south, Henry saw the North Grand River Valley. The river snaked its way through the bottom of the rolling hills, from the Haley Dam all the way into South Dakota, and from there to the Missouri River. It always did Henry good to scan the valley, just to see what might be going on. He imagined Sioux villages dotting the river bluffs, bison grazing, and a long-gone way of life he probably would have enjoyed.

The last great bison hunt had occurred about twenty miles east of the lake, south of Hettinger, North Dakota, close to Lodgepole and Lemmon, South Dakota. Henry wished the herd had been spared—the bison had once numbered sixty million, but by the time the killing stopped, there were only eleven hundred. Now it was as quiet there as it was centuries earlier. But today cattle, not bison, grazed in the river valley.

Henry turned west to Haley Dam at the Big Barn. Built in the 1920s, it was magnificent for this area of the country. Tall and red, the barn with rounded roof and green shingles had been remodeled into a dance hall for teenagers in the early 1970s and continued into the 1980s. The hardwood floor, sprinkled with sawdust, allowed a fast and easy jitterbug and a smooth-sailing two-step. Henry had attended many summer Friday-night dances, enjoying local rock-and-roll at its best.

Yes, it had been good to be young—the romance as hot as the summer evenings, the necking between sets as delicious as strawberries dipped in sugar . . .

Turning west, Henry's thoughts again turned to fishing. Three more miles west and a couple of miles south, and there was Haley Dam. As always, Henry drove past the Marina so as to fish in the spillway behind the dam, a 1965 product of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. The great earth dam stretched a mile long and rose sixty feet above the road alongside it. Granite rocks gathered from nearby hills lined the waterside of the dam.

Parking on the south side of the spillway, Henry pulled Old Blue around to face the dam. The trail leading to the south side of the spillway was not as steep as the north side, and he decided to take the path of least resistance.

While the path was fairly steep, the soil was sandy, soft, and easily walkable. Packing down an empty cooler, the net, the tackle box, and one Ugly Stick with his reel, Henry reached the sandbar and set up base at the east end of the spillway. Granite rocks lined each side of the spillway from where Henry put his fishing equipment. Before taking on the rocks lining the spillway, he checked the line and leader on his fishing pole. Sometimes he used only a swivel to attach the floating Rapala to the line, but now he wanted to build up the fish supply in his freezer. He attached a six-inch steel leader to ward off the sharp teeth of the northern pike waiting to strike the Rapala he snapped into place at the end of the leader.

The rocks were treacherous, and Henry took his time making his way back towards the spillway. A year earlier, he had slipped, landed on his left ear, splitting it, and spilling blood on the sharp rock that caught him on the way down. Henry had thought he was dead. If he wasn't, why would he be thinking of Frida Kahlo's painting The Dream, of her lying in bed with the skeleton on her canopy?

After his rescue by a fisherman from Minot, Henry, unconscious, was transported to the hospital with a concussion and a cut requiring twelve stitches. The scar remained, reminding him of the time his ear was chewed by a nymphomaniac at a Big Barn dance. Whatever happened to that red-headed, blue-eyed Little Miss Rosy Toes? Henry had heard she studied psychology and now was practicing in Fargo. On that hot summer night he had kept his ear but lost his innocence . . .

Henry carefully made his way across the tipsy rocks to his pad, a nice flat granite rock to stand on while casting his lure toward the entrance to the spillway and downstream. Sometimes it took a good hour or two to get the fish to bite, but today the first cast yielded a scrappy three-pound northern. The fish struck close to the edge of the rocks and fought hard. Henry liked his northern pike to jump out of the water and shake their heads to throw the hook. The fish obliged.

Rapala lures had treble hooks, to keep a fish captive—fine and dandy until it got into the net. Spinning and spinning, a northern pike could really get caught up there. Playing the pike until it was tired, Henry scooped it into the net. The fish spun around and around, twisting the net into the treble hook. Henry used up several minutes getting things untangled. But the northern was nice and fat, firm and clean, pulled from the cold, running water.

Henry ran a nylon rope with a sharp metal point at the end up through the pike's gills and then through its mouth. He tied the rope through a granite rock with a hole through it to secure the fish. He would catch two more northern and five walleyed pike before he filleted them—or maybe he would just keep on catching fish but release the smaller ones to stay within the legal limit. Before he decided how he'd continue, he intended, on this fine spring morning, to enjoy a Coors.

Just as he grabbed for the beer, a voice rang out from the top of the north side of the spillway: Hey, how is the fishing? The voice was that of Yana, a beautiful young woman brought to the United States from Ukraine to be the bride of the local lawyer, Henry's friend Duncan Brooks.

The fishing is out of control—one cast and one northern pike, replied Henry, sitting down on the flat rock to enjoy the morning—and now Yana. Come on around, and I'll set you up with what you need. Then let's see who has the most luck.

With a giggle and a grin, Yana replied, Okay. I will be right over.

As Yana made her way to the south side of the spillway, Henry marveled at her beauty, recalling the time he first saw her. He had been shopping in the health food store in Dickinson. Spying Yana, he could tell she was not from the Dakotas, though many beautiful women lived there. Dressed to the hilt, she wore makeup that reminded him of a classy model from Italy—he learned later that Ukrainian women emulated those Italian ladies.

Henry's friend Angie, an older woman standing at the store checkout, looked Yana up, down, and sideways and couldn't find words to describe her—at least that's the way Henry perceived it. For his part, Henry moved down the aisle, glancing from side to side, lifted his head, and saw a Christmas angel hanging from the ceiling before he found a word that said it all.

Yana was an angel, with long blond curls brushing her shoulders. The locks nestled on the flowery blue scarf sliding across her form-fitting white jacket. Just above her left ear was a white circular barrette, with a basket of flowers at the bottom, separating the straight hair of her bangs above her curls. Skillful pencil strokes accented the shape of her playful eyebrows, making her eyes larger. Liner brought out the green of her eyes to the point of his disbelief.

Bright red lipstick shaped her lips, and her complexion was perfect as a winter day. Her eyes shone like sun reflecting off water behind the lake. She wore high, spiked heels that made her look taller and thinner than her five-feet-five-inches and hundred twenty pounds. He remembered a faint scent of perfume as she brushed by to the register.

Pardon me, she had said in her precise English, her slight, sexy Ukrainian accent. Yana raised her left eyebrow and gave a slight smile as she made her way. He felt like a deer caught in headlights, lucky to keep his balance. What a stunner! She certainly did not represent Alberto Giacometti's bronze sculpture Standing Woman II. Instead she was more like Jean Arp's Torse Des Pyrenees. He was