I had eaten one of the pancakes and about two-thirds of the hash browns and eggs when Dan Jensen walked in with another cop. He looked around and I waved at him. He nodded to a few of the patrons as he and the other cop came over.
“Morning Jonah,” he said.
“It is, now that I’m drinking coffee,” I said. I looked at Jensen’s companion. He was medium height, with salt and pepper hair. Maybe about 45, I thought. He wore big square glasses with plastic rims, the kind that were fashionable back in the 1970s, when everyone was on drugs. He had one of those thick mustaches that hid his upper lip. Between the facial hair and the glasses, it would be hard to read this man’s expression. Probably a good thing for a cop.
“Jonah, this is Rex Burton, relatively new with the Sheriff’s department. Rex, Jonah Borden, pastor of Harbor Lutheran.”
“Nice to meet you Rex,” I said politely.
“Father,” said Burton.
“Have a seat.” I gestured to the empty bench across from me in the booth. As they were sliding in, I said to Rex, “By the way, you don’t have to call me ‘father.’ I’m a Lutheran, and we don’t really do that. You can call me pastor, if you want, but my name is Jonah, and that works fine too.”
Burton grunted noncommittally.
“Rex came from the Chicago PD, about six months ago” said Jensen. “He’s still getting used to life out here in the boondocks.”
“You must have got here right about the time the Missy Norstad business started up,” I said. “Murder, rape. Probably made you feel right at home.”
“I don’t like to discuss police business with civilians, father” said Burton.
“Hey, relax,” I said. “Just making conversation. But don’t call me father.”
“What are we doing here?” Burton asked Jensen as if I wasn’t there. I sipped some coffee.
“Lorraine’s got the best hash and pancakes in the county,” said Dan. He gave me an apologetic shrug.
“So what brought you to the North Shore of Minnesota, Rex?” I asked.
“Look,” said Burton. “I’m here ‘cause Chief Jensen dragged me along for the food. I don’t like religious people. I think they are interfering, ignorant idiots. Religion is for pansies, and I don’t need it, and I’m not interested in making nice with a priest.”
There’s one thing that really yanks my chain and Rex Burton had just done it. I can’t stand being stereotyped and judged just because I am a pastor. I mean, if religious people are going to be blamed for all the intolerance, then non-religious people simply have no right to be intolerant themselves.
“You’re sitting in my booth,” I said. “Feel free to leave any time.” I could feel my face starting to get hot. I looked at Jensen. “I could perform an exorcism on him, if you like. Is that why you brought him?”
Jensen glared at me, and then turned to Burton. “Look Rex, Pastor Borden is a stand up guy. He’s the chaplain for the city PD, and the sheriff’s department too. You wanna work this town, you might need him someday. You got a thing against ministers, leave it at home.”
“I am what I am,” said Burton. “And I am not a choir-boy, priest-lover religious bigot. I can get it done without him.”
“For Pete’s sake Burton, the man’s sitting in front of you. At least keep it to yourself, will you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Shut up, or get out of my booth. Better yet, do both.”
Burton looked at me with narrowed eyes.
“That’s right, I’m serious,” I said. “You probably never heard a minister talk like that. Probably makes you think we’re all hypocrites or something. I don’t care. Go someplace else and think about it.”
I met his gaze with a cold-fish stare I had learned years ago. Finally he stood up.
“You’re full of crap, father,” he said.
“Like looking in the mirror, isn’t it?” I said.
He spun on his heel and walked out.
Jensen blew out his breath. “What the heck was that?”
“Heck?” I inquired mildly.
“You are an unhealthy influence on me,” said Jensen.
“Never mind,” I said. “The cuss-words will come back to you someday.”
“But what about Burton? What bit him?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Some people are like that – clergy haters. Could have been abused, or known someone who was abused by a priest or pastor or rabbi.”
“He got under your skin didn’t he?” said Jensen.
“Yeah. I shouldn’t be so easily riled. But I’m very intolerant of jerks.”
“Take it easy, Jonah. I had no idea he’d react that way.”
“It’s my magnetic personality. Some folks just can’t handle the charisma.”
“Sometimes that could be true, you know, though ‘charisma’ isn’t exactly the word I would have used.”
I grinned, then sipped some more coffee. “Any word on Doug Norstad?”
“No,” said Jensen seriously. “How about you?”
“Nothing,” I said.
Jensen left, and as I finished my breakfast, I called the church from my cell phone. Julie, the part-time secretary answered.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”
“They teach you that at seminary?” asked Julie.
“Yeah,” I said, “but in Greek. Anything I need to know about?”
“Well it would help if you knew something about the Bible, or maybe if you had some people skills.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” I said. “I mean right now. Anything that can’t wait until I come in this evening?”
She was silent for moment.
“It’s OK,” I said. “You can’t have a snappy comeback for every single situation.”
“But it’s what I do.”
“I know, and you’re good at it. I take it there’s nothing urgent.”
“Well, the ladies downstairs at the quilting circle may get out of control and call a stripper or something.”
“ You’re pushing too hard,” I said. “You’ve got my cell number. Otherwise I’ll see you tonight at choir.”
I paid for my meal and stepped outside. It was just after eight and the air was fresh, clear and, for the northern realms, deliciously warm. I stretched and then got into my black Jetta.
I lost no time heading for the Tamarack. My waders and my rod were already in the trunk. I went south on 61, taking the faster, four-lane version when it split off north of Duluth. In downtown Duluth I took the bridge across the harbor to Wisconsin and east, toward the Tamarack.
Virtually all of the rivers and streams on the North Shore of Minnesota flow hard and fast through steep hills, dropping in numerous waterfalls down to the Great Lake. Most of them bear trout, even if only the small native brookies, but almost all of the big fish are confined within the last mile or so between the Lake and wherever the first big waterfall was. Because of that, decent trout fishing is spotty, depending on weather and steelhead migration patterns. But the Wisconsin shoreline is different. It runs almost due east-west and the hills are smaller. Most of the rivers flowing into Lake Superior have no waterfalls at all, and the rapids are easily negotiable by trout and Great Lakes salmon. The German immigrants to Wisconsin in the 1870s had brought with them Brown Trout, and the state subsequently maintained an aggressive stocking program in many waters. Of course, it is the pride of Wisconsin to say that many rivers now produce a healthy population of wild brown trout in addition to the stockings and the native brook trout. This is true, and makes it worth buying the out of state license and trout stamp. Seasonal salmon migrations were the icing on the cake.
The road in Wisconsin wandered several miles from the Great Lake. After about Fifteen miles I turned left off of Highway 13 and followed the Tamarck north, back toward Lake Superior. I pulled in to a small dirt parking lot and got out, stretching again. The air was still clear, with that strangely unmistakable look of a sky that looks down on a huge body of water nearby. Here, several miles from the coast, the chilling lake-effect was absent, and the air was soft and mild.
I popped the trunk and slipped on my neoprene waders, and then shrugged into my vest. Scooping up my rod, I started into the pine forest, working my way down a steep bluff toward the river.
The water flowed like liquid diamond over round golden stones. The pines towered above their stately reflections, and the birds chirped out a song of joy that my heart echoed. Stepping into the water was like the first taste of a juicy steak when you haven’t eaten all day. I sighed, braced myself against the current and lost myself in the pursuit of brown trout.
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