COLUMN: I'm coming for you Wally Eye

I’ve officially had it! Enough is enough.

This will end one way or another this spring or summer.

And he must know I’m coming for him, all 6-5 280 pounds of me. One angry Norwegian from Montana is going to put an end to the taunting, the mind games.

He will be sorry, and I will have my revenge.

Now, some might sprout a quizzical, almost sympathetic look on their face when I explain that “he” is a Walleye, maybe a Pike, I’m not sure. Don’t know if I have the gender right and don’t care.

Every year since I “retired” and moved back home to Montana a little more than eight years ago, I’ve promised myself I would substantially increase my fishing time.

This, my friends, will be THE year!

Just the other day I was surfing the local net and saw a must-have item, an aluminum fishing boat, complete with a trolling motor. I replied to the ad and was already picking out the angry mouth pattern I would paint the bow, you know, like the bad-ass fighter planes had on the front of their fuselage during World War II.

I will get him, by plunking, trolling or diving in if necessary.

Are you that serious some may ask?

Yup.

I ventured into a local merchant last week and purchased this year’s fishing license. I then took a short drive along the Clark Fork heading toward St Regis to see if “he” was still out there, gurgling out the fish taunts assailing my fishing manhood. Casting (if you’ll pardon the obvious pun) doubt upon my ability to haul his scaly hide into a boat, or to the shore.

And it’s driving me even more crazy than before, which many who know me would say is already a short trip, but I swear I heard a trash-talking, gill-mouthed string of verbal abuse break the surface of the river and slice into my ears like a hot fireplace poker.

No more excuses from me. I WILL find the time to throw some bait into the Clark Fork and I will hook him. No Dupont spinners will be necessary. I will earn this one and enjoy every tasty minute of it.

A few years back, with this same thought in mind I bought an old, broken down boat and trailer from along Highway 200 just south of the Plains city limits.

It was a mess that needed a complete overhaul.

And with every scrap of mold, every snip of nest-egg tangled wiring, every square inch of faded carpeting yanked, I kept the picture of a large fish, like I say most likely Walleye, in my mind.

I had it all planned out. I would hook him, battle him to the side of the boat, drag his butt upstream a bit just for dramatic purposes, then reel him in and net him into the newly rebuilt boat. That boat, by the way, came out really nice but I sold it to a friend who had young kids who wanted to learn to fish.

After putting this loud mouth on ice, I was going to roast him on my BBQ and savor every bite. Maybe even chase him down with a few beers.

But no, I forgot how to relax somewhere along the way. I have been fishing only a few times in the past eight years.

Time to right the wrong. To heed the advice from “Jaws” that I’m going to need a bigger boat, or in this case any boat.

I’ve been looking up recipes for breading the fillets.

I cringe every time I see someone, usually a really young kid, on the banks of the Clark Fork with a large fish that is nearly as tall as they are.

But none of those fish have that, “dang, I should have kept my gills closed” look on their fish face.

Oh, he’s still out there.

At least for a while longer.