At dusk. At dawn. When the light hangs low in the summer sky and the water rests calmly, still as glass. They descend, hovering atop the lake like a malevolent mist, enveloping all that lives, breathes and swims. Who are they? And where did they come from? What brings them to here, to this our quiet, calm stretch of the bay?
Is it for sport? Survival? Or some sort of sinister combination of indulgence and hunger? Feast or famine.
I remain curious. Anxious. And as I look out from my front porch window, with coffee stained lips pressing firmly against the flimsy metal screening, all I can see is swarm after swarm of blood thirsty angler. Engines off, vessels silent. Undetected by their prey. Wading. Waiting. For the right moment.
And when that time comes, these vampires of the Northwoods cast their fangs into the water with the calculated precision of a cold blooded killer. Searching, lusting after their trophy. The one that got away.
Some appetites are impossible to satisfy. One fish. Two fish. Three fish all in the bucket and it’s still not enough for these undead hunters of Wisconsin.
I have been tempted to join before, to fly with the flock is human nature after all. But these fishermen and women are not alive. Nor are they dead. They exist as lifeless, soulless omnivores whose single pursuit is to survive for all eternity with nothing more than a rod in their hand.
My life means more to me than that. I choose not to be defined by death. The fish are my friends. What lies beneath these shores remains a mystery, better explored by those who make their home in my nightmares and day terrors.
For they, they are the vampires of the Northwoods.