Pops came over to us. “Boys, instead of fretting over our mystery companion, let’s go fishing for some muskie. They’re not good eating but they’re great fun to catch. Fight like swordfish. I know of a hole across the lake where they lurk.”
Buzzy and I grabbed our rods and piled into the dugout, keeping an eye out for the menacing interloper.
I took up a paddle in the bow and Buzzy held the other in the stern while Pops navigated and readied the tackle in the middle. “The best lure in the entire world for muskie is the Lundberg Stalker; bought it special from Sweden. Walks the dog better than anything I’ve seen.”
“But does it catch the fish?” I joked. “Another outing like the other day and I may take up needlepoint just for the thrill.”
Buzzy guffawed and Pops smiled.
“I don’t think they’ve invented a lure that can automatically boat a fish for you, although you and Chester would be enthusiastic customers.”
With a few strokes we were away from shore, sliding through the water to the middle of the lake. The dugout was heavy, hard to maneuver, but stable. “Head on over to the cliffs that way,” he said, looking up from lure tying. We angled the canoe toward the cliff where we had seen the intruder. “This is the deepest part of the lake. Muskie like the deep.”
Pops had affixed three wooden lures, carved and painted like large minnows with a set of trihooks at the head and tail. “The key to muskie fishing is to jerk the rod so the lure moves like a real fish. Do that for about ten seconds, let the lure sink a little, then do it again.” He cast out and demonstrated the technique.
We threw our lures across the water, plopping them in the lake like thrown stones. We mirrored Pops’ reeling method and soon the lures were flashing fishless next to the boat. We cast again.
Then again.
And again—for ten minutes more.
“I don’t think there’s anything down there,” I said after cast twenty.
“They’re there. My father used to say, ‘An impatient angler comes home with an empty creel.’ ”
On the next cast my line tugged hard, almost pulling the rod from my hands. “I got one.”
“Pull it up to set the hook.”
I did.
“Now jerk it again and reel in the slack.”
I did. It felt like I had hooked a tractor tire. “I think the line’s gonna break,” I yelled.
“It won’t.”
Suddenly the fish started to run, turning the canoe around and pulling it forward. My feet braced the gunwales; I held the rod handle with both hands. The canoe pitched forward on another tug from the fish. I yanked up on the rod and the line went slack for a moment, which allowed me a cranking interval. Each time I pulled up, the line slacked and I spooled the fish in a bit more.
The fish moved from the front of the canoe to the side and I shifted with it. The line slacked; I stopped reeling. “I think I lost him.”
“You didn’t lose him,” Pops shouted. “He’s trying to make you think the line broke. Keep reeling.”
I cranked even faster. Suddenly, the fish breeched, leaping full body out, shaking and twisting in the air to rid itself of the hook. It was huge, more than three feet long, with red-tinted fins and yellow-green body, spots like a leopard.
As it turned in the air, water sprayed off in a crown and the mouth-hooked lure flashed like a camera. The muskie splashed back to the water and dove, bending the rod straight down, almost capsizing the canoe.
“Pops, help me!”
“No, you can do it, son,” he urged.
My spooling became jerky as the fish fought. The line slacked again and I reeled as fast as I could. The muskie rushed back to the top, this time just thrashing below the surface in the sun. I pulled in the rod again and cranked the line. Ten minutes later, after a series of dives and ascents, the huge fish was at the side of the canoe. I couldn’t tell who was more exhausted, the muskie or me.
Pops reached over the side and pulled it into the boat. It flopped once, then was still, gills fanning. Its head was long and predator-ugly, with four large sharp teeth at top and bottom. The lure was hooked into his lower lip. Pops put on a glove and reached into the fish’s mouth to remove it.
He picked the fish up and gently laid it back in the water. It floated for a moment just below the surface, side fins moving slightly, then with two quick tail flicks, it disappeared to the deep.
“Muskie are best caught and released. They are a boney eat.”
We stayed out there for two hours, casting into the hole. Buzzy caught three smaller muskie; Pops hooked another monster and a small crappy through its tail fin. I landed two more muskies, none of which fought like the first, and a keeper bluegill.
The sun was a half hour from Harker Mountain when we drew up our lines. I was in the bow, Pops in the middle, and Buzzy in the stern. They dug their paddles into the water and the heavy canoe lumbered forward toward camp.
It came from behind us like a queen bee winging hard by our heads, then diving into the water. Phhhfffftttt. Splash. A half second later the report of a gun. Pops spun to the sound. The cliff face was empty.
Phhhfffftttt. Splash… Bang!
We all flinched.
Phhhfffftttt. Splash… Bang!
“Everybody down!” Pops shouted. I lay flat in the bottom of the canoe. He and Buzzy dug hard with their paddles.
Phhhfffftttt. Splash… Bang!
“Buzzy, get down!”
“No, sir!” he yelled back.
Pops thrust the paddle in again; Buzzy did the same.
Phhhfffftttt. Splash… Bang!