We were on a final fling for the summer. A final fling to the Northwoods, and a final fling with our daughter before she headed to the southern side of this country for Grad School. The cabin we had rented was sitting in exactly the same place we had left it last year. It felt like home because we were now familiar with the owners (Don & Betty Jung), the place on the lake, and the surrounding area; as well as the fact that when we arrived to unpack, all of the windows were open to the screens as the air off the water was flowing freely.
The day we had arrived happened to be my birthday. Typically I push my limits on that day; running long miles, or fishing insurmountable bends and currents of a river. My only exertion that day, however, was driving North and carrying gear in from the Jeep to the cabin. That was an undertaking well worth any energy spent on the day I turned the “Double Nickel” (#55), because it was another chance to get-a-way in a summer already filled with various adventures. Following a dinner of baked spaghetti made with seasoned pork (one of my favorites), I escaped out onto the lake to cast a line from the kayak.
For the first several days my hours were spent fishing, running the Bearskin Trail, reading, and writing. Together we swam, took both boat and car rides, and of course went out for ice cream. In the evenings we relaxed and binge watched the final few episodes of the Longmire series that we had started watching earlier in the Spring.
On the evening of our 3rd day we had a big storm rumble through with rolling thunder and wicked lightning. With the lights from the cabin penetrating the darkness, you could see that the path to the lake had turned into a babbling brook. Eventually the power went out, but candles only added to the ambiance. As we got ready for bed, we saw a long bolt of lightning strike a point out further on the lake. The charged energy was a whitish-blue bolt that appeared to stand suspended above the large pines that it illuminated. Among the flashes in the distance, we saw that intense strike, seemingly up close and personal; not once, but twice.
The following morning I got up early and bailed water from the boat so I could go fishing. Instead of relying solely on the kayaks and canoe that come with the cabin, this year we decided to rent a motor for the cabin’s aluminum boat. It allowed me a little more time to fish as I moved to various spots around the lake. Since this was our second time at Jung's Birch Lake Cottags, I had begun to learn where I could find drop-offs, sand bars, and underwater structures where the fish hang out. In addition, I also had learned where eagles perch and the loons dive for small fish. With my telescoping camera I got some great pictures of wildlife.
Once the boat was dry and my gear was put in, I fished a small indent of a bay with a decent drop off. Just off the end of a dock I had a good sized bass hit my lure. It jumped and fought before finally throwing my lure as it approached the starboard side of the boat. After losing that fish I decided to relocate and work a shoreline that averaged five feet; hoping to catch a midmorning bass or pike cruising the shallows.
While the sun rose higher, and the temperatures climbed, I was beginning to consider heading back to the “Tranquility Cabin.” Other than the bass, I hadn’t caught a thing. I chose instead to fish a shallower area, choked full of weeds, hoping to entice a lurking fish in a last ditch effort to hook into something. I made a long cast with my favorite #5 silver spooned Mepps, when I became instantly snagged. It was held fast and wouldn’t budge; until it did. As I pulled back on my pole hoping to break free, the drag on my pole began to whine. I knew the feel, and this time there was no mistaking it. I was pretty certain what I was up against, and that lightning was about to strike twice. (See last year's blog entry entitled: A Rookie In Tight Quarters)
While I held the pole with my left hand, bracing it against my forearm, I used my right to pull up the anchor. With my knee holding each tug, I kept the anchor from slipping back down. I didn’t need an inadvertent tangle. I was the picture of mindfulness as I surveyed my surroundings, trying to figure out what I was going to do when I managed to get the muskie up to the boat.
At least I was in a boat. Last year I was side by side with teeth, barbs, and water in a kayak. This time I could stand and look down into the water as it came into view. Comparing it to the yellow measuring tape stuck to the inside of the boat, I muttered something about it being almost 50 inches while recording a quick video. In reality it was closer to 40 inches, but I hadn’t been sure how long the yellow measuring sticker actually was in the foreground of my sight.
CLICK BELOW FOR A VIDEO OF A
THE MUSKIE FINALLY COMING UP TO THE BOAT
To watch the video you may you may need to change the "view version" at the bottom of the page.
Once I took a few pictures, my mind snapped into action. I had previously removed one of the oars to avoid having it get in the way, so I used the remaining one still in the lock to “river-raft” myself towards the nearest shore. But after rowing back and forth once or twice I realized that it wasn’t going to work. The great fish was tiring so I took a chance and put the pole between my knees. I grabbed the loose oar and put it back in the lock before rowing as hard as I could 3 or 4 times to propel myself into the sandy shallows.
As we neared the shore, I threw the anchor out and jumped into the water. With my gripper in hand, I eased the muskie towards me. I could see the teeth protruding alongside it’s massive head with the hooks of my spinner solidly held in it’s hard bony jaw. Fortunately it was hooked in a way that would make for an easy extraction. It was the muskie’s eyes that held my attention though. They stared right through me. Without malice or ill-contempt they simply took me in. Have you ever looked into the eyes of a live muskellunge? I couldn’t see a distinct pupil, but what I saw was a huge, steely-gray button, like those of a shark. It was hauntingly memorable. I savored the moment.
On my first attempt to attach my gripper on it’s jaw, the giant fish simply pulled away and made a run, pulling my line and drag with it. On my second attempt I was firmly attached. Using a pair of needle nosed pliers from my multi-tool, I quickly removed the hook. I grabbed my phone from the seat of the boat and lifted the fish as high as I could. My face strained, and my mouth contorted, but I managed a picture. That was all I wanted, and all that I could get. It wasn’t pretty, but it sure was beautiful.
I noticed a small section of it’s gill that had slipped out from behind it’s gill cover and wondered what old war wound had once occurred. Imagine if a fish like this could share it’s experiences. What a story it would be! I released the gripper from the jaw of the muskie and held it in my arms while bending over knee-deep in the water. I worked it back and forth, forcing water and oxygen through its gills and sharing the moment; wishing someone would remind and help me to breathe. Gradually strengthened, the muskie slowly, but powerfully, pushed away. With its giant tail fin swishing back and forth it was a perfect contrast of reddish-brown against the sandy, graveled bottom of the lake.
As the fish disappeared into the depths below the sparkling surface of the water, I stood and breathed. Gentle waves lapped against the sides of the boat beside me. Unbelievable. It was simply unbelievable. I saw in my mind, as I had captured in the final seconds of the video that I had taken, the sun perfectly catching the colors and size of that muskie when it had turned beside the boat; its eyes looking up at me. While standing there in the water where I had released the fish, it was a memory I didn’t think that I’d probably ever forget.
I packed my loose gear away, lifted the anchor into the back of the boat, and pushed it out into deeper water before hopping up into the bow. As I motored back to the cabin, I’ll admit that I had a smile etched on my face, but only while shaking my head in belief. I couldn’t wait to tell Cindy and Jodi my story.
That afternoon I worked on a blog entry about a fishing trip that my cousins and I had taken a few weeks prior, and then we all headed into Minocqua. I needed a new reel, as the one I had been using had a cracked bail (and had already been fixed once by my Dad). I’m sure that the strain from the muskie had accentuated it. The guys at Kurt’s Island Sport Shop were helpful and talked me into a Piscifun Honor XT2000 Reel; one that I never even heard of before. I enjoyed talking to the gentleman helping me as I looked at the various reels, and showed him a picture of the muskie that I caught that morning.
The girls and I then went to Kilwin’s for ice cream and walked along the shoreline beside West Park Avenue. Ice cream helps make a vacation feel like a vacation, and we laughed as we talked.
Once we were home to the cabin I kept feeling like the morning’s catch was going to be difficult to repeat. I shrugged my shoulders though, grabbed my pole, and told Cindy & Jodi that I was going to cast off the dock a few times before calling it a day.
On my second or third cast I got a hold of a big bass. Once hooked, it consequently jumped four different times in succession. Each time I felt the line tension lessen, as it raced towards me, I reeled like crazy to keep the line taut. I knew when it was about to jump and try to throw the lure. Jodi and Cindy actually heard the splashing from up at the cabin and came out to see what was going on. What I caught was the biggest smallmouth bass I’ve ever caught at 19 ½ inches. With Jodi’s help, she snapped a couple of pictures of me holding the smallie and then I gently released the big bass off the end of the dock and back into the water.
I stood and shook my head again. What a day it had been on good ole Birch Lake. Two big fish? Are you kidding me? Lightning can indeed strike twice!
