Boundary Waters pt.8

September 19th, 2009

I’ll never forget the day that my dad and I went over to Smoke Lake (that’s my padre fishing in the canoe above).  I was probably in junior high at the time, and it was kind of a big deal to me that just the two of us were going to make the trek all the way to Smoke, which involves a decent amount of canoeing and a fairly long portage, particularly in the eyes of a pre-teen.  And that afternoon – man, did we find the fish.  It seemed like we were getting another Northern pike on the line with every other cast we made, and for a few hours, it was nothing but total bliss.  But then of course, there was the one that got away…

I should probably back up and explain my utter passion as a kid for catching Northern pike, aka the water wolf of the Boundary Waters.  While most in my family, especially my grandpa, sort of frowned upon fishing for pikes, mainly because their fillets were full of bones, every summer I was on conquest to catch these suckers.  I think it all possibly stemmed from when I was four years old, and I somehow landed a pike nearly the size of me while fishing with my folks out by the little island on Sawbill.  Northern pike are a beautiful-yet-evil-looking fish with razorblades for teeth, and even a small one will give you a hell of a fight.  Plus, pikes can grow to be huge, and I so wanted to catch something big given that there was a annual competition in our family to see who could catch that summer’s largest fish.  We literally had a trophy (my dad’s idea), and each year, the person who caught the biggest fish got his or her name engraved on it.  You could say that we were a bit of a competitive family.  Yeah, you could definitely say that, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t want my name on that little trophy.

So there we were, back in our favorite little bay on Smoke, catching a bunch of pike, walleyes and smallmouth bass – nothing huge, but having a really great time.  I was casting my favorite orange floating rapala along the shoreline, and I remember placing the plug into what looked like the perfect spot for a pike to be hanging out in.  I reeled in slowly, waiting in anticipation for the violent swirl of the fish pouncing on the rapala.  But here’s thing about Northern pike, those bastards are fearless.  It’s like they attack the artificial bait, not becuase they want to eat the thing, but because they’re pissed at it.  They’re also not afraid to follow the plug all the way back to the boat before striking, and that’s exactly what happened on this particular cast.  Just a few feet from the canoe, the fish struck my rapala, viciously pulling my line down into the water.  For a moment, I feared my fishing pole would snap in half, but fortunately, I was able to quickly let out just enough slack to keep the pole and line from breaking.  And then the fight was on.  While I couldn’t see the fish, I just knew whatever was on the other of my line was big.  Really big.  And there was no doubt about – it was a Northern.

My heart raced with every plunge the beast made to escape, and from the back of the canoe, my dad did his best to coach and calm me down.  I knew this had to be the biggest fish I’d ever had on my line, and equal parts adrenaline and fear were coursing through my veins.  I just had to catch this fish.  And for what was probably only a couple of minutes but for what seemed to last an eternity, this unseen pike and I battled.  I could only to hope to wear the fish down enough to eventually bring him to the surface and give my dad a chance to net him.  But that chance never happened.  The fish made another lunge, this time towards the back of the boat.  SHIT – the anchor!!

In all of the chaos of the battle at hand, there was no time to pull up the anchor.  I tried my best in that fleeting moment to maneuver the pike back away from the outstretched rope, but it was too late.  SNAP.  The line went completely limp and just like that, it was all over.  Somewhere in the depths of the lake, a giant fish was swimming to safety; the glint of my orange rapala traveling with it until he’d be able to spit it out.  And then the tears came.  I couldn’t help it – I was devastated.  Immediately embarrassed, I tried my best to hide my emotions from my dad, my hands still shaking from the adrenaline.

But my father was very cool about the whole thing.  He didn’t tell me to stop crying or scold me for acting like a baby, but rather he shared a tale of the time my grandpa hooked a huge Northern on Alton Lake, so big it seriously wouldn’t fit in the net.  That he’d fought it valiantly for not just a few minutes but for at least a half hour, before it too finally snapped the line.  My sobs slowly receded and the trembling in my hands at last went away.  If it could happen to my grandpa, the greatest fisherman I knew, then I was almost honored to be considered in his company.  I now had my own story, which we would be repeated in detail that night to all around the campfire, of the one that got away.

Entry Filed under: Landscapes, Pic of the Day, Portraits, Sawbill