The alarm clock went off at 5 something Saturday morning. It was muskie opener and we had a plan... muskies on the fly. A small lake loaded with muskies would await us. The fish aren't big (I've seen one fish caught over 40 inches) but they are so numerous they offer the best chance of catching a muskie on fly. In fact, on previous trips, I observed as many as 8 small muskies following the fly on a single cast... as the fly had stopped near the boat they pointed their sharp snouts at the fly forming a near perfect circle around it allowing us to count heads. Try a figure eight in that scenario! Those days were ridiculous not only because of the numbers but because of how small the fish were. They've since grown up... a little... and that is about it. The masses of 22-24 inch muskies now tape around 30 inches, plus or minus a couple. Perfect quarry for the fly rod.
The coffee maker snarled and steamed as we stumbled around readying ourselves for the day. The smell of fresh brewed coffee and wet morning air sneaking through the front door filled the house. Each time we would make a trip to the dew coated truck our backdraft on the return trip would drag the outdoor air into the house. This fusion of two of the best smells on the planet became the smell of anticipation for the day. 10wt.... check. Muskie flies... check. Camera... check. Warm clothes and rain gear... you betcha.
As we pulled out of the driveway, boat in tow, the truck thermometer read 43 degrees. It would stay there the entire day. Add to that northeast winds exceeding 25mph, rain, mist, dense fog, white caps, and rows of wind streaks on the water running the entire length of the lake. Not the weather we had planned for. Not ideal weather for fly fishing.
We arrived at our spot in a large weedy bay with good broadleaf cabbage beds. The bay tapers slowly for quite a distance before sharply dropping into deep water at the mouth. A rocky point extends into the weedy bay at the mouth and some of the larger muskies in the lake (the real beasts of more than 30 inches) like to hold on it. This is where we would focus our efforts.
Fifteen minutes into it and the first muskie of the day had shown itself. It would prove to be the largest muskie sighting of the weekend. As the chartreuse rabbit strip fly undulated in the water alongside the boat a wide 30 something inch fish lazily rose from the depths to take a look. As gentle as it could, it made one half turn around the fly inspecting it the whole time. I twitched the fly along and began to move it in a big circle to entice a strike. The fish sunk slowly and out of sight. It would not return. Back to casting.
One hundred yards down the shoreline we would see our next fish. A strong follow from a fish in the mid to upper 20-inch range. As the figure eight was started alongside the boat the fish sunk and disappeared. It would not return. Back to casting.
Our next drift across the flat would take us down the middle of the bay and directly over a large cabbage bed. The fog was so thick shoreline was no longer visible. We looked at the GPS and hoped this wasn't our navigation out of here at the end of the day. The wind was starting to increase and the fog blew past us in the same way it does on the mountain tops in the alps. We casted on and drifted faster despite deploying a drift sock. I stripped the fly back in 8-12 inch strips mimicking a jerk-bait. As the fly approached and became visible a tan object was behind it. A hot muskie lit up and looked to be in the mood. I stripped faster. The muskie tracked. I stripped to nearly the rod tip then went into an L-turn with the fly. The muskie tracked and looked real hot. I moved the fly around the bow of the boat to the downwind side and started a figure eight with the fly rod. The muskie swung on every turn for 2 or 3 revolutions. I began to think about catching it on a figure eight. Then, it sunk and disappeared into the dark frothy water. I quickly picked up and fired a cast into the same spot. It followed again. I repeated the ritual of figure eighting the fly as on the previous cast. The muskie followed. Then sunk into the depths never to be seen again. The wind howled. Cold mist pounded my rain gear as thousands of fine rain drops were audibly bouncing off in continuous unison--the crescendo matching the wind gusts. Exposed skin began to hurt from the cold.
The next two hours of casting brought nothing but sore fingers and a cold face. The weather was at its peak evil. We accepted the wrath and headed in knowing we still had Sunday morning to fish.
The National Weather Service issued a Frost Advisory Saturday evening for into Sunday morning. Our hope for better weather was squashed. But, we told ourselves desperately that "you can't catch fish unless your line is in the water".... dammit, we set the alarm for an early rise Sunday morning and repeated it all over again.
We arrived at the lake an hour earlier than the day before. It was cold but no frost. The cloud cover lingered enough overnight to keep the temps just above freezing. We were grateful. We headed to "our" bay.
The winds blew as strong or stronger than on Saturday. We drifted across the bay blind casting. Each drift was lined up on the GPS for strategic coverage of the bay. We saw one fish follow and he sunk immediately at boatside. Feeling beat up we moved on and the sun began to shine.
We spent the next couple of hours exploring bays, inlets and outlets. We saw no fish, cursed the weather, and began to realize this was it... a skunk was possible. A quick look at the weather app on my phone informed us that the National Weather Service issued a Freeze Warning for the night. Things were getting depressing on board. We reeled in and started for the boat landing.
As we motored slowly toward our exit, the sight of cabbage stalks on the graph fed every last cell of will in the body. Cumulatively, this took its toll. Soon it became, "let's try one last spot". And, so we did. A small inlet dumped into the lake behind an island. A spot that probably gets overlooked more often than not. A micro spot that might hold a fish or two. We slowly motored into the inlet, cut the big engine, and dropped the bow-mount trolling motor. We eased in to the bay. The water was shallow and we wondered if it was too cold. But the inlet was running high and gave us hope it was dumping warm water into the lake. A bed of broadleaf cabbage was visible directly off the inlet mouth. A pair of loons were fishing near the casting target. Food was here. Cover was here. And, the creek dumping in offered warm water.
We began casting over the cabbage and immediately got two nice follows from fish around 30 inches. Then, I cast way back into the inlet and began to strip the fly. The sun was shining and it warmed our hands. It felt good. The fly stopped. The rod bent. I felt the throb of a fish on the other end. I was hooked up with a muskie on fly. I stripped it in as it darted about in all directions. It twisted on the line like a small mackerel in the Gulf. It pulled but it was its athleticism that I admired. We boated the fish. It measured just over 26 inches. The markings on the fish were clean and sharp. It was iridescent and metallic looking in the sun. It's body was barred and it had a distinct hazel eye. A beautiful fish and native to the area. A treasure. Muskie in miniature. We took some quick pictures and slipped the fish back into the water. It cycled its gills three times, tensed up, and darted out of my hands and into the cabbage bed it came from. I watched, impressed, as its barred markings across its tan back blended into the freshwater environment and disappeared. I wasn't cold anymore.
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