A new book by author Leo Wilenius has hit the shelves at local retail outlets. Shakespeare’s Bait and Tackle is Leo’s fourth book, preceded by She Won’t Mow the Daisies, The Cabin Experience, and Life Over Easy. The book is currently available in Cook at Northern Comfort Company, North Woods Friends of the Arts Gallery, and Zup’s Market. It is also available in Virginia at Canelake’s Candies and Irma’s Finland House, Piragis Book Store in Ely, and Ubetcha Gifts in Tower. Submitted photo.
I fish often—almost every day during the spring and summer. However, I don’t fish for very long, maybe an hour or two. This dedicated but light regimen doesn’t put me anywhere near par with fishing guides, but it does make for good adventure and a meal of fresh walleye fillets now and then.
A few years ago I decided to largely pass on chasing those tasty walleyes and focus more on catching muskies, maybe even a world-record muskie reaching 60 inches or so. That may sound unrealistic, but why not me? I’ve seen 50-plus-inch muskies swim under our dock, alongside my boat, or washed-up dead along the shore, so I know big ones are out there.
Not only that, I’m a human able to reason and problem solve, whereas a muskie relies on instinct—it does things predictably. Part of that predictability is that a muskie will eat almost anything it can fit in its mouth, whether that be other fish, mink, turtles, ducks, and of course, artificial lures. And I, for one, would not take a Yorkie or Shih Tzu to Lake Vermilion to learn how to swim.
Anyway, I have a boat, muskie lures, and access to Lake Vermilion, so, like I said, why not me? A problem, I would soon learn, was that I underestimated the task and overestimated my desire.
The first problem was that I went after muskies under the old order, which had proclaimed them as “the fish of a thousand casts.” That’s cool—just me, my fishing pole, a lure, and a boat. I like simplicity. After a few outings and just a few hundred casts, my hands began to blister from the effort of casting large tackle.
I tried trolling instead, but I’m here to tell you that pulling a foot-long Swim Whizz behind a boat for an hour or two is akin to pulling a microwave oven through the water, and soon the sport began to feel more like work than recreation.
Secondly, it was my own fault for not keeping up with the times. Modern electronics have changed fishing for muskies from randomly casting a thousand times to spot-and-stalk hunting. Boats search about at surprising speed until the quarry is spotted. Lures are then cast with amazing efficiency into the strike zone, leading to impressive catches that are almost the rule of the day rather than the occasional exception.
But truth be told, I’m not only old school, I’m also cheap. I can’t rationalize a properly outfitted boat that costs more than my truck. And I’m stubborn, so I won’t use rod holders which could make trolling easier. If I don’t have the fishing rod in my hand, sensing a bite or sensing the bottom, I am not fishing. I am passing time.
What am I to do—stream a movie, call a friend, take pictures of clouds? No, not me. As a predictable result, I never caught a muskie the year I intentionally went after them. Who wants a muskie anyway? They aren’t much for eating from what I hear. I went back to chasing walleyes, bass, and panfish instead.
A few years later and just the other day, I was going after walleyes with no success, so I elected to try trolling a larger crankbait to change my luck. I headed off with the healthy tug from the lure, bringing back memories of the Swim Whizz. Then, even before my wrists began to tire, the lure stopped solid as the drag on the reel began to sing. It wasn’t a snag. I slammed the motor into reverse and hit the throttle as the boat lurched backward to keep the reel from running out of line. This fish was big!
Having backed up a bit, I turned the motor off and the fight, if that is what it must be called, began. Many long, hard runs and tug after tug later, it was apparent the fish owned the situation. Whatever line I could take in, the fish would lazily strip off as if out for a stroll in the park.
I wondered, “Does it even know it’s hooked?” Any attempts to pull the fish to the surface were fruitless, but one thing I had on my side was time. If this 40, maybe 50-pound fish hadn’t cut my 10-pound braided line off by now, chances were good that I could wait this guy out.
Over the next 45 minutes, I had texted my grandson, my wife, and a friend to tell them about my ongoing fight. By this time, I had drifted in the wind one-half mile from where the fish first latched on. It was obvious my small fish net would not suffice, so I began to look for nearby fishermen who might help net it.
My forearms began to ache, and my mind swirled about what else could be done to land this giant. It was glorious. This, without a doubt, was a muskie and the biggest fish of my life. Could it be record-class? Maybe. Should I keep it or let it go? Think of the notoriety (and money) to be had in catching a world record!
It was all going so well I could hardly believe it, but boating the fish without a proper net would be impossible. I decided to be happy with a picture of the fish in the water and unhook the lure with my long pliers. It was a surprisingly serene moment to ponder, enjoy, and share in real time, with still hours of daylight to continue the fight.
Then it happened. The heavy pull and powerful thumps stopped—the line went limp. What? This couldn’t be! The plan was working. The line held, my knots held, we were in open water, and I had even overcome my kidneys’ desperate cries for relief.
Then, with a heavy heart and deep sigh, I resigned to the reality that the fight was over. A moment of self-pity followed. Slowly I reeled up the line, and to my surprise, it hadn’t broken off. Rather, the body of the lure had been pulled off, leaving only the plastic lip of the lure still attached to the line. It was similar to eating a popsicle. All you have left is a stick, or in this case, a lip with a stick that had been embedded in the lure’s body.
I’ve since talked with several fishing folks about it, and none have had such a thing happen to them, which makes my story both suspicious in terms of authenticity and tragically unlucky. I wanted justice, I wanted a witness. I wanted my moment in the sun. All I had now was a plastic lip and material for a lame story about the big one that got away.
Looking on the bright side, for one time in my life, I was in a game I thought was out of my reach. I had a shot at a large, maybe even record-class muskie. It was indeed the biggest fish I ever caught without catching it, and that in itself is quite a prize. At least it is for us serious muskie fishermen.
Leo Wilenius lives in rural Cook with his wife, Lindy. He is retired from Lake Country Power in Mountain Iron and recently published his fourth book. All four of his books can be purchased at small businesses in and around Cook, Crane Lake, Lake Vermilion, Tower, and Virginia, or by calling or emailing Leo directly at 218-404-4772 or llwilenius@gmail.com.