Muskie Attack (An Up North Adventure)

by Moore, G. M.

  Griffy cast out into his spot. Now it was just a few feet away. He let out his line, reeled in a couple times, and waited.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  He jerked on the pole. Missed, darn it. Whatever was out there was playing hard to get. He reeled in to check his worm. It looked good. He cast again.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  This time, Griffy didn’t jerk; he waited—patiently. Take it; take it, he chanted to himself. When he thought the time was right, he gave the pole a slight jerk. The fish jerked back. He had it! Griffy eagerly reeled in. He didn’t trust himself to bring the fish in on the narrow piling. It’d flip off the hook before he could get a hold of it for sure. So he kept it in the water, walking slowly with it down the piling, across the rocks, and to the shore where he brought the fish in.

  Another ugly fish, he thought. He had no idea what it was. It had large, cloudy eyes with a dark green back, olive sides, and a long, spiny dorsal fin.

  “Hey!” he yelled out. “I caught something! Ugly! Hey! Uncle Dell!”

  No one answered. No one came. The rushing water muted his cries. Griffy shrugged. Oh, well. He was the invisible kid after all.

  Griffy wasn’t sure if this was another scavenger fish or a keeper. He took the fish off the hook and laid it in the underbrush for safekeeping. Griffy adjusted his worm and went back out to try again.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  This time, he knew exactly what to do and snagged the fish easily. “Ha! Got you!” he cried out. As Griffy turned around to bring the fish to shore, he stopped short. There, standing right in front of him and blocking his way was Spinner. Griffy hadn’t heard the dog walk up behind him. Oh no, he thought and froze like a statue. He was afraid Spinner would start his fish grabbing game again and knock both of them off the narrow piling into the cold water below.

  The two, neither one moving, just stared at each other. Then Spinner tilted his head to one side as if to ask: What?

  “Back up,” Griffy said and motioned slightly with his free hand. The dog, with an agility that shocked Griffy, quickly turned around and headed back to shore.

  “Wow,” Griffy sighed, relieved. “Crazy dog.”

  Griffy had caught another ugly fish with cloudy eyes: this one slightly smaller than the first. Spinner seemed to have no interest in the two fish lying in the tall grass, but Griffy was taking no chances.

  He pointed his finger at the dog and commanded, “You leave these fish alone. Got it?”

  Spinner just looked at him. He seemed to be smiling. The fish obviously weren’t Spinner’s concern. Griffy was.

  Griffy shook his head. “Looks like I’m not invisible to you, huh?” And he gave Spinner a scratch behind the ear.

  Griffy checked his bait situation. “We’ve got enough for another one. Let’s go.”

  So Griffy went back out on the piling, Spinner following close behind.

  Griffy cast out, but this time the tap, tap, tap never came. He cast again. Nothing. On his fourth cast, Griffy decided to give up.

  “I guess there are no more ugly fish to be had,” Griffy said to Spinner, and the two headed in.

  Griffy took the overgrown path back to the dam’s gates. He left the fish lying in the grass, afraid to pick them up. What if they were disgusting bottom-feeders or worse? He needed to find out.

  “Hey! Hey! You guys! Uncle Dell!” he called as he made his way though the brush.

  Uncle Dell met him at the head of the path, concern covering his face. “What were you doing over there? You need to stay where I can see you,” he scolded.

  “But I caught something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. It’s got weird eyes.”

  “Weird eyes, huh?” Uncle Dell questioned. “Well, show me.”

  Griffy readily obliged, taking Uncle Dell to the two fish lying side by side in the grass.

  Dell let out a gasp.

  That’s not good, Griffy thought. “What? Bottom-feeders?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. Those are walleyes. Behind a muskie, they’re the most difficult fish to catch.” Uncle Dell slapped Griffy on the back. “Two of them.” He shook his head in amazement. “Good fishing. Good fishing.”

  Griffy smiled brightly and stood a little taller.

  Uncle Dell looked around and asked, “Where did you catch them?”

  “Out there, on that ledge.”

  Uncle Dell gasped again. This time, it really wasn’t good. “No, no, not out on that ledge. That’s too dangerous. Way too dangerous. What were you thinking?”

  Griffy shrugged. “I dunno. It seemed like a good idea.”

  “How did you get out there?”

  Griffy pointed to the rock path.

  “OK, no harm done. Get those fish in the basket and in the water before their gills go pink. We’re filleting those.”

  Griffy cradled the walleye in his arms and walked them to the basket. Mitch, Gil, and Pike were still fishing over the dam’s gates, but the run had obviously ended. All were quiet.

  “What’d you catch?” Mitch called over his shoulder as Griffy walked by.

  “Walleye.”

  Mitch, Pike, and Gil jumped for a look.

  “Good Gouda,” Pike exclaimed.

  “Sweet Brie, Griffy,” Gil praised.

  Amused, Griffy chuckled and pushed his way through the group. Being forbidden to swear by their parents, Pike and Gil used cheese for expletives or exclamations instead. They were from Wisconsin after all. Griffy, although used to hearing these phrases by now, still found it oddly funny.

  “I’ve got to get them in the water,” Griffy announced with an air of importance, “but I’ll show you where I caught them.”

  “Bet you can’t wait to tell your dad about this,” Mitch said and gave Griffy a congratulatory pat on the back.

  “Naw,” Griffy replied. “He wouldn’t be impressed. Not like Uncle Dell was.”

  “Or like us,” Pike excitedly chimed in.

  “Nope,” Griffy smiled.

  “Well, more bragging for us then,” Mitch concluded.

  When the four emerged from the overgrown path, they found Uncle Dell fishing out on the cement piling, Spinner sitting right behind him.

  “Hey,” Griffy scolded. “You said that was too dangerous.”

  Uncle Dell smiled back sheepishly. “Had to give it a try. Caught a bluegill the size of my hand but no walleye.” He pointed down to Spinner. The dog had the fish in its mouth. “Take it on in, boy,” Dell instructed, and Spinner turned around and took the fish to shore.

  Once the two were back on land, Spinner dropped the fish at Dell’s feet.

  The kids stood in shock with their mouths hanging wide open.

  “Pretty smart dog, eh?” Dell said and patted Spinner on the head.

  “Only when he wants to be,” Gil answered.

  “Well, I think we should call it a day. What do you think, Mitch?” Dell asked.

  “Sounds good. We’ve got a lot of fish to clean here, and it’s after lunch already.”

  “But I want to fish out there!” Pike cried. “Come on, come on. Can’t we stay?”

  “Not this time, Pike. You can walk out, but that’s it,” his dad answered.

  “Fine,” Pike agreed, scowling.

  Once the group returned to the car, Pike swore all to secrecy. “Not a word to anyone about where Griffy caught those walleye. That’s Griffy’s Walleye Hole. Got it? Anyone asks, he caught them somewhere on the lake, not at the dam.” Pike looked over at Griffy. “We don’t want anyone fishing in your spot.”

  Griffy nodded and smiled. No more invisible kid, he thought. At least not here.

  The DNR

  The bell attached to the lodge’s screened door clanked loudly as Taylor Wilson stormed in.

  “It’s gone!” he yelled and headed toward Dell, who was standing behind the register counter talking with Pike’s dad and two people Griffy had just met that morning: Andy Gibson, head of the Chequamegon Lake Association, and Jo Patt
erson, a ranger with the Department of Natural Resources. They all turned toward Taylor. “My jugging line is gone. First, it was dead fish on the line. And now they took the whole thing!”

  Pike and Griffy, who were playing bumper pool nearby, snickered.

  Taylor snapped around and glared at them. He had stormed right past them, not noticing they were even in the lodge’s lobby.

  “So it was the two of you! I figured as much,” he roared.

  Fearful, the boys shook their heads no and quickly returned to their game of pool.

  “Hold up there, Taylor,” Dell intervened. “Now, what’s going on?”

  “I put a jugging line out last night, and this morning it was gone. Three days ago someone,” he shot a look over to Pike and Griffy, “filled the line with dead fish.”

  At that, Mitch McKendrick, Pike’s dad, had to stifle a laugh with his hand.

  “The boys didn’t take anything, not last night,” Dell explained. “Mitch, here, took the two of them to an Indian powwow over at the Ojibwe casino. And this morning, we all had breakfast at Spider Lake Cafe, which is where we ran into Andy and Jo.” Dell motioned toward the two others in the group. “Jo, by the way, is with the DNR. Jo, this is Taylor Wilson, a guest.”

  She smiled at Taylor. “I assume you know that jugging is illegal?”

  “Yes, I know,” he snapped back and then abruptly stopped. “You’re with the what?” he asked.

  “The DNR,” Jo replied and pointed to the badge on her arm sleeve. “It’s nice to meet you.” She held her hand out to Taylor. He shook it in stunned silence. “I’d be grateful to whoever took your line, Mr. Wilson. They have saved you a hefty fine and the revoking of your fishing license. We don’t allow jugging on these waters, as you know. But since it looks like the evidence has vanished, I’ll let you off with a warning. How ’bout that?” She whipped out a pad and began writing. “Next time,” she announced, handing a piece of paper to Taylor, “the fine will be double.”

  Taylor stammered a confused thank-you. Defeated, he gave Dell a final glare, muttered something unintelligible, and left the lodge.

  “Dead fish on the line, Pike?” his dad questioned when Taylor was gone. “That had to be you.”

  “And Griffy,” Pike replied quickly as he put the pool cues away.

  Griffy’s head shot up at the sound of his name. He had been examining a paperback on the overcrowded bookshelves. “It was his idea,” he retorted, pointing at Pike.

  “And it was a good one,” Andy reassured them, grinning. He had been chewing on a piece of straw and now took it out of his mouth and pointed it at the boys. “Good work, both of you. I don’t think Mr. Wilson will be jugging anytime soon.”

  Everyone laughed at that.

  “So Lost Land Lake has another mystery,” Andy continued. Griffy had heard his uncle talk a lot about Andy Gibson and the lake association president’s zeal for promoting tourism. “Interesting, huh? Who—or maybe what—took the jugging line?”

  “Let’s not put the cart before the horse, Andy,” Jo admonished. “It could have been anything.”

  “Like a gigantic muskie?” Andy taunted.

  “A gigantic what?” Pike asked excitedly. He grabbed Griffy by the arm and pulled him over to the counter.

  “Muskie. A seventy-pounder could very likely be roaming the waters out there.”

  Dell laughed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Seventy pounds? I don’t think so. It would be over five feet long. Not possible. Not on Lost Land Lake.”

  “Well, that’s what we came out here to talk about,” Jo said. “It is a possibility. The evidence points toward it. The bite marks on that walleye for one. The jaw span of whatever killed it was about six and a half inches. Only a muskie can get that big. And there have been a few sightings, which we could chalk up to folklore, but …” she hesitated, as if she wasn’t sure she should continue.

  Griffy stared at Jo and soaked in her words. Even he had heard the scary tales of a monster fish on Lost Land Lake. The folklore had frightened him, but Uncle Dell had eased his fears by assuring him the stories were just that—stories and nothing more. But now, here was Jo, a DNR ranger, making it all seem very real.

  “But what?” Dell asked impatiently.

  Jo bit her lip and looked at Andy, who was twirling that same piece of straw back and forth in his mouth. Andy nodded for her to continue. She sighed and went on.

  “A seven-year-old girl over at Sunken Island almost drowned three days ago. Something grabbed hold of her leg while she was swimming and dragged her under and out into deeper water. Some teens sunbathing on a pontoon jumped in to help. No one saw what it was, though. There was too much commotion. Whatever it was let go. Scared off by the noise most likely.”

  “The bite mark on her thigh, Dell, only showed the front set of teeth,” Andy interjected, excitement growing in his voice. “The jaw likely eclipsed the width of her thigh—so big all the teeth didn’t take hold.”

  Griffy gasped.

  “Don’t worry,” Pike assured him. “Muskies don’t attack people.”

  “Oh, yes they do,” Jo countered. “It’s very rare, but muskies are voracious eaters and fierce predators. They possess an enormous mouth and strong canine teeth. They’ll feast on anything—including other muskies. They’ll attack ducks, frogs, muskrats, and humans.”

  This time Pike was the one who gasped.

  “Why haven’t I heard about this before now?” Mitch asked, his voice wavering. “Nothing much gets past me at The Happy Hooker.”

  “We’ve been keeping it quiet,” Jo answered. “I didn’t want swimmers to get hysterical until we knew for sure. Plus,” she said, looking directly at Andy, “with a trophy fish of this size, well, we need to be prepared for chaos when the story breaks.”

  Griffy understood. Uncle Dell had given him books to read on game fishing. The ferocious muskellunge was the most sought after trophy fish in North America. If a fish of world record size was out there, it would draw fishermen—novices and pros—from across Wisconsin, maybe even the country. Chaos was an understatement.

  “We need to look at this as a moneymaking opportunity,” Andy urged with a gleam in his eye. “This could be big for the lake, very big.”

  “Yes, but what about safety? I’ve got swimmers here. Kids.” Dell nervously adjusted the belt on his jeans and re-tucked the tail of his shirt.

  “Exactly,” Mitch agreed. “Folks need to know to stay out of the water. You can’t keep a thing like this quiet.”

  “We don’t plan to—not any longer,” Jo assured them.

  “There’s going to be an association meeting,” Andy explained. “I’m hoping for your support. Mitch, Dell, we need to turn this into a profit: sponsor a competition. I’ve got it all mapped out. It’s a tourism gold mine.”

  “So it seems,” Mitch said. “So long, peaceful summer. Well, let’s hear what you got.”

  Just before sunset, Pike and Griffy stood on the banks of Lost Land Lake surveying the water before them in awe.

  “It’s out there right now,” Pike marveled. “Can you believe it?”

  “No, it’s too hard to imagine,” Griffy answered as he stared at the water. Its surface was as smooth as glass. A monster fish swimming through that still water was unfathomable.

  “We have to catch it. We just have to,” Pike quietly pleaded. He seemed spellbound. “I can’t do it alone, you know?”

  Griffy nodded. He knew that, for Pike, catching a world record muskie was about the sport, the challenge, just because the fish was there. For him, it would be about something more. The task frightened him, but maybe, just maybe, if he caught that muskie, his parents—especially his father—would take notice.

  “It’s definitely going to take the two of us,” Pike stated, “definitely. You in?” His brown eyes sparkled.

  Griffy knew what he had to do. “Yep, I’m in.”

  The Master Fisherman Muskie Competition

  The village of Minong, Griffy
had discovered, was small in size but big in character. With a population of only 531, the village saw weekdays that were slow and lazy—the streets deserted, the air quiet. “Sorry, we’re out. Be back at ?” signs often hung from shop doors down the village’s small business strip. At first, Griffy had wondered how anyone could make a living in such a place.

  Weekends. That was the answer. Minong woke up for weekends. Come Friday afternoon, the village came alive. It was time to say “good-bye, see you next year” to departing vacationers and “hello, welcome back” to arriving ones. Vacationers stocked up at Link Bros. Grocery for their weeklong stays and lined up for fishing licenses at the Sportsman’s Headquarters. But the real action, Griffy now knew, was down on “the Strip.”

  On Friday afternoons, Main Street’s three-block store-lined strip became a three-ring circus. Tourists eating ice cream cones at the Village Scoop passed the afternoon petting Rocky Road, the brown and black cow. Shoppers at Setting Sun Souvenirs got their pictures taken with Chief Running Deer, the ancient Ojibwe Indian who stood watch outside the store in buckskin and full headdress. Tourists passing by The Trading Post applauded the Indian brave and princess puppets dancing in the store’s windows. Across the street, squealing children panned for fool’s gold outside Hi Ho Silver, the village’s silver and goldsmith. The smell of sweet treats lured tourists to the picture windows of Tremblay’s Olde Tyme Candies to watch gray-haired Miss Gertrude stir a copper cauldron filled with boiling chocolate fudge. Next to her, teenagers wearing red and white striped shirts stood behind large marble tables mixing nuts into cooling batches of vanilla, maple, and chocolate fudge.

  Tremblay’s was the first stop Pike and Griffy made before heading to Minong Village Hall where the Chequamegon Lake Association was scheduled to meet. The McKendricks, Uncle Dell, and Griffy had come in town early to do some shopping and help set up for the meeting.