Muskie Attack (An Up North Adventure)

by Moore, G. M.

  “See,” Gil said smugly. “Told you.”

  The garage was packed with fishing, camping, and army supplies dating back to … well, way back. Griffy and Pike stood with their mouths agape as they stared at the boxes of tackle, racks of fishing poles, and bays of life jackets surrounding them. Knives, canteens, metal cookware, and all things related lined the shelves.

  Pike grabbed a large wooden muskie lure. “This is marked five cents!” he exclaimed in disbelief.

  Griffy and Pike exchanged quick smiles. Maybe, just maybe, their money would go a little further here.

  “Where did all this stuff come from?” Griffy asked.

  “Inventory,” Mr. Hanover replied as he made his way back to them, wiping his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. “I was a shopkeeper as a young man. Opened up toward the end of the Great Depression. Now that took some moxie, I’ll tell ya. Made a go of it too, but there was more money and fewer headaches in lumber. Always meant to reopen one day …” His voice trailed off, and he grew distant for a moment; then he snapped back. “Enough of that hoo-ha! It’s hot in here. Let’s get to finding you some gear. How big did you say this rogue muskie was?

  “They’re saying seventy pounds or more,” Griffy answered.

  “Well now, that’s bigger than the world record holder. Out on Lost Land Lake, you say?”

  The three nodded in agreement.

  “Haven’t heard tale of that size since the glory days back in the late forties and then only on the Flowage.” He paused for a moment and scratched his almost bald head. “You’re going to need a pole with strength and stamina. Double-eyed cane. Yup. That’s what you need.” And he shuffled off.

  The kids and Sadie followed him down one aisle, then another and then another. He finally stopped in front of a barrel filled with fishing poles of varying heights and widths.

  “The best muskie men—your Cal Johnsons, your Louis Sprays,” Mr. Hanover spoke as he sorted through the poles, “used something like this.” And he pulled out a six-foot-tall, two-inch thick cane rod. “None of that newfangled graphite. This’ll bring in the biggest, meanest fish.” He handed the rod to Pike, grabbed a nearby stool, and climbed up to reach one of the shelves behind him. “Along with this,” he said and threw two spools of fishing line down to Griffy and Gil. “That’s Bailey’s No. 5: the strongest, toughest line you’ll find.”

  Mr. Hanover climbed off the stool and nodded his head at Pike, Griffy, and Gil as if to say they were done.

  “Um, what about a reel?” Griffy asked impatiently. He was hot and sweaty and was ready to get out of there.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Mr. Hanover replied hurriedly. “Can’t forget the reel. Very important. The right drag and all. You’ve got to give a muskie some line.”

  He stood there shaking his finger at the three of them as if the movement helped him to think.

  “A Kentucky reel should do nicely, and I don’t mean the dance,” he chuckled and shuffled off again.

  Not understanding his humor, the three kids giggled and shrugged as they followed him once more.

  Mr. Hanover turned down one aisle and then another, searching the shelves and yelling out the occasional “Confound it!”

  The three kids moved up and down the aisles with him, marveling at all merchandise they were passing and coughing through all the dust they were scattering. Sadie had disappeared.

  “It’s amazing he can find anything in here,” Griffy whispered.

  Finally, Mr. Hanover stopped. “Ah, here it is. The Kentucky reel. Considered by many to be the finest ever made.”

  Pike examined the reel, gave it a few turns, checked the drag control, and nodded.

  “It’s real smooth,” he said, turning the reel over and over and then passing it to Griffy. As the boys “oooohhhhed” and “ahhhhhed” over their new fishing gear, Gil got down to business.

  “Mr. Hanover, this is all great. Thank you. But we don’t have a lot of money—eleven dollars to be exact. This looks like old but expensive equipment.” She hesitated. “We might be able to come up with more, but … well, how much is all this?”

  “Not to worry, young lady. I was never one to swindle a customer. I figure what it was worth then, it’s worth now. If you can part with nine of those dollars, we’ll call it a deal and a day.”

  Gil shook her head. “Oh, that’s not nearly en …”

  “A deal and day it is,” Pike quickly interjected, cutting Gil off. He shot Gil a look that said, “Are you nuts?”

  She made a face back.

  He counted out nine dollars and handed over the money. “Thank you so much, Mr. Hanover. This is the best.”

  Mr. Hanover clapped Pike and Griffy on the back and led them to the door. “Happy to oblige. Now, let’s skedaddle. This place is due for a good airing out. I can hardly breathe.”

  They stepped out into what had become an overcast day.

  “Better hurry on home,” Mr. Hanover said, examining the sky. “Be careful, and happy hunting to you.”

  “Hunting?” Griffy questioned. “You mean fishing.”

  “Oh, no. I mean hunting. Muskies aren’t called the Fish of Ten Thousand Casts for nothin’. And a fish the size you’re hunting, that’s one dangerous beast. Hold on a minute.”

  Mr. Hanover disappeared back into the garage and returned with a wooden club that he handed to Griffy.

  “One last piece of equipment you’ll be needing,” he said, nodding to the club. “Free of charge.”

  “What are we suppose to do with that?” Pike asked.

  “Hit the heck out of that muskie,” Mr. Hanover replied.

  The three kids looked at each other.

  Mr. Hanover sighed. “You don’t know what you’re in for, do you? You haul in a seventy-pound muskie,” he explained, “it’s going to have a jaw span of about seven inches. Like this.” He held his palms together and then opened them up. “That mouth is going to be filled with one fearsome set of teeth. We’re talking teeth about one and a half inches long.” Again he illustrated with his thumb and forefinger. “Think alligator. Think prehistoric beast. Think mean. In the old days, we all carried rifles in our boats and shot those ugly son of a guns the moment we landed them. But that, unfortunately, was outlawed back in ’66.” He paused and gave the three a good look up and down. “I’d never give you a gun anyway. You’re all too young. That club is the next best thing. When you see that muskie, hit it and hit it hard.”

  Griffy stared at the club in his hands and shoved it at Pike.

  “You take it.”

  Out on the Lake, Part IV

  It was a calm, sunny day out on Lost Land Lake. Although the waters were still, activity on the lake was not. The Master Fisherman Muskie Competition was in full force. Boats constantly pulled off the lake or launched on to it from the grounds of The Happy Hooker. Across the lake, Sunken Island Resort’s boat launch saw the same chaotic traffic. The buzz of motors echoed around the lake as boats moved here and there and back again in search of the elusive fish.

  Bob and Sheryl Dalton, up from Eau Claire to try their luck at the mysterious muskie, found a shady cove to anchor in. The couple broke for an early lunch after a disappointing morning out on Lost Land Lake. No one had caught so much as a glimpse of the mammoth muskie yet. A few stories floated around, but Bob Dalton was skeptical such a fish even existed. He took off his cap and wiped sweat off his brow and balding head with one swipe of his shirtsleeve. Sheryl unpacked the cooler filled with ham sandwiches, potato salad, chips, pop, and beer. Their boat sat half in the shade and half in the sun. She rolled her shorts a little higher, took a sandwich, and settled in for a bit of sunbathing. Bob grabbed a beer and began sorting through his tackle box. He had already thrown his favorite lures out there with no luck. As he sorted the lures, he hung them by their lethal, three-pronged hooks along the inside of the boat.

  Sheryl, using her hand to block the bright sun, squinted at him. “I’ve told you, hanging them like that is dangerous, hon.”
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br />   Bob waved her off. “It’s fine.”

  Sheryl shrugged, closed her eyes, and went back to sunbathing.

  She wasn’t the only one catching a bit of sun that afternoon. For some unknown reason, muskies enjoy sunning themselves, and the rogue muskie roaming Lost Land Lake was no exception. The massive fish lay motionless a few feet away, its back almost out of the water.

  Sheryl, finishing off her sandwich, decided she didn’t want the last bite of crust. She tore it into small pieces and threw them out in the water for the bluegill to eat. The bread disappeared immediately.

  Hmmmm, Sheryl thought. Hungry little guys. She grabbed bread from another sandwich and began tearing off pieces and lackadaisically tossing them out into the water. The first few she threw out like rocks skimming the water; then she began lobbing them high in the air.

  Suddenly, the muskie, all five feet and seventy pounds of him, exploded out of the water. He snatched a piece of bread from the air, spun, and dropped back down creating a splash that soaked Sheryl and sent the boat rocking.

  Wide-eyed, Sheryl sat in stunned silence with water dripping off her.

  “What was that!” Bob yelled, looking wildly around. “Muskie?”

  Sheryl slowly nodded yes.

  “Where? Where?”

  She pointed to the spot where the muskie had disappeared into the water.

  Bob grabbed his pole and cast out. The large, green, gold-flecked lure sailed through the air, its spinner sparkling in the sun.

  The muskie leaped out of the water, a picture of massive grace and agility. The fish engulfed the lure in its enormous mouth and crashed back into the water. Bob jerked the pole, trying to set the hook. But the muskie was having none of that. Poking its head just out of the water, the beast gave a wild jerk and spit the lure back out at Bob. He had no time to react. The mutilated lure’s four-inch hook plunged into his thigh. Bob grabbed his leg in agony, lost his balance, and fell backward. He landed directly on the lures he had left hanging on the boat. No less than fifty hooks dug into his back and buttocks as he flipped over the side of the boat and into the water.

  “Bob!” Sheryl screamed, finally emerging from her state of shock. She had only seen fish that size stuffed and on display in a museum. She had no idea a fish of that size could even exist these days. It was as long as she was tall! She lunged to where Bob had fallen in and found him struggling at the side of the boat. In his panic, he fought against the water, slapping at it as he tried to keep afloat.

  “Calm down, Bob,” Sheryl ordered from inside the boat. “It’s OK. It’s OK. Just tread water. That’s it. That’s it. Calm. Calm. Now move closer to the boat and give me your hand.”

  They locked arms. She was able to help pull him back on board. Bob rolled into the boat landing back first against one of the seats. He screamed out in pain. Those fifty hooks dug deeper, their barbs twisting in.

  “I told you not to hang your lures like that,” Sheryl scolded as Bob fell unconscious to the bottom of the boat.

  The Daltons’ muskie sighting sent the lake community and the Master Fisherman Muskie Competition into a furor. Carelessness caused by adrenaline and the excitement of landing the prizewinning fish sent many an angler to the paramedic’s tent at Whispering Pines Lodge. Bob Dalton’s excruciating, five-hour hospital stay, during which he had several hooks surgically removed, did little to calm the uproar. Even experienced fishermen and pros fell victim to injury, with devastating results.

  Guide Sam Vonderbrink got hooked in the face when his fishing companion reared back to cast. Seven of the lure’s hooks punctured his cheeks and lips before lodging themselves in his gums. Surgery was required.

  Tournament fisherman John Clouse landed a forty-five-inch muskie, or maybe the muskie landed him. As John tried to unhook the fish, it flopped back into the water with John attached. The combative and cunning fish got away after ripping the lure out of John’s hand and breaking the line. It took twenty-three stitches to close his wound.

  The paramedics worked quickly and efficiently getting anglers back on the lake before the Novocain wore off, and their wounds’ unbearable throbbing began.

  Pike enjoyed stopping by the tent to deliver bottled water and other supplies. On any given day, he could see an eye laceration from a flying lure, a severed tendon from a fillet knife, or a hook embedded in someone’s head. The grossest injury he saw was the end of a single two-inch hook sticking directly out from the center of one fisherman’s eyeball.

  Pike stared in horror at the man’s eye. He jumped when he felt a hand clamp on his shoulder. “This is no place for kids,” the paramedic told him. “Better move along.”

  Pike nodded in agreement.

  Outside the tent, Pike contemplated the situation. It was going to take some fancy talking to get him and Griffy out on the lake. That was for sure.

  Out on the Lake at Last

  Pike, scowling, shoved the cane fishing pole at Griffy. “Here, it’s hopeless. That muskie’s not in this bay. We need to be out there.” He pointed to the middle of Lost Land Lake where about twenty boats jockeyed for position. “There’s nothing here.”

  Pike’s fancy talking, or begging and pleading, had gotten them no farther than the waters of Whispering Pines Bay. The deal the two had struck with Uncle Dell and Pike’s parents restricted them to fishing the bay only, in a boat not much longer than the fish they were trying to catch—and with Pike’s fourteen-year-old sister at its helm. The deal was not a very good one, Griffy thought, but at least he and Pike were now official entrants in the Master Fisherman Muskie Competition.

  Pike had been standing and casting off the bow of the small, wooden boat that Uncle Dell had christened The Lucky 13. Griffy learned that it once had ferried weekend sailors to and from their boat slips on Lake Superior near Duluth. Uncle Dell had discovered it at a flea market. He’d painted the dinghy white with red trim and named it after his favorite lure and the fact that the boat was number thirteen in the Whispering Pines fleet. Uncle Dell owned twelve other boats—one for each cabin. Two oars and a four-horsepower motor made it the perfect boat for fishing solo. But not today, Griffy thought. Today, it pulled triple duty with Gil, Pike, and Griffy on board.

  Pike sat down in the boat, leaned back against the bow, and crossed his arms in frustration. He sat quietly for a change. He and Griffy had been fishing Whispering Pines Bay for ten days now: from the shore, off the pier, and with Gil in The Lucky 13. So far, nothing. Not one single tap on their muskie lure.

  Griffy put the double-eyed cane pole and its gigantic lure aside while he reeled in his other fishing pole. He had pretty much given up on catching a muskie—any muskie. “Well, Gil and I are catching fish. Look!”

  Both pulled in bluegill at the same time.

  “We might have found the hole,” Gil said smiling. She took her fish off the hook; then looked the boat up and down.

  “Where’s the fish basket?” she asked. After catching and releasing several tiny fish, she finally had a keeper.

  The three looked around. No basket.

  “You forgot the fish basket. Good going, Gil,” Pike taunted.

  “I didn’t forget the fish basket. I don’t even want to be out here,” she huffed. “We might as well go in because I’m not sitting out here all afternoon just to throw everything I catch back in.”

  “We are not going in,” Pike challenged.

  “I’m in charge. I’m running the motor, and I say we are!”

  “We’re not!”

  “You aren’t even fishing,” Gil answered smugly. “You’re pouting like a baby.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  Griffy’s hand rose slowly in the air between them. In it, he waved a white fish stringer like a surrender flag.

  “How about this?” he asked. “It was in my tackle box.”

  Gil, looking annoyed, grabbed it out of his hand. “It will do. But we are going to have to go in early,” she said, staring directly at Pike.
“Fish don’t live as long on a stringer.”

  “Whatever,” he replied and leaned back against the bow again.

  At the bottom of Whispering Pines Bay, water began to swirl and spiral as a seventy-pound monster stirred among the weeds. The muskie, its green-gold body striped with dark vertical bars, opened its long snout as if yawning itself awake. Jagged, fanglike teeth tore at the weeds and small fish hiding in them before its jaws snapped tightly shut again. Propelled by the thrust of its massive tailfin, the muskie was off gliding effortlessly through the cool, clear lake waters in search of its next meal.

  “Can we move now please?” Pike begged.

  “We’re catching fish here,” Gil stated matter-of-factly, “a real smorgasbord—bluegill, crappie, perch. Griffy even caught a catfish.”

  “I know that. But they are not the fish we,” he pointed back and forth between himself and Griffy, “want.”

  “We found the hole, though,” Gil fired back and looked to Griffy for support.

  “Pike’s right. Let’s move.” Griffy saw Gil’s lips press together like a vise, but he kept talking. “I say on to fresh water before it’s too late. We have to be back by dinner.”

  He and Pike had been trading fishing poles all afternoon. It would soon be his turn with the muskie pole again. He liked the power that came with wielding the six-foot pole and sending its large, dangerous lure flying across the lake. Eight inches long with a white body and red head, their plug lure carried four barbed treble hooks. The three-pronged hooks themselves were two inches long and two and a half inches wide. As the boys worked it through the water, the lure made a popping, chugging sound guaranteed—the packaging said—to attract fish.

  “But,” Gil started until Griffy and Pike interrupted her.

  The two pleaded in unison, “Pleeeeeease.”

  Gil looked up at the sky. They were running out of time. “Oh, all right,” she agreed. “Where to?”

  “Twin Pines,” Griffy announced quickly.