Walk-Off Home Run

When I pulled into the public access site at Campau Lake early yesterday morning, I knew that I was stepping up to the plate with 2 outs in the bottom of the 9th.  This was my last chance to put a muskie on the ice.  The area lakes are already covered in 3 inches of slush and we have a week's worth of warm weather ahead.  It's going to be topped off by a day of rain.  I won't be getting out anymore.

It wasn't hard to decide where to spend my last day of the season.  I was blessed with a lot of good fishing up at my in-laws' this year, but it was time to step back out of my comfort zone and go after this beast that was turning into the fish of 10,000 hours on the ice.  Even though success has eluded me all year, I had a certain amount of confidence because I had a plan.  For starters, I had just read a study in In-Fisherman on muskies in the chain of lakes where Michigan's state record was caught last year.  In the study, they put tracking devices in several muskies and found that they moved to the shallower lakes during the winter months.  I was going to switch from my spot off of the drop that falls into Kettle Lake and move into the shallow and weedy Campau Lake.  I picked out my spot on a topographical map of the lake.  It was straight out from the launch, just outside of a small cove.  I would be in 6 to 10 feet of water.  The general consensus of the locals is that bluegills are the bait of choice.  I would be hanging gills from my tip-ups.  Finally, I kept hearing how aggressive muskies get in the spring.  I was looking at a warm, sunny day.  It would be as close to a spring day as we've had yet.  I thought that this might get them going.

It was still dark when I got out there.  With my feet breaking through a thin crust of ice and into the 3 inches of slush, I felt like I was climbing a sand dune.  I only had to go about a hundred yards, but I was exhausted by the time I finally got to my new spot.  When my wind returned, I set a few tip-ups and waited for the sun to come up.  After about a half hour it rose above the trees and warmed things up just a little bit.  When it seemed light enough, I walked over to the channel that connects the lakes and quickly caught half a dozen silver dollar gills.  I put one on the first tip-up, but left shiners on the others.  I figured a shiner might get bit by a bass or a muskie and I was really hoping to get some flags.  I did eventually switch all of the baits out to gills.  The weather report was for a sunny day in the high 30's, but I found myself feeling pretty cold all morning.  There was a persistent wind out of the north and I hadn't dressed as warm as normal, thinking that 38 would feel like Key West.

By noon, the day finally started to live up to the weatherman's hype.  The wind had become quiet and I could feel the sun penetrating my bibs and coat.  I was glad to finally shake that chill.  Michelle called around that time and when she heard my report of no flags, she suggested that I head to another lake.  No, I was committed to sticking out my muskie hunt.  The heat caused a hatch of this mysterious bug that I started seeing all over the ice.  I was bored  so I decided to torture one.  I dropped a ball of slush on it, sending it under the icy water.  To my surprise, it continued crawling around under the freezing water like nothing ever happened.  These things are going to be here with the cockroaches after the bomb is dropped.  Remembering what I was there for, I looked up to scan my tip-ups.  To my surprise, the one directly in front of me was tripped.  The handle was turning at a steady pace.  My heart hopped up into my throat.  Babe Ruth was pointing over the center field wall.  Kirk Gibson was limping up to the plate.  I was going to get to play ball.

The handle stopped turning as I walked towards the tip-up, but the line inched off of the spool a little bit when I picked it up.  I grabbed the line and pulled it in, feeling for weight.  When the line tightened up, I gave it a yank.  I looked to the sky and whispered "Yes!" when it started peeling through my fingers.  This could only be a muskie.  I was talking to my fishing buddy at work about muskies just a few days ago and he was telling me how they are the pike's tougher big brother.  He called them pike on steroids.  He couldn't have been more right.  This monster of a fish made no fewer than a dozen long runs.  The hole turned into a jacuzzi anytime I drew her within a few feet of it.  I think it was the powerful strokes of that huge tail that were causing such a disturbance.  I've never had it happen with a pike, but I remember it happening once in my brief struggle with that muskie at the beginning of the season.  At one point I knocked a bunch of slush into the hole, making it impossible to see what was going on down there.  I took advantage of those long runs and used my free hand to frantically scoop out the hole.  I cleaned it out just in time to see that huge green head just below my egg sinker.  I figured out pretty soon that she didn't want anything to do with that hole.  I tried to line her up and guide her through, but she held her ground like a bulldog on a leash that doesn't want to come inside after a walk.  She would then turn and power back across the lake.  After we did this dance more times than I could keep track of, I finally got her head into the hole and pulled her out to the dry side of the ice.  The Babe was trotting around the bases.  Gibby was hobbling into home.

I wanted to soak in my achievement, but I was more worried about getting the muskie off of the hook, in front of the camera, and back into the water.  I ran to get my backpack.  There was one other fisherman out there, actually a fisherwoman, and she came over when she saw me pull the big fish up through the hole.  I was glad to see her, because I knew that I would get some good pictures.  The hook was right in the corner of the muskie's mouth and it came right out.  She completely mangled it.  I'm keeping it for a souvenir.  She measured in at 40 inches even.  I didn't weigh her, but she must have been between 15 and 20 pounds.  The icefisherlady said that she's been fishing the lake all year and mine was the first flag that she's seen.  She didn't know that she was talking to Babe Ruth.  There was no resuscitation necessary for this fish.  As soon as I slipped her back into the hole, she came to life like a funny car starting and roared away.

Yesterday was a Monday.  Most Mondays I'm sitting at a desk doing things like working on payroll and writing employee evaluations.  Yesterday was actually my 36th birthday.  Still, I was planning on going into work like any other day.  I ended up fishing only because my mom offered to watch my kids all day for me.  She inspired me to take the whole day off of work and go out one last time.  If it wasn't for her, I'd be writing about how you've still got to try even if things don't always pan out.  That might be true, but it's a lot more fun comparing myself to legendary ball players and recounting my battle with this underwater titan.  Thanks, Mom for always looking for ways to give to others, especially your family.

Yesterday was the perfect wrap to a great ice fishing season.  I fished a lot more this year than I have for a long time.  I'm usually feeling pretty depressed by the beginning of March.  Winter generally has me firmly in its dreary grasp by now.  Not this year.  I thoroughly enjoyed fishing and spending time with a lot of family and friends.  Some of them I hadn't seen for years and some of them I pretty much only see when I go ice fishing.  I spent some good Saturdays with these guys this year.  I should also thank Michelle, because all those hours that I was on the ice meant that she was at home trying to entertain 3 tasmanian devils.  It's a wonder she hasn't torn out all of her hair.

As good as this season was, I'm a little relieved to be free of the constant draw to fish.  I can now let my chapped lips and hands heal.  I can catch up on sleep.  I can start saving up for a rod and reel that can handle these beautiful monsters this spring.  I can start getting all of my gear ready to chase everything that swims in the rivers and lakes around us.  The ball park stands empty now, but the stadium lights will soon go back up to the sound of the ump's cry to "Play ball!"  The muskies better watch out, because I've tasted blood.