There's a spot on the Chippewa River near where I live, directly below a dam, that's become my go-to fishing spot this summer, though I'm not sure why. Like a lot of spots on the Chippewa, this one is riddled with rock and wood structure just under the surface, and while that's actually where fish like to hang out, it provides a constant threat of snags. I have fed too many lures to this river.
This particular stretch of water is really no secret. A lot of people fish it. When I first discovered it back in June, there was another guy fishing ten yards downstream. He was throwing out a six-inch crankbait, the kind used for monsters, and I naively thought, what the hell does he think he's going to catch in these waters with that?
The other morning, I got my answer.
When I fish, I use a medium-action rod with 6 or 8 pound line; I usually throw artificial lures - a rotation of spinners, small cranks and jigs - and with this caliber arsenal don't ever expect to catch anything other than what I do: crappies, perch, bluegill, once in a while a smallmouth. You never know what's going to try taking your lure, of course, and I have landed a few decent walleyes in my time as well, but never anything larger. I'm okay with this; I practice catch and release, and for me, fishing is as much about being out as it is catching something.
That morning I went out just after sunrise, and hadn't been having much luck. It was a slow day for fishing, typical of midsummer (this midsummer for sure), and standing along the riverbank, perched atop what looked like a discarded section of street curb from some long-ago construction project (and amidst someone's discarded pile of Four Loko cans), I had fallen into a kind of half-conscious state as I repeatedly cast out and reeled in. As the sun rose the temperature rose as well, and I was further lulled by the sound of the rapids coming down from the dam.
All things considered, not a bad way to spend a Thursday morning. But by 11 a.m. I'd gone more than two hours with not so much as a nibble, and was just starting to think about packing it in when, on one my very last casts, he came.
The initial strike usually doesn't reveal what kind of fish it is, or its size. Some of the smaller species can be pretty aggressive, and I've found that a brush over a rock during retrieval can produce a very similar jerk on the line. It's not until you set the hook and the fish realizes it that you get some useful information. Most of the fish I catch follow a predictable pattern. They immediately get hysterical, zigzagging back and forth along the length of the shore, then away from shore, then back, or jumping right away. That's not what happened this time. Whatever I'd hooked did something I was not accustomed to for all my focus on panfish hunting over the years: it shot straight down, taking the drag for a ride and bending the tip of my rod, almost taking it right out of my hands.
I spent the next two minutes or so fighting back with an alternating display of pull and reel, pull and reel. My heart was racing. I had never experienced this level of resistance. It didn't even feel like the fish was struggling so much as merely holding his own, propping one fin up against a submerged tree, leaning back, lighting a cigarette and casually smirking, "Yeah, keep trying motherfucker, I can do this all day."
As to what specifically was on the line, I knew there were only a few possibilities. A northern probably, a sturgeon was another likelihood, and I'd heard tell of musky in these waters...I simply couldn't think of anything else that would put up a fight like this. Not here, anyway.
But what the hell did I know? The guy with the 6-inch crank back in June made perfect sense now.
I managed to bring the fish to the surface, and it was indeed a northern pike: a solid two and a half, maybe three feet in length, and a real pig in terms of girth. It wasn't actually a 'lunker' by definition, (northerns can grow a lot bigger than this specimen), but in my realm it was a (first time) trophy.
It floated there a moment, just below the surface of the water, a duck-billed submersible, olive drab spots illuminated crisply by the sun that had just cleared the line of trees behind me. We stared at each other...stared each other down. I was still a little overwhelmed by its size. Then it lurched around to make its escape, and before I had time to react the line broke and it disappeared, fairly calmly, sort of big as you please, back into the depths.
Gone. In the blink of an eye.
I'm thinking it bit through the line; pike have some serious teeth going on. But that I may need a leader on this excursion had no reason to enter my mind. I haven't used a leader since I was kid. Sadly this fish made off with one of my favorite spinnerbaits still hooked in its mouth. And I haven't any reason to believe it isn't still swimming around sporting its new lip ring - a real emo Esox.
All I know at this point is: I want that lure back.
I have since secured a heavier rod and heavier line, some steel leaders and a few lures touted as 'pike killers', and I'm taking it all back to that spot on the Chippewa River. Before the end of the summer, I'm gonna find him. And I'm gonna catch him.
I'm getting my lure back.
