Dick Magee: A dream comes true
I watch the big, black, no-nonsense SUV power up the lane to our place at the lake. It has Illinois plates and a Chicago sticker on the windshield. Two young fellas get out. “Hardscrabble-casual” best describes their outfits. The truck is jammed full of fishing gear — tackle boxes, rods and reels, landing nets, electric motor and battery, life vests, bait boxes, and backpacks. They have everything but a boat. That’s where I come in. I have the boat.
The two of them look like old-time mountain men. The driver is my 32-year-old grandson, Sean. He started fishing when he was knee-high to a grasshopper, flinging a worm on a hook off the end of my dock. The bluegills were always glad to see him coming. They’d have plenty to eat and would be plopped back in the water if caught. Over the years, Sean progressed from dock to boat, from bluegills to bass. From dawn to dusk he worked his trade, learned all the tricks of both fish and fisherman. He fished the crowded and muddy waters of Chicago’s parks and forest preserves. None equaled the clear waters of Klinger and its sister lakes.
His companion, Zack, is also experienced. He works in a shop selling aquarium fish, supplies and equipment. He knows how to get stuff. He thanks me for letting him fish in my “private” lake. I smile and say, “No problem.”
So here they are, two Chicago boys ready to ply their trade in our pure Michigan waters. They load their gear into our canoe, set the electric motor on “cruise” — and edge out into calm waters. The weather is cold and cloudy. It will be dark before the canoe nudges back against the dock.
They start out casting plugs and poppers. Bass can’t resist either lure. Once hooked they never give up give up without a fight. Bass are like that. They take it personally. Later the boys switch to trolling. Each has a six-inch spoon lure at the end of his line. I wonder, what in the world do they expect to catch with something as that big? They’re fishing in a lake, not an ocean.
The Wise Fisherman’s Encyclopedia of 1951 claims spoons are the oldest lures in the world. Those used by the ancient Romans consisted of a polished clam shell equipped with a stone hook. It took us a while to catch on. It wasn’t until 1834 that Julio Buel invented our version of the lure. Supposedly he had carelessly dropped a kitchen spoon over the side of his boat. As the spoon twirled down through the water a fish grabbed it. And the rest is history. Today’s spoon is a long oval-shaped disk made of metal or plastic. A mean triple-pronged hook hangs on the end.
Trolling is a relaxed, peaceful process. The quiet purr of the electric motor and the gentle rocking of the canoe can cause a fella to close his eyes, doze and daydream — until the strike. In a flash, Sean’s rod bends double, almost jerks out of his hands. He yanks the rod back, sets the hook. The line flies off the reel. He sets the drag, afraid the light tackle line will snap. Zack frantically looks for the net, finds it wedged under the seat. Sean’s rod whips back and forth. He lets the fish run, worried about the line. The fish goes deep, then rushes up breaking to the surface with an angry splash, then comes straight for the canoe. The line goes slack. Sean reels it in. The fish darts to the side. “What is it?” Zack yells, kneeling, ready with the net. “I don’t know!” cries Sean. “It’s huge; I’m afraid it will break the line.” Zack shouts back, “Let it run, let run, wear itself out!”
The let-it-run strategy begins to work. The monster on the end of the line begins to slow down. There are fewer frantic lunges. Sean begins to reel it back in toward the canoe. Finally, they see it. Brown scales cover a long, heavy body. They see the hook imbedded in the snout-like jaw and a mass of needle-sharp teeth. Sean struggles to keep the now thrashing fish next to the canoe. Zack leans over the side, gets part the of the fish into the net. “Now!” he shouts. He pulls up the net, the struggling fish is half in and half out, the canoe tips and water sloshes over the side. Sean drops his rod, reaches over the side, grabs the fish. Both boys lift together and flop the fish into the boat. It thumps and swirls across the bottom. A tooth cuts into Sean’s finger.
Then it’s over.
They’ve caught a northern pike. It measures over forty inches long and weighs an estimated twelve to fifteen pounds. For them, it’s a Trophy Fish! They congratulate one another, take pictures, and release their catch back into the lake.
Before the end of the day, the city-slickers from Chicago, do the unbelievable. They catch FOUR MORE northerns, each as big and as belligerent as the first. It’s a bonanza! The boys have found their “honey hole” — a fisherman’s dream comes true.
— Dick Magee is a resident of Klinger Lake and a frequent columnist for the Journal’s opinion page.
This article originally appeared on The Holland Sentinel: Dick Magee: A dream comes true
