I am at the point of the summer when musky fishing is the focus of all outdoor outings. Chasing walleyes on Pepin or trout on the Rush are awesome outings but they are number two and three on the ratings scale. Yes, it’s musky time for sure.

I recently returned from a musky fishing trip to Ontario, Canada. I could easily write an article for every day that I fished both on the way and after I got there. That sentence requires some explaining. On my way to Canada, I stopped to go fishing. My travels took me right by Lake Vermilion in northern Minnesota. I didn’t want to stop; I had to stop. If you have ever caught a musky there, you know all about the magical spell the lake casts, leaving you powerless to just wave as you go by. 

Before I finish that thread in this story, I need to give you the itinerary for the trip and maybe it will make more sense to everyone who is not afflicted with “the bug.” The first leg of the journey was to drive to Lake Vermilion on Sunday, fish that night and then fish again on Monday morning before heading to Canada. That strategy allowed me to cross the border during a non-peak time.  

So there I was on Monday morning throwing big lures on Lake Vermilion and out of nowhere a monster appeared and hammered my lure before I could even think to say: “HOLY $#!& THERE’S A MONSTER!” The fight was short and sweet for the musky and pretty sour for me. Three head shakes was all it took and the hooks pulled free and the fish was gone. It was the perfect example of the old proverb with a slight spin: it’s better to have hooked and lost than to never have hooked at all.

All too soon it was time to head north to the border. The second I arrived in Ontario I was ready to start casting again. I stopped to purchase my fishing license and by early afternoon I was casting musky lures again.

I hit the Canadian water with renewed hope. I would have been content with just seeing a couple of fish on the first night, but it turns out that I did a little better than that. As is often the case, I unexpectedly got rocked by a fish that came out of nowhere. When the fish hit, I hit it back hard, hoisting the rod over my shoulder trying to land hooks. That’s kind of what happened. The hooks held but not long enough to get the musky near the dipnet. For the second time that day, muskies had robbed me of the victory photo that I wanted to send to my musky cronies back home.  

That night, while trying to fall asleep, I replayed the events of the day in my head and it struck me that I had achieved an unusual double for the day. I had lost two muskies in two countries on the same day. I guess that’s better than not seeing any muskies in two countries on the same day.

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