Musky Fishing Is Stupid

The elation is insurmountable. The adrenaline, borderline sickening. The hunt and the stalk are exhilarating. The boredom is mind numbing. The physical fatigue is brutal. The same thing over and over, hopes and senses peaked, reality mentally abuses you. You are a musky fisherman.

The first time you see the serial killer launch out of the weeds to assassinate your fly, whether you catch it or not, you are hooked. The sickness grows inside of you. It eats your better judgement, and massacres your will. Once you see the vision of a musky on the hunt, chasing your fly, you will do anything, at any expense, to get that feeling again. A hero shot, or even just eyes on the biggest fish of your life, are enough to make you justify owning every tennis elbow brace that all of the big box stores in your town stock on their shelves. All you can hope is that it matches your carpal tunnel brace. You quietly apply healing salves, and try not to complain at all to your wife about how deeply it hurts, and that you cannot physically pick up your child right now, because you know she wouldn’t let you go do this to yourself again tomorrow. You die inside with the insatiable thirst for another musky, all in.

If you have ever fished for musky, you know. If you have handled a monster, its not enough. The sickness eats you and makes you commit travesties to your body that you would not otherwise commit. When your body has told you ten times over to quit, there is still something pushing through the pain, driving you for more. The follow, the boil, the blow up. No other kind of fish has contingent counts. This isn’t a hand grenade, but some how we still justify, almost, being close enough.

Your pinky cramps so hard, you wonder if it will ever release out of the base of your thumb. Your cast falls apart to the point where you wonder if you have ever held a fly rod before. You literally do not have anything left after your carpal tunnel and tennis elbow and separated shoulder to push your forward cast. You haven’t eaten. You are dehydrated. Your doctor hates you. You haven’t moved a fish, so…just…a few…more…hours. Musky fishing is stupid.

The slashing eat. The boiling water. The bent over rod pounding in your hand as line rips through each layer of skin on your fingers. The screaming drag matches your racing heart rate. The power of the fight. The crippling adrenaline relights the fire. You are a musky fisherman. Nothing else matters.

I chose not to post any pictures, because I will not be your gate way drug. If you’ve been down the road, your skin is itching and your mind is already racing. Musky fishing is stupid, and there isn’t much better. I’m going to apply some Amish healing balm to my torn pectorals and suffering triceps, so I can relax and enjoy chasing rainbow trout and common carp this weekend!

Keep your lines tight and your pride wet!

Jared Lane