The tragic saga of a northern pike lost

The tragic saga of a northern pike lost

Long ago and far away, there was a place where young boys would go to try their hand at catching big northern pike.

Though it was long ago, the place was only about a mile away from one young boy’s home. And truth be known, the northern pike caught by both young boys ranged from little scrappers to occasionally a decent “eating size” fish.

Size didn’t matter to the boys, who simply wanted to catch fish that they could brag about to anyone who ventured within hearing distance of them.

Well, on one early summer day, two boys, both aged nine, rode their bicycles to a fishing hole which was actually a widening of a creek upstream from a town road, at which point a galvanized culvert sent the water down through a narrow watercourse to a large lake about a mile distant.

The two boys were each armed with spinning rods and reels. Their first task was to toss worm-baited hooks hung beneath whiskey-bottle corks in an attempt to catch fairly large chubs or shiners with which they planned on catching a gunnysack full of northern pike.

One boy quickly caught a chub that was then tossed out into the creek a few feet from the edge of a swampy shore.

Much to the chagrin of the second lad, who had yet to catch a bait fish, the cork went down on the first lad’s chub. Within a few seconds, a wild, thrashing battle to the finish was underway.

It was indeed a battle royal, enhanced by the wild yells of encouragement from the lad whose anticipated job in the near future would be to wrestle the pike up a three-foot high bank and onto the grassy shoulder of the road separating upstream from downstream.

All went well. The lad with the fish on the end of his line did a yeoman’s job of tiring out the pike, which, when they both first got a look at it, was said to be a good 30-incher.

As the lucky angler held the pike at bay against the bank, the two of them discussed — more like debated — what the best way would be to try and get the behemoth from the water onto the grass.

The one without a rod in his hand said he was sure he could just grab the line and yank the fish up the bank and onto the grass. The successful angler disagreed, it should be noted, rather vociferously.

He was in absolute disagreement that the eight-pound test would easily handle the strain of lifting six pounds or so of flopping, thrashing pike without breaking.

Citing profound knowledge of mathematics, the lad wishing to hoist the pike repeatedly opined the line would not break, that the fish would be hefted safely to the grass, where it would be promptly dispatched with a swing or two or three of a handy oak branch used for a club.

Would you care to know which lad was correct? Of course you would. Let me just say, it was not the would-be catcher standing happily over his trophy lying on the grass. As he predicted, a thrashing six-pound pike was more than capable of snapping an eight-pound test monofilament line.

At that, the pike did not immediately swim away from where it ker-plopped into the water next to the bank.

No-o-o siree, Bob. Before the fish swam away, the second lad tried to snag the pike with his No. 6 hook but was successful only in goading the pike into action. As it shot back into the safety of open water, both young lads looked at each other in dismay.

The look of one of them rapidly dissolved into fear as rage spread across the face of the other. Mayhem, armed battle and limbs dismemberment were threatened on one hand, but war was avoided when one lad quickly suggested that in short order another chub could be caught, another cast made and another fight with the same pike would be assured.

A battle royal was avoided, and though additional chubs were caught, and two smaller pike were enticed into grabbing them throughout another two hours of fishing—both of which were safely landed — there was nothing more seen of the monster pike that got away.

It might be noted as well that there was no bloodshed by either young lad. Indeed, later that same summer, while fishing from a rowboat on Plum Lake, one of the boys — the one who hooked the big pike — caught his first musky, which the other lad safely netted.

In the years following, both young lads caught more and bigger fish than the one that was lost. One lad has counted a goodly number of muskies exceeding 30 pounds to his credit.

The other has caught hefty fish of several species in following years. Both still live for the days they can spend on the water, chasing everything from bluegills to muskies.

Bloodshed and mayhem were avoided, and lifelong friendship remains to this day.