I had first learned of the fish of ten thousand casts when I still had a spinning rod in my hands. The ancient fishing book I had growing up described the muskie’s ferocity and reclusiveness in captivating detail, and had a few tantalizing black and white photos of giant fish taken from deep in northern woods. It is my first memory involving a fishing bucket list. When I picked up a fly rod at the end of middle school my mind went to trout, and the goal of finding a muskie was put on the backburner. I learned to target bigger fish with a fly in later years (lake trout, carp, pike), and the idea of catching one of these fish resurfaced. I had a few close calls on a Lake Champlain tributary in college. Jack even managed to catch one while fishing for smallmouth one year, a feat that really brought out my own dreams of finding a muskie somewhere. Although it never materialized before I left New England, I promised myself that if the opportunity arose to target muskie for real I would take it. Last winter, Jack started planting the seeds of taking a trip deep into muskie territory, and wanted me to come with him. It took more convincing than a version of myself from a few years ago would have liked- I now lived on the other side of the country and was still trying to settle into my new life in Oregon. But after a few weeks of constant calls and texts, I had a flight booked.
This wasn’t any ordinary fishing trip for me, especially after a year of chasing almost exclusively trout in the West. We were headed to Northern Minnesota, an area of the country I had visited but never fished. We’d also be on big, slow rivers, a water type I wasn’t greatly familiar with or confident fishing. On top of all that, we’d be chasing a fish that was notoriously difficult to catch, without any real prior experience. Anglers go on muskie trips like ours and regularly catch nothing, which we were mentally prepared to do knowing our target. However, there were a few factors we could bring in to tip the odds in our favor. Obviously, we’d have a boat. And most importantly, we’d have a guide, arguably one of the best in the world at putting a fly angler in front of a muskie.
Kip Vieth is the owner of Wildwood Float Trips, a guide service specializing in targeting some of the North Woods’ most popular game fish on the fly. He’s also well known beyond his local waters as an Orvis endorsed guide and the author of the Orvis Guide to Muskie on the Fly. Although we were in one of the best places in the country to catch giant muskie, we knew it wouldn’t be easy, especially as beginners. Having Kip in our corner gave us the tools and confidence we needed to put our best feet forward on the water. He’s also just an awesome dude who’s a blast to spend five days in a drift boat with. As our team pushed off for the first time on a late October morning, I knew Jack and I had done everything we could to up our chances at finding the fish we were after. The last part- hooking and landing them- would be up to us.
In the first few minutes on the water, Kip gave us what we needed to know. The gear, though foreign to me, was pretty straightforward- 11 to 12 weight rods, short, stiff leaders, and 14 inch streamers that cast like a wet sock. Lob them out the best we could, vary our sink time and retrieves, and strip set on everything. There was also the figure eight (the act of keeping the fly moving in wide turns at the boat to entice fish after the long follows muskie are notorious for), which we should ideally do at the end of every cast. Kip filled us in on some of the more complicated theories around timing when a muskie would feed, such as how the different phases of the moon and weather patterns would turn a fish on or off. He also finished by saying that it was muskie fishing after all, and if anything did happen it could occur in conditions contrary to everything he had just explained. The only way to know for sure if a fish would eat would be to put our fly in front of it.
Within an hour, Jack stuck a good fish. Even on a 12 weight, the muskie put a serious bend in the rod and fought hard under the surface, throwing its weight during headshakes in an effort to lose the hook. We all breathed a sigh of relief when it fell into Kip’s net. As Jack’s first fish slipped back into the river, I began to feel a surprising sense of urgency. Though we’d be fishing for five days, and the opportunities at this point felt endless, I knew nothing was guaranteed in the world of the muskie. There would only be so many fish we floated past that were willing to feed, and it was very much in the realm of possibility that we wouldn’t see another one. Although I was aware of the normal outcomes of targeting muskie, my childhood goals still pushed me to stay optimistic. This was the closest I’d ever been to catching a muskie myself; after all this way would it actually happen? As the fishy cloud cover broke and the hours passed on day one, this question loomed further over me in a boat that was otherwise already celebrating a great day of muskie fishing.
Late in the afternoon, behind another indistinguishable rock bar, my line went tight. I gave the weight a customary hard strip set and felt whatever I was on leave the bottom. I stripped again to keep my rod bent and saw what I legitimately thought was a white plastic bag that I snagged float up towards the surface. I watched it move upstream, and I realized I was looking at the pale, open maw of a fish with my streamer hooked inside. Jack’s voice cut through the blood pounding in my ears. “STRIP! STRIP!”
The muskie had eaten my fly on the bottom and initially went deadweight, coming up to the top quite easily without a fight. About a foot from the surface, it turned and took off as I hit the fish again with another set. After a few runs, I had the fish worked close to the boat. It made one more run under the boat at my feet, and on the next turn Kip slid the net under the fish. Just like that, a childhood dream of mine was complete.
The fish was 45 inches, with Kip estimating the weight in the mid 20 pound range. I held it up for a few seconds as Jack snapped some photos, feeling the full weight of the animal in my arms before lowering it back into the water. Watching my own muskie kick from my hands and cruise back to the riverbed below was something I had envisioned for years, and I felt the only stress I had surrounding the trip leave my shoulders- we had both gotten it done.
After the high fives, cheering, and celebratory swigs from the bourbon flask, my hands were still shaking. We were a few yards downstream from where I had just released my fish when I started casting again, attempting to fall back into the routine I had been doing for hours beforehand. Out of nowhere I felt a take and set into a second fish. Lightning had struck twice in 15 minutes, and after another quick fight I was holding a 41 inch muskie.
I was (and still am) beyond excited to have caught those two fish, especially in the manner that I did. I had heard enough about muskie in my years as an angler to know that what had happened that first day was well above what I (or Kip, for that matter) had expected. This appreciation was great, since for the next 4 days I was snapped back to the reality of what chasing these fish on the fly was really all about- persistence, knowing well there may not be a reward, and being ok with that.
The fishing, as far as muskie go, continued to be solid. Jack caught two more amazing fish, although I’ll let him tell his side of the story. For me, the rest of the trip became a chase to recapture the feeling I had when one of those muskie ate my streamer. I remember each day clearly, but much of the fishing once I stepped into Kip’s boat blurred together. I pounded banks, wooden structures, and rockbar eddies with intensity until the shadows grew long over the river. I wrapped my weak trout hands with waterproof tape to fend off the blisters that came from casting. After each retrieve, I scanned the water behind my fly for follows before plunging my rod tip into the depths and finishing with a few wide turns. Objectively, I feel I became “better” at the techniques of muskie fishing- the casting and figure eights came much more naturally to me by day 5. Except for a few small pike the next few days, these efforts went unrewarded. Watching Jack catch 2 more giant muskie right next to me also made me rack my brain for answers- what was I doing wrong? Why did those fish eat his flies and not mine? Did I really use up all my luck on the first day, like I had feared?
Looking back on the trip a few weeks later, I feel the answer to these questions doesn’t really exist. No matter how much research you’ve put in, how long you’ve been doing it for, or how many tens of thousands of casts you throw at these fish, there is an inexplicable X factor that you must check off before you’re blessed with an eat. Call it luck, divine intervention, or whatever, but there is something beyond skill, something I’ve never felt as much in any other fish I’ve targeted, that plays into sealing the deal with a muskie on the fly. You know that they’re there. You know where they should be. You fish through prime time, what the moon, the weather, and the pressure dictates should be your best chance of success. You make perfect cast after perfect cast, mentally straining to stay on top of every retrieve you bring in, on the off chance that something happens. And then, after you’ve exhausted every avenue, when you’ve finally convinced yourself they don’t exist, they appear.
Or, the guy who’s never touched a muskie before in his life catches two within a 15 minute period on the first day. See what I mean?
