The rambling saga of a tormented Marauder

I’m always amazed by my lack of decisiveness when it comes to the “Annual Marauder Musky Hunt.” When I return from each year’s event I express to my disbelieving wife that “I probably won’t go the following year. I’m definitely not going, no way will I go, there are so many things I need to be doing around the house, we need to go on a nice vacation together, I just can’t afford to go… and that’s that.” This feeling of despair must have something to do with guilt from being gone for so many days and the long trip home with too much time to think about the “legal” that never showed up, much less, the “sub-legal” that got lost at the side of the boat. Maybe it has something to do with the lack of a trophy-story to justify the time and expense to myself, friends, and neighbors; who only want to see fresh fish if it’s served by a courteous waiter in a nice restaurant. They ask, “why do you fish if you don’t eat what you catch?” These otherwise thoughtful people must believe I am deranged, one of life’s anomalies, that I have misplaced priorities. They grow tired of listening to detailed explanations of how great it is to be in the Northwoods: The warmth of Tom & Jenny’s adirondack-style cabin…John & Sue’s incredible log-home estate…Vivid and fond memories of Alice and Mary Louise, the prior owners, cooks, caretakers, bell-ringers and mother-hens of what was known as Rismon’s Lodge; the official Marauder base camp for many years…The brotherhood, secret initiations, interesting people from different parts of the country and walks of life who share, to a greater or lesser degree, the same passion for one week each year.

Each year’s Hunt, including the last, was easily justifiable in the months, weeks and days preceding the event. However, for a period of time after each gathering of Marauders I enter into some sort of “Musky-Post-Mortem.” I just don’t want to think about doing it again. I don’t want to think about casting one more time, hour after hour, day after day. I focus on my duties and responsibilities as a husband, father, employee, and avoid looking at the fishing equipment haphazardly placed in the corner of the garage, disrespectfully gathering dust, waiting to be carefully stored in the basement…perhaps forever.

Occasionally, a Saturday television segment of In-Fisherman® will highlight a Musky attacking a lure at boat side or creating a wake behind a top-water presentation. These visions make my blood pressure rise… but it quickly returns to normal as I remember past years and the absence of Musky, measuring longer than my tackle box, finding their way to my lure. I am excited to hear the details about Jerkbait-John’s monster-lunge that was caught, on a surface-bait, only days after my last departure from the North. I wish I had been there to see the beast before it was returned, with reverence, to the depths…to resume its role as a deadly predator…stalking its prey from the shadows and darkness of the weed, wood, and rock structures below the water’s surface. I show anyone who will listen “Long Lake” on my Northwoods map, mounted under glass, in my home office. I tell them the story about one of the largest Muskellunge (Esox masquinongy) caught and released in the Northwoods and state with unbridled pride that I know the infamous Marauder that hunted, hooked and landed the Northwoods’ “King of Esox,” the “Hawg of Hawgs.” I point to the dozen plus Northwoods lakes I have been privileged to see and fish over the years and inform my captive audience of the difficulties caused by blue bird skies and how “we” prefer gray, even wind, rain, and the darkness of night. I show them back issues of Musky Hunter® magazine to further validate the legitimacy of the sport and that others do it too. I evangelize the Hunt as though it was something I have done many times before…but will never do again.

As is the case with many of life’s disappointments, time passes, and thoughts of the failures of past Hunts fade when mention of the next Hunt arrives. I forget about the cold and snow of winter and look forward to the new life that comes in the spring and early summer; ice-out, rebirth of weed beds, gin clear and stained waters, Muskellunge in the shallows, and the “Annual Marauder Musky Hunt.” I inform my wife, friends and neighbors about the next gathering of Marauders, and speak of it as though it’s a personal requirement, a command performance, a religious calling of sorts…and so it comes to be.

The passage of seasons has healed the collective wounds of previous years. I hear myself say with new found conviction…“I need to inventory the tackle box, clean and organize the fishing gear, oil the reels, spool new line, become mentally, as well as physically, prepared for the upcoming Hunt.” Above all else… “I need to stay alert.” This could be the year, the “Hunt-of-Hunts,” for a trophy Muskellunge and the victorious quest for “UMA”… the “Ultimate Marauder Award.”

See you in the Northwoods

REAPERTAIL