A clear river intrigues, mystifies, and enchants. A muddy blown-out river obscures, chokes, and demoralizes. Opacity leaves way too much up to the imagination. We are deprived of the little signs of life that we take to heart on long days of fishing–minnows, crayfish, logs, boulders, shadows, undercuts. It’s as interesting as a dead television.
But you’re here, towed the boat all this way, so you fish it. Convention says to fish streamers: big flies, black or white or chartreuse–something contrasty–and fish them close to structure, in deep holes, along current breaks, up against the banks.
‘Course, in musky fishing, you’re already doing all that. Not much to change. Musky fishing is normally a grind; now even more so, a finer grind, infinitely small particulate, infinitely discouraging. The river is like a driveway puddle that you can’t believe the dog’s drinking from–nothing suggests the complete ecosystem it used to be, must still be.
So you grind away. You try to stay alert and try to guess when to figure-eight so the fly doesn’t hit the rod tip. It’s neither hope nor optimism that keeps you casting–it’s more like martyrdom: pride at how much suffering without hope you can endure. So you keep doublehauling and staring into the turbid void.
And then the void looks back at you and explodes. From nowhere–nowhere behind the dead surface and amid the silt and leaves and detritus–there is a musky and its violence is shocking and then, in the net, its resentment seething. When the hooks are free and you relax your hand from its tail, it doesn’t bolt in terror, but fins slowly back into the opaqueness, into nowhere. Reminding you that you’ve no lasting power there.
Nowhere. This place the musky comes from is why musky fishing is more like hunting than it is like other kinds of fishing. A section of woods can be empty for days: no tracks, nothing, and then out of nowhere a deer is standing before you in the wide-open. Not sneaking out from the edge of the field or crunching through the dead underbrush, but just there, obvious, shocking. Out of nowhere.
Or maybe more appropriately, the wolf. It can take years or decades–you know they are out there but have never seen one on the paw and then one night, out of nowhere, there’s a lobo standing on the centerline of the dark highway. Not a fluffy nature-show star, but scruffy and wild, moonshine eyes and gangly legs and huge head held low, unmistakable for any other canid, breath boiling white in the cold headlight beams.
And it doesn’t bolt in terror, it lopes off into the dark woods — into nowhere. You’ve no power there.