Pro Tips

Sitting on the ground, I was physically and mentally spent. Seriously depleted of electrolytes, food, and water, nearly every muscle in my body was sore and stiff as if I had just run a marathon or participated in some sort of iron man competition. Though not quite so extreme, the day’s ordeal was close. I had just completed eleven straight hours of wielding a nine weight rod, a four hundred grain sink-tip, and a ten inch long fly in search of the most elusive of all freshwater game fish ─ the muskellunge. The left side of my body was as worn out from repeatedly stripping the fly as my right side was from casting it. In truth, I did take about seven minutes for lunch while traveling from one likely spot to another and about thirty seconds to drink some water on a few other occasions. But when it comes to chasing musky, especially with a fly rod, a full commitment is essential.

Esox masquinongy is historically known as “the fish of ten thousand casts.” Positioned on top of the food pyramid, it is only natural that the number of musky in a given body of water will be much less than any other species. Fishing pressure from the bygone glory days of past decades with low minimum sizes and high kill limits as well as reductions in suitable spawning habitat took their toll on historic musky populations. Add these factors to a musky’s keen hunting skills and arrogant swagger that allow it to selectively feed on its own timetable with discerning caution, and one can easily accept that its reputation as an aloof, cunning predator is well founded.

 

But with enlightened management practices that include an expanded catch and release ethic among many anglers, there is greater opportunity for a musky encounter today than in past years. Also, vast technological advancements in equipment along with a better understanding of musky habits have more than increased the odds for anglers, especially for those casting fly rods. But even with this encouraging news, catching a musky is still not easy. However, it might be time to adjust the musky slogan for the twenty-first century ─ something like “the fish of nine thousand, nine hundred casts.”

 

Of course, do not ask my friend Rob McCormick about the subject. His first time ever fly fishing for musky occurred one June day on my boat. He hooked and landed an impressive post-spawn female within the first hour. To him the musky is “the fish of ten casts.” But to put things in perspective he also hooked and landed a tarpon the very first time he cast to one.

 

Growing up on the Niagara River, I have always been intrigued by musky. I can still recall photos when I was a young boy of the lunkers caught by adult friends and family. A taxidermy mount in the local fishing club probably had the greatest impact. The fish was so large that it appeared a full-grown man could fit half his leg inside its gaping mouth. I was amazed, and even a little scared, that this leviathan came from the waters so near my home. I knew then that I wanted to catch one, but it would be years before I developed the skill and patience to even have a chance.

 

Despite the fascination and nearby availability, I never became a full-blown musky fisherman. My love for fly fishing and all its many facets got in the way. True musky anglers have a one track mind. Most fish for little or nothing else the entire fishing season. But that’s all right. Throughout the past many years I have found a way to combine my passion for fly fishing with my childhood captivation with old Mr. Esox. And since I have always been a bit of a challenge junkie, goals like catching a particular species or size fish with a certain technique has been the best approach to continually keep my fly fishing enthusiasm fresh ─ always raising the bar. After fishing for musky with a fly for more than fifteen years I am quite certain that the bar does not go any higher.

 

Muskellunge are native to the Northeast and upper Midwest of North America. Stocking programs have also spread their distribution southward past the historical range. Actually, until I studied a map of musky distribution, I never realized that the species occupied so many of the continent’s lakes and rivers. Thus, opportunities to fish for the species with a fly rod are more readily available to millions of anglers than one would think.

 

I recently read an article that described the muskellunge as the “water wolf.” When comparing teeth, the parallel is quite apparent. Musky have a frightening mouthful of them ─ some for cutting and others for gripping their less than fortunate prey. But for me that is where much of the comparison ends. Wolves are social creatures ─ hunting and living in organized packs. Except for spawning and occasionally gathering in wintering areas, the muskellunge works alone. This savage predator lurks in weeds or other cover to ambush with decisive precision. It will also wander the depths to strike out at unsuspecting prey like a street thug playing by its own rules. If a musky were to be compared with a wolf, it would be the lone wolf — dark and misunderstood.

 

Since it seems that human nature is attracted to mysterious characters, it is likely that the cryptic lifestyle of the musky lures anglers to pursue it. For me, fly fishing for musky is a way of trying to understand more. Placing my fly in musky water provides a conduit to an eat-or-be-eaten world that I can only imagine.

 

Fly fishing can actually be a successful method for pursuing musky. There can be sight fishing opportunities for post-spawn fish found cruising or laid-up on sandy flats. These situations give the fly fisher the advantage. But most of the time it is many hours of blind casting to likely musky structure, such as above and through weed beds, along weedy edges, near fallen timber, and around significant changes in bottom contour. The key to success is to identify some structure, make good casts with a fly that exudes confidence, and be patient ─ extremely patient.

 

Musky are known for routinely following one’s offering as it is stripped back to the boat. On more occasions than I would like to admit, a whole day of musky fishing has boiled down to a heart-stopping follow from a big fish, only to be snubbed inches from the boat. A glass half full type of person will find excitement in the encounter, and after many years I still do. But the experience can also be heartbreaking and discouraging.

 

Techniques like speeding up the offering or performing the “figure eight” move with the fly near the rod tip can elicit a strike from a follower. It is not known why a musky follows a fly or lure with such regularity. Maybe true to its reputation, the nefarious creature just enjoys striking terror into prey before chomping down for a bite. I use the opportunity to observe the fish’s reaction to particular patterns or retrieval techniques so that I may be able to improve upon them the next time out.

 

Steve Wascher has been my partner in the musky game for the last five years. Together we have fly fished musky waters in our home state of New York as well as in Michigan, Wisconsin, and Ontario. He understands structure better than anyone and fishes as hard as I do with no whining. We occasionally share a few stories while fishing, but most of the time our focus remains intently on the task. What happens in an instant can make or break the day — or maybe the entire season.

 

While fishing with Steve on a New York lake a few weeks back, I was in a particularly tough streak. I had failed to land a musky on my previous three outings. As I laid out cast after cast, the thought crossed my mind that maybe I would be better off pursuing something I could actually catch. But as I stripped in for my next cast, a shadow that began as a long dark strip behind my fly grew in length and width as the large streamer moved closer to the boat.

 

“Follow!” I yelled to Steve. I sped up the fly first by a faster strip, then by sweeping the rod with my arm and then by running up toward the bow of the boat. The big fish closed to within millimeters of the fly, but did not take. I then did a 180 degree turn with the fly and swept it rapidly toward the stern as the musky wheeled around to steadily close in on the bait pattern once again. With the enthusiasm of a five year old kid on a megaphone Steve yelled “IT WANTS TO EAT IT!” At the rear of the boat I began a figure eight and sure enough, the lone wolf ate. When I set the hook the fish flew out of the water in pure defiance. After a good battle, the big Esox was brought to the net. With my heart still pounding, I figured that was enough to keep me casting another nine thousand, nine hundred times.