It was Saturday, October 23rd and my Dad and I were driving northeast towards Sturgeon Bay to fish for smallmouth bass on the big water the next morning. Being that it was the last tourist weekend in Door county, and a Packer game was scheduled at home in Green Bay the next day, hotels were hard to come by and we were planning to stay in a town neither of us had heard of before called Two Rivers. As we drove northeast from Madison, I couldn’t help but think back to the last guided fishing trip in Wisconsin I had been on nearly 9 years prior.
In 2012, I skipped my Junior year homecoming dance to go on a northwoods fishing trip with my brother Colin, Dad, and Grandpa. Our goal was to catch a musky but I’m not even sure we got close. On the very first night we arrived in Minoqua, we launched our boat (a 1970’s algae-green Starcraft) and took a short ride around the lake. A few minutes into our cruise on the lake, Granda requested to captain the boat.
“I know exactly where we are on this lake,” he said to my Dad.
“Oh really,” my Dad said, “then what’s right in front of us?” Likely wondering what, if anything, Grandpa saw because he was functionally blind due to macular degeneration.
My grandpa looked ahead through the layers of hoods on his head (it was snowing in early October) and said, confidently I will add, “nothing but water, all clear straight ahead!” while gesturing forward with his flattened palm like he was going to part the lake in front of us, a la modern-day, midwestern Moses.
Unfortunately, Grandpa was totally oblivious to the rocky island a mere hundred yards from the bow of the boat. Needless to say, my Dad ensured Grandpa understood that he would not be behind the wheel of the boat for any reason. We all laughed about it and didn’t say much else but I think it set the tone for the trip; you need to have that kind of confidence Grandpa exhibited to go Musky fishing. The days can be long, casting in cold, damp weather. For us, on that trip, we didn’t catch a musky but it didn’t matter. We had a great trip full of memories that had nothing to do with fish: Grandpa philosophizing to Colin as he woke up, arguments with restaurants about sweet potato fries, and sitting in the hot tub with Grandpa while his urine-soaked felt pants were washed and dried (the man wears too many layers outdoors).
Thanks to the reminiscing, the drive itself was almost a bit sad. The type of trip we experienced in 2012 couldn’t happen anymore. Grandpa’s 92 and Colin lives a busy life near Kansas City. However, some things don’t change, and Dad and I were able to have the same small-town Wisconsin experience the night before we went fishing: great food at an old school restaurant and old-fashioneds as a local bar.
The next day on the water was admittedly a bit slow, but, just when I thought we would be skunked, I set the hook on my personal best Northern - 36”. While we didn’t catch any smallmouths, I was reminded that, for me, fishing is about everything besides the fish itself. I don’t typically catch what I’m after but it doesn’t matter; I’d trade any trophy fish for what I get instead.
