Here There Be Musky
By John Luthens
Flowing through the mist and basking in the sparkling reflections of island rocks and pine-shadowed shoreline, the Manitowish chain of lakes in Vilas County is flush with the posted signs of watery legends: “Here There Be Musky.” Here there be muskies, indeed.
The mists of morning highlight a Manitowish Waters island.
Taken from the Native American lore of the Ojibwa people, the very word Manitowish, itself, casts easily enough off the tongue, but is not so easily translated into the air-tight context of the modern day. Loosely transcribed as “great spirits dwelling in the water,” the mystery of whether these spirits portend good or bad is an eternal debate that may never be properly resolved. And, when it comes to musky fishing along the storied lakes of the Manitowish chain, the secrets of how, exactly, one goes about calling these spirits forth is enshrouded in a mystique all its own.
I was fortunate enough to witness the legendary allure of musky and the Manitowish chain on a mid-July weekend, when Dick Ellis materialized from the spirit form he normally assumes in the OnWisconsinOutdoor’s office and graciously came forth in flesh and blood to beckon me to set up camp on his family’s lake property near the town of Boulder Junction.
It was the eve of the Bob Ellis Memorial Classic, a row-trolling, musky fishing tournament held annually to commemorate a fisherman of the highest order who is enshrined in the Freshwater Fishing Hall of Fame, in Hayward, Wisconsin as a patron saint in the art of patterning muskies in the wake of a rowed boat. Bob Ellis also operated a resort on the Manitowish chain and, after his passing, the extended Ellis family kept his tradition alive by converting his lakeshore cabins into a warm, friendly, and stunningly gorgeous retreat.
It should be said here and now that I, myself, have never taken a mind to bother the mighty musky. I’ve been bashfully content to ply the lake shallows for bass and bluegill and probe the tiny streams for trout, and I’ll admit that I fumble into more than my share of trophy-sized snarls by simply doing that. Still, something in the Manitowish air called me. I came to set a tent in the pine shadows by the shores of a storied lake and learn the lore of the musky. I came to watch and listen of the hallowed art that is row trolling. I was not disappointed.
Boats set and ready for the Bob Ellis Row Trolling Classic musky tournament.
Steaks on the grill were seared to perfection, marshmallows above the fire melted on chocolate and melting in the mouth, cold beverages dripped ice on the wooden slats of a picnic table: the picture perfect image a of a lakeside night, but with a church-like feeling of reverence buzzing in the air that overshadowed all but the staunchest of the evening mosquitoes.
A hand-carved lure made an appearance, duly passed around for Ellis family approval before being tossed in the lake and retrieved on a casting rod, the lifelike action of the bait being cheered roundly from loons calling on the water and from the watching crew on shore. A faded journal magically slipped through the screen door of the cabin, records of trolling patterns and the location and measurements of landed muskies that had been faithfully kept by Bob Ellis, himself. It was passed from hand to hand and studied like a holy book beneath the cathedrals of the pine shadows.
Talk of old, wooden row boats that may or may not leak; lunar phases, tidal pulls; wise medicine incanted to fondly honor the past and to entice the coming spirits of musky on the coming day. I breathed it all in like a child on his first, remembered Christmas Eve, staying awake and listening to the laughter and stories until my eyelids began to droop and I was compelled to navigate by the calm and dark decorations of reflected stars to my tent. Sleeping the honest sleep of the outdoors, I dreamt of mighty fish.
Participants in the Bob Ellis Classic, 2018.
Morning dawned with a humid, Manitowish mist and orchestrated madness from the musky faithful who gathered for their pre-tournament rendezvous at a breakfast establishment in the village of Presque Isle. Custom row-trolling boats flowed in the parking lot and slid onto the roadside. Between sips of steaming coffee and mounds of bacon and eggs, the participants in the Bob Ellis Classic began to awaken, and the true nature of a row-trolling musky tournament held in honor of a fishing legend began to awaken with it.
Old friends and well-met newcomers bantered about in a sportsmen’s reunion, telling tales of where they’d been and of wonderful sights witnessed. Beaming boat captains showed off their musky rigs and talked of strategy. The Bob Ellis Classic offers no prize money, kicking off the day with a low-tension, streamlined registration process that perfectly mirrors the tradition of catch-and-release musky angling. The only set rules put forth are that qualifying muskies must be caught while row trolling and everyone is required to enjoy the day to the fullest. A final summons was issued forth for the row-trolling faithful to meet back at the restaurant in late afternoon for drinks, dinner and an awards banquet packed with the day’s stories. The murmur of musky secrets, the ring of laughter; the outright joy of the outdoors couldn’t have been any better suited to the northern, summer morning and the waters sparkling around it.
The sun burned away the morning mist as the musky fishermen struck out to seek their private fortunes on the surrounding waters, the day promising to be hot and bright and the water’s surface warm and calm – signs portending endless patience and hours of rowing with the likelihood of few boated monsters. It struck me as went that the difference between a passing acquaintance with the ways of the musky and a head-over-heels love affair with the sport is that weather really has no bearing one way or another on the definition of a successful outing.
I stood for a long moment to remember what I’d seen. Other adventures needed attending and, with miles of travel in front of me, I knew I wouldn’t be there to herald the return of the musky trollers in the waning light. It has been said that Bob Ellis boated 1000 muskies in his lifetime, but it is also said that he gave freely of his time and knowledge for the simple pleasure of helping a novice reach a higher plane of understanding.
Scratching a sign on a scrap of paper, I lay it beneath the historic pines of the Manitowish Waters. “Here There Be Musky” It was the least I could do to repay him for the lesson.
John Luthens is a freelance, outdoor journalist from Grafton, Wisconsin. His first novel, Taconite Creek, is available on Amazon or at www.cablepublishing.com or by contacting the author at Luthens@hotmail.com