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The Walleye Wager

For Paul Carlson, in memoriam

By David Feela

Found in: | Fishing | Spin Fishing |

"Learn one thing each day and it's not a wasted day."- my late-uncle Fliss

"You could use my worm blower," my brother-in-law offered.

I raised my eyebrows, launching one of those I-wasn't-born-yesterday looks. In my mind, though, I pictured a miniature blow drier, a gag gift manufactured by people who'd spent their lives trying to figure out what else would make fishing people laugh. I'd purchased a few of these gifts myself, mailed them for birthday and Christmas presents just to see if my one relative who takes fishing seriously would bite.

"No, really. You want to see it?" he asked.

I could feel the joke circling toward its inevitable punch line. There was no respectable way out. It was my turn to bite.

To my astonishment, Rick produced a tiny plastic bottle from his tackle box, removed the cap, and exposed a needle designed to be inserted into a worm so a puff of air would make it float in the water while attached to a hook. Stenciled on the bottle were the words: "Worm Blower."

He smiled, and it was clear I had it coming. I hadn't spent as much time in a boat as he had. For over 20 years I'd been living high and dry in the desert Southwest, which is why my brother-in-law's invitation to reintroduce the sport of fishing to me felt like a trip I couldn't pass up.

My cousin Paul joined us with a rod and reel that he hadn't taken out of his closet for five years. But then, he lives with a passion for golf, which probably keeps him in regular contact with water. He brought along nightcrawlers; Rick preferred leeches. As the out-of-towner, I'd been offered a choice between the two equally slimy forms of bait. In the end, I opted for the leech, mostly because it didn't require blowing.

"What about a small wager?" Rick suggested. "Say, a buck for the first walleye and two bucks for the biggest one."

I'd never bet on fish before and I knew fish didn't become one of the oldest forms of life on the planet by taking risks. I could respect that. But with a maximum of $3 out-of-pocket expenses, I said sure, let's live dangerously.

Mille Lacs Lake, informally known in Minnesota as "The Dead Sea," is about 17 miles long and 9 miles wide. The surface was dead calm, mirror-like, hued the same gunmetal grey that colored the sky, so that, in places along the shoreline, the lake and the sky merged into one limitless expanse. The fish were down there, near the bottom, and Rick turned on his fish finder to prove it. As the electric trolling motor slid us forward, a tiny LCD screen revealed a steady dark line that echoed off the sandy bottom of the lake. Occasionally, an equally dark blip arched past the screen: these were supposedly fish, the un-caught variety.

We'd each had a few bumps against the hook, which my brother-in-law, our fishing guide, claimed were only perch, and he proved this by finally hooking one and pulling it out of the water. A walleye, Rick said, doesn't nibble; it hits hard and takes the bait. In order to catch one we were instructed to let the line loose as soon as it strikes, wait 10 seconds, take up the slack, set the hook, and reel the fish in. The advice sounded simple, but I kept yanking on the line each time I felt a nibble. I couldn't help it, like when a doctor raps on your knee with a rubber mallet. Nibble, yank. Nibble, yank. Luckily, the fish locator couldn't be used by the fish to examine us, because they'd have been laughing their scales off at me.

My cousin caught the second fish, another perch. About six inches, it didn't qualify to win any of the wager. It barely qualified to be called a fish, with over half the nightcrawlers outdistancing it in length. We could use it as bait, I suggested, or maybe stretch it with one of those classic angler's fish stretchers. All bets were still on.

In the long space called waiting, the air got hot, humid, and the flies arrived. We drank water, ate peanuts, shooed flies and tried to stay focused until Rick asked for the baseball bat. Leave it to an angler to invent a sport for passing the dull time while fish weren't biting. But the plastic bat was no ordinary bat. With the ends cut off, so it formed a hollow tube. The bat had one purpose: it allowed any male holding it perpendicular to his groin sufficient length to pee off the side of a boat without peeing on himself or the boat. A homemade invention worthy of a brand name, I suggested we christen it The Urinator or The Extension Club. Paul just called out, "Bladder up!"

We waited.

"That's a walleye," Rick declared, and from the disappearing line I could tell something serious had caught his attention. I watched carefully as he let the fish savor the leech, as he reeled in the slack, then as he stood up to yank the rod and set the hook. He had it, the fish, and he worked it toward the boat while I stood ready with the landing net. 21½ inches of walleye. At the market price of $11.99 a pound (adding, of course, the $1 winnings from the bet for catching the first walleye), Rick held a grand total of about $40. We took a picture and let it go back into the Dead Sea.

On this day a legal walleye in Minnesota had to be under 20 inches or over 28. In two weeks, however, the regulations would have increased the slot to 22 inches, but today the fish had to be returned to its domain. Rick explained how Mille Lacs probably had a bellyful of illegal walleye, all the legal ones having been fished out of the lake early in the season. A lake teeming with impossible fish.

For the rest of the daylight we wandered from spot to spot, gathering where other boats gathered, trolling circles around their anchored hopes. Eventually we set off on our own, to a spot where Rick had fished before, and the fish finder said, yes, there are fish down here. We tossed out a floating marker and trolled around it. I could tell Rick fervently wished I would catch a fish. He kept saying, "They're down there, David." What a shame to send me back to Colorado with only the memory of holding the bat and striking out.

Then it happened. It struck, and I resisted yanking back on the line, which started to disappear. I counted, 10, 9, 8, 7.... Rick was up beside me, locking the bale on my reel, encouraging me to set the hook. When I jerked I felt the fish like a muscle down there in the deep, twisting and flexing its will. I pulled back and held the line taut. It thrashed, I thrashed. It fought against me, I fought against it. Finally, I reeled in enough line so it had no place to go except into the landing net Rick held waiting.

Twenty-six inches, and the photo says it all. I lifted its full weight, the thrill, its cold-blooded chill, then released the walleye back to the water. You could say we came away empty-handed, but I'll wager that whenever I hold that photo I can still feel the tug.