Muskie experts, both fishermen and biologists, agree that when one consid- ers the amount of time humans and muskies share the same water, such attacks are very rare. One report even points out that being chomped by a muskie is even less common, and cer- tainly less consequential, than being struck by lightning. Maybe so, howev- er, I think dragging an angry 30-pound lightning bolt across my lap might be bringing up the otherwise low chances.
•••
PADDLING THE LAKE TRAVERS to McManus Lake section of the Petawawa River typically fills the bet- ter part of three days paddling and two nights camping. To fish this stretch of river in the same length of time we were constantly on the move, trolling mostly with our rods stuffed in the holders. We were paddling at what we hoped was the speed that would entice lurking muskellunge to ambush our trailing lures. It was close to freezing during the nights and in the mornings we danced around drinking coffee, trying to avoid crawling back into our drysuits. Being so late in the fall, dawn didn’t arrive until after seven, so we weren’t on the water until mid-morning. We needed to make time to reach our next campsite before dark. The Algonquin Park map told me we
were just below Little Thompson rapids and my Lowrance X67e sonar indicated that I was in about 15 feet of water but that I had just passed a grassy shoal that rose to only four feet below the surface. The edges of the river were filled with grasses and lily pads that grew out toward the centre. The water was dark and looked cold. It was raining, again. When my rod bent double and my
reel began dumping line I swore out loud for no one to hear. Everyone else was almost out of sight in the misty fog downstream. The kayak spun backward like it had yesterday each time I’d
FISH FRY, WALLEYE/PICKEREL AND MASHED POTATOES/POTATOES.
ADVENTUREkayakmag.com 27
hooked a rocky shoal, reed bed or sunken log. Too lazy to paddle back upriver I tightened my drag, hauled on the 25-pound test line and pulled against the snag, dragging my fully loaded kayak back upriver, against the sleepy current.
When the line was taut directly below me, my colour LCD screen indicated 10 feet of
water—I knew my floating blue jointed Rapala must have missed the shoal and hooked a submerged tree instead. I slowly dragged the log to the surface, reeling in the slack I created with each haul. Frustrated by being left behind, I glanced downstream and didn’t notice the log coming to the surface. Six inches from my leg was my Rapala,
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