The “Big Girl”

This is a “fish story” but its true. It chronicles the most amazing catch I made in my over 70 years of fishing. I have a picture to validate its not just a fantastic exaggeration. Enjoy. Note my fishing buddy Trixie peeking out of my jacket. She witnessed the entire fight. She can attest to the veracity of my story

“THE BIG GIRL”

I have been fishing for nearly seventy years. It started with me joining my dad on his little ten-foot pram, fly fishing with rubber spiders for bedding bluegills. Later I joined him on the ice as we fished the frozen waters. They say “Give a man a fish, you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish, you feed him for a lifetime.” I think it’s “Give a boy a fish and he wonders why? Teach him to fish and he has a lifelong pastime.” That’s my saying.

Over the years I’ve fished many lakes and rivers. I’ve caught tens of thousands of fish—everything from shiners to 35-pound Chinook salmon on a fly rod. For a time I fished bass tournaments. The list goes on.

Of all the fish I have caught, one stands out in my memory, and it happened on the little sixty-acre lake at our cottage. It was the catch of a lifetime—not the biggest, strongest, or rarest, but one that tested my skills and needed lady luck to chip in. I believe every avid fisherman has a similar story of that special fish. Here is mine.

The Setup

It was mid-March. The thaw was on. The ice was still safe, but it was on its way out. I was fishing at the west end of our lake. This area held the bluegills I was targeting. Often “last ice” can provide excellent fishing. I was hoping to get a nice limit of gills. I was in for a surprise.

I had brought along my most loyal fishing partner, Trixie, a six-pound Yorkshire Terrier. She was fanatical about fishing. I am certain she had transformed the rats she was bred to catch in the textile mills of England into fish. In the summer, fishing in my boat, she would aggressively attack each fish I landed. In later years, when I had upgraded my boat, she would jump in the livewell and pull out the bluegills I had caught.

Today I had her tucked into my jumpsuit, and she could peek through my open Gore-Tex fishing jacket to observe the action.

The fishing that day was slow. I was using my trusty bluegill rod carved by my dad to resemble a pump shotgun. He used to joke, “If they won’t bite, shoot ’em.” The rod was equipped with a little Schooley reel whose main purpose was to hold line, not be used to reel in fish. It was filled with fifty feet of four-pound test line, more than enough for the deepest part of our lake. The line was baited with a fluorescent pink and white glow-in-the-dark Demon Glow Jig, tipped with two spikes (blowfly larvae, maggots). This is all I fished. Of course, I was using my old reliable “sneaky” spring bobber to detect the bite.

The Strike

I was fishing in about eight feet of water when the spring started to bounce. I had a bite. I set the hook and felt a tremendous weight. “Trixie, this is a big one.” This was no bluegill. Not even a bass. The light four-pound test line would not hold this fish. I quickly loosened the washer holding the spool in place and started paying out line as the fish started a run. “Trixie, this is a whopper. I hope I can at least see what I have.” She watched intently. I joked, “Maybe it’s a big dogfish.”

The fight went on for a long time, maybe twenty minutes. It seemed longer. I knew that my only chance was to wear this fish out. I had to be patient—no rushing this one. The fish would run and I would give line. When it stopped, I would slowly pull back, gathering lost line. All the time I kept my thumb on the little red reel. This served as a drag. All this time I’m thinking, “This line has to break. It can’t take much more.” Finally the runs started to shorten, the tugging on the line less intense. The cold water and my patient fighting of the fish was wearing it out.

Finally it swam beneath the hole. I saw it! It looked like an alligator. Long, dark, prehistoric. A northern pike, but the biggest I’d ever seen. The locals had told me tales of 40+ inch pike caught in the lake, but I dismissed this as a yarn. The biggest pike I had ever caught on the lake was a 26-incher. Most of the ones I caught were “hammer handles.”

“How are we going to land this, Trixie?” She offered no ideas.

The Challenge

I faced two problems to landing this fish. First, it would never fit through my normal four-inch diameter augered hole. Second, pike have a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth. They could cut through even the strongest line. Most fishermen that target pike use 12- to 18-pound test line and steel leaders for just this reason. The four-pound test line I was using was a joke. One wrong move or turn of the fish’s head and I would be sliced like a knife through butter.

Fortunately my first problem was solved by the March thaw. I was fishing a hole previously cut by someone who had a larger auger, probably eight inches in diameter. Likely it was for a tip-up. My saving grace was the thaw had opened it even wider. I had a chance! Now I had to get the pike started up through the hole. The ice was still eight inches thick. I would have one chance. I held the line tight and moved the fish’s head back and forth beneath the hole. Finally she nosed up into the hole. I knew it was a female—we were approaching spawning season.

This was my chance. I kept the line tight, leading her head up and increasing the pressure. At the same time I reached into the hole with my bare hand and got a grip on her gills. I quickly lifted her and tossed her on the ice. “We did it, Trixie!” She jumped out of my coat and onto the ice to inspect the fish, but I quickly picked her up. The pike could have hurt her. It was at least six times bigger than she was.

I stood there for a moment in awe of the fish. It was 38 to 40 inches long and probably 18 to 20 pounds. The biggest pike I had ever caught, and on a primitive ice fishing rod equipped with four-pound test line. I examined the jig. I had hooked the fish in the corner of its mouth—the only place where it was protected from the razor-sharp teeth.

The Decision

I have caught many large fish in my lifetime. I always practice catch and release. I’m not looking for a trophy mount or even a picture. Having made the catch and winning the fight was enough for me. Let the fish go so others may enjoy catching it again or its offspring. Normally I’d just release my big fish, knowing I’d landed them. But this one… I needed proof. Not for ego. For memory. To validate in my mind this was not a dream.

She was a big girl. Thick-bodied, dark, old. She’d been in that lake for years. I wanted her back in the water where she belonged. But I had to move fast. Pike can’t stay out of water long. I had maybe ten minutes before she’d be too stressed to survive. I put her in my five-gallon bucket—she did not fit, with half her body hanging out—and I hurried over to my neighbor Mark’s cottage. Trixie, me, and Mrs. Pike.

Fortunately Mark was home, and when he saw me coming, I stopped and held up the fish. He was on his dock when I walked up. Took one look at the pike and said, “No way.” Then he saw my rod. “Four-pound test? You’re either the best fisherman on this lake or the luckiest.” Both, probably. He took a couple of quick pictures. “No time to talk. I must release the girl. I’ll fill you in later.”

The Release

The release was easier than expected. The ice had pulled away from Mark’s shoreline, and there was a small section of open water. I held her gently in the shallows, moving her forward and back to push water through her gills. For a minute, nothing. Then a twitch. Then a slow, powerful kick. She hung there for a moment, as if considering, then disappeared into the dark water. Back to her world. Back to spawn the next generation of big girls lurking in the depths. My hope is she patrolled the depths of our lake for many more years and gave birth to many other trophies.

On reflection, I think we were both lucky—me because I had the most memorable catch of my lifetime, and her because it was me that caught her. I’m certain if it had been someone else, she would never have been released. She would have been kept, shown to friends, ended up on a wall or in a freezer. This would have qualified for a state Master Angler award. Maybe even a record for pike on four-pound test. But awards and articles meant nothing to me. I had gotten the thrill of a lifetime. That was reward enough.

Some fish you keep. Some fish you release. The best ones swim away. She’s back in the lake, doing what big pike do.

The Memory

Thirty years later, I still think about her. Not because I caught her, but because I let her go. That’s the better story. The photo still exists—me holding the huge pike, exhausted and grinning, Trixie’s little Yorkie face peeking from my coat, her expression saying, “Can we go inside now?” It’s the only proof I have. But I didn’t need proof. I knew what I’d done.

The one mystery that remains is why did this massive fish bite on this tiny jig tipped with two spikes? It would be like you or me eating a pea. Maybe a small perch was biting the jig and the pike swiped at it and got my hook instead? I would never know. Trixie agrees and has no answer either.