There’s nothing like the reaction of a first-time muskellunge fly fisherman.
“Oh my God! There’s one following my fly! No joke! It’s huge!” yelled Brandon, a family friend.
My son Tait turned to me and said, “I take it you didn’t tell him not to yell when he sees one?”
Brandon’s reaction after casting and barely getting his line in the water is a perfect example of how challenging muskie fishing is. The fish following and not biting is common behavior.
It’s been three years since I last netted a muskie. I’ve had opportunities but things just kept going wrong. I’d mistime the hook set, the muskie would miss the fly or take only part of it, or I’d just get muskie fever and set the hook too soon.
It’s hard to describe the thrill of hooking a muskie; not because of the fight but because of how elusive they are.
We were in northern Maine near Fort Kent.
After Brandon’s first follow, he went around a corner and out of sight. Within minutes, we heard a blood-curdling scream. I yelled to Tait to reel up, and we headed over to Brandon. He told us he’d had another big one on but lost it.
Tait and I went back to where we’d been fishing, while Brandon worked the other side of the lake and eventually landed his first muskie. It wasn’t huge, but any muskie catch is a thrill. His reaction was pretty muted when he actually caught one, which we found a bit of a let-down after his initial reactions.
Shortly after, Tait did a long cast and was stripping the fly back to the boat when, only a few feet from the side, a muskie exploded on his fly.
Now I was starting to doubt my own fly choice. Was I stripping too slow or too fast? We’d been at it for hours, and Brandon had multiple follows and one fish landed, as did Tait, but I hadn’t seen a single muskie.
As we picked apart the water, we were each throwing different flies and covering deep to shallow areas and even some weed beds. I downsized to a black fly I tied for pike, and soon I had a small muskie in hand, then another.
Brandon landed another with a few follows. We decided to head to the far end of the lake and had barely settled when Tait hooked into another muskie.
This was Tait’s second of the day. Shortly after snapping a picture and releasing the fish, I hooked my personal best smallmouth bass, measuring 21 inches and incredibly thick. We ended the day with eight muskies landed and countless follows, most of which went to Brandon.
On day two, we headed to the river, where it’s deep and dark, making it impossible to spot a follow until the fly is nearly at the boat. The river hasn’t been kind to me over the last couple of years, but here we were. We also had limited time. Brandon wanted to leave by noon for his six-hour drive.
We were each using different flies and covering different types of water, but nobody was moving any fish. I started to question my fly choice again, so I switched to my go-to yellow and orange fly.
As we floated along the shore, Tait cast toward the bank while I cast toward the middle of the river. We varied our retrieves, from fast to slow and everything in between. I even let my fly sink a bit longer, hoping to trigger a strike.
Suddenly, as I stripped in aggressively, the fly stopped — stuck on the bottom, I thought. Then it moved, but before I could set the hook hard, it was gone. When I hook a muskie, I like to set the hook several times to make sure, but I didn’t even get the chance. We fished for a few more hours without any action. I started to wonder if I’d actually had a fish on at all.
I decided to try the middle of the river, going against everything I know about muskie fishing. There’s no visible structure above or below the water, but it’s the spot where I caught my 42-inch muskie, so I never leave without casting there.
I made a long cast, and when the fly was almost back to the boat, it suddenly stopped. This time, I got a second hook set, and was soon yelling, “Fish on! And it’s big!”
Tait was scrambling, having just cast, but he quickly got his fly in and the net ready. Soon, he netted my 36-inch muskie. In the muskie world, that’s not huge, but a three-foot fish is impressive in any context.
After some hooting, high-fiving and photos, we released the fish. I realized then that the earlier hit had indeed been a fish; I’d just missed the hook set. We gave it another hour after Brandon left, and Tait had two more follows.
In two days, the three of us landed nine muskie and had too many follows to count. Maine’s muskie fishery is incredible but challenging. I highly recommend hiring a local guide to get a head start on the learning curve — it’ll be worth every penny.
