North with Doc: Doc's Dream Almost Comes True

Two decades and a half ago Doc was leafing through a slick magazine that listed the latest big fish records. He was not at all happy with the stellar performance of so many other anglers, and when he turned the pages, he smacked them like he was killing flies.

He saw the walleye record was multiple pounds more than he had ever caught. So, naturally, he called me to complain.

When it comes to Doc’s cordless phone protocol, he roams far and wide. The people he calls can hear neighborhood dogs barking, bacon frying, a football game on TV, and even popcorn detonating in the microwave.

I hit the talk button, and heard the all-too-familiar sound of water flushing. Even without looking at the caller ID, I knew who was on the line.

With zero howdy-do, Doc said, “Why haven’t we caught a 20-pound walleye?”

“Because they don’t grow that big in the lakes we fish,” I said.

“Then we need to fish somewhere else.”

“Doc, from our extensive experience the only things in Knobby’s lakes are walleyes and pike. I’m thinking two things, the competition between species and moderate fishing pressure, probably keep the size down.”

“Well, ain’t that good news,” Doc said. “I certainly haven’t done any damage in the trophy category, and it’s about time.”

I said, “We’ve had this conversation since 1978. What it boils down to is, would you rather catch one fish that weighs 200 pounds, or 200 fish that weigh one pound?”

“How about 20 fish that weigh 10 pounds?”

“Bogus, Doc,” I said. “No way you’d be happy to drive from Iowa to Northwest Ontario, fly into the Bush, spend five days in a boat, and catch four fish a day.”

“Did you just work that out on a calculator?”

“I learned how to multiply and divide in third grade.”

“Show off.”

“C’mon, Doc,” I said. “All of us would like to land at least one record-breaking fish, but what would we do the rest of the week? Play Pass the Ace?”

“That is not an attractive option.”

“I’ve done a lot of ocean fishing,” I said, “and some days the big fish catch is spectacular, but the most fun, for me, anyway, is in numbers, not in one or two net stretchers separated by hours of inaction.”

“Maybe we should refine our technique.”

“Like what?”

“Bigger lures? Fish at night? Livebait?”

“You know we’ve done all that, Doc.”

I heard him power flip some more magazine pages, fill a glass from the faucet, take a sip. “Says here the walleyes in Lake Michigan run up to 12 pounds.”

“Great, let’s do that next spring.”

“That’s mighty big water.”

“We hire a boat and a guide.”

“Downriggers and all that?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

I heard a screen door slam, and for 20 seconds the slap of shoe soles on cement. The whir and clank of a garage door opening. Then Doc started up his John Deere riding lawn mower. “I don’t know if I’d like to be that far away from land,” he yelled over the engine noise.

“Remember when we fished in Mexico?”

“What?”

I yelled into the phone, “Sea of Cortez?”

“We went out, what? Thirty miles?”

“That’s because reefs closer in were basically fished out of the XL species,” I said. “You wanted to catch bigger fish. We went to where they lived.”

Doc put the mower in gear and the engine lugged against the blades, reducing the background noise just enough I could hear him a bit better. “Got some lunkers down there, for sure,” he said.

“Did we ever,” I said.

“But that was so long ago,” Doc said. “I can’t imagine what it would cost now to rent a full-day charter. Do you think...”

BAM! The mower stopped.

“What was that?”

“One of Aunt Lucy’s cement garden gnomes,” Doc said. “They like to hide in the tall grass.”

“Didn’t you do Alaska one time? Pull in a monster halibut?”

“An 80-pounder,” Doc said. “Big boat. Half a dozen people I didn’t even know. I think everyone on board caught a halibut as big as the hood on a Ford 150.”

“Down deep?”

“Maybe 100 feet,” Doc said. “That’s a long way to lift a fish that weighs so much. I had more arm strength back then, and still it took forever.”

“But it was worth it?”

“Getting there and back home were not fun, but the scenery and hospitality were spectacular. Frankly, for me at least, jigging for walleyes is more satisfying than jigging for

halibut.”

“Next week in Canada we’ll have plenty of time to discuss this, Doc.”

“Can’t wait,” Doc said. I could hear him flick his Bic to light a cigar that I swore I could smell through the phone. Then the mower started again, a not so subtle signal that Doc was hanging up, so I did, too.

A week later, the six of us had an uneventful drive north, a decent sleep at a Sioux Lookout hotel, and we had filled out the required paperwork. Knobby followed us down to supervise loading the plane.

Doc said, “Knobby, I’m on the hunt for Mr. Big Walleye this year. What’s the biggest you’ve seen up here?”

“A few parties have brought out what they considered trophy size fish for mounting,” Knobby said. “We don’t have official scales, but the walleyes that measured 30 inches might have been about 10 pounds. I’m sure bigger ones have been caught and released.”

“Which lakes are best?”

“All of them.”

“Structure?”

“Below rapids, holes, rocky points, sandy flats, weedbeds.”

“That’s everywhere,” Doc said.

“Yes, it is,” Knobby said.

“Bait?”

“For the big boys? Artificial, mostly,” Knobby said.

“Our biggest pike have been caught on quarter-ounce jigs with chartreuse twister tails,” Doc said.

“I believe it,” Knobby said. “Years ago it was nightcrawlers, leeches, and minnows. For a lot of my fly-in clients, those are still the go-to choices. But some think they can fool the bigger fish with plastic and feathers.”

“I still swear by salted minnows,” I said.

“Whatever works,” Knobby said.

The plant manager, the policeman, the banker, and the attorney were lined up in a bucket brigade to pass our gear and food to the pilot to stow in the plane.

The last of us climbed aboard and buckled in, and before the door closed, Knobby said, “Good luck, gentlemen. Like in the past, I’ll send a check flight and more ice on Wednesday.”

An hour and a half later, we had arrived at the Kezik North outpost cabin, cut cards for bed choices, stored the food, rigged the rods, stocked the coolers, and we were on the water.

A honey hole we remembered from years before produced instant results. We knew where we’d be getting our eating-size walleyes all week, so we moved on to find a population of larger ones for our catch-and-release pleasure.

As was typical of our annual trips, the first few hours of the first day we stuck together to share the excitement of the first few fish on the line. It was comforting to know that we still had the touch, and the trip was already a success.

“Where to next?” the plant manager asked his boat partner, the policeman.

“How about we troll some weedbeds for pike?” the policeman said.

“Let’s do it,” the plant manager said, stowing his jigging rig.

“Not me, “Doc said. “I’m going deep for a big walleye. There have to be some monsters hiding in holes well away from the moving water.”

“We’ve never done well in the main lake,” the policeman said, “maybe because we really haven’t given it a chance.”

The attorney, boated up with the banker, said, “Well, we’re gonna hit the pool off the rapids. Catch some of everything.”

“I guess I’m stuck with Doc, then,” I said. “See you guys later.”

The boats split off in different directions, and Doc switched on our portable depth finder. The first 30 minutes we didn’t see any water over 18 feet. One of the larger rock-walled inlets ended in a triangular promontory, and I followed it out a quarter mile into open water where the depth suddenly dropped to 40.

There was a whisper of breeze, and hardly any wave action at all, so we were able to chart a course back and forth across the hole that was a good 20 yards wide by maybe 30 yards long.

“How do you imagine this hole got here?” Doc said.

“I did some research on a piece I was writing,” I said. “Tens of thousands of years ago the ice sheet over this part of North America was a couple miles thick. When it eventually broke up it was like a glacier moving down a mountainside, and there was a lot of scouring of the underlying rock. I bet there are holes out here nobody has ever fished.”

“Okay, Mr. Know-It-All,” Doc said, “let’s give it a try.”

Doc grabbed his spinner rig with something like 8-pound test. I decided to go with my baitcaster spooled with 14 -pound mono.

Doc tied on a 3/4-ounce jig, and threaded the hook with a 6-inch plastic tail. I snapped on a 2-ounce copper Kastmaster spoon with a scrap of bucktail on the single hook.

We drifted across that hole from every direction, motoring back and forth, jigging for all we were worth.

After close to an hour, I pulled in, and hit the cooler for a drink and a few mini candy bars. “At least we haven’t caught a snag,” I said.

Maybe mentioning a snag is all it took, because Doc was immediately hung up. As in hard on the bottom. He tried to lift and shake the lure loose as I maneuvered the boat in circles, but it held fast.

Figuring he’d eventually have to snap the line, Doc put the rod butt between his knees, and reached in his life vest pocket for a cigar. His rod tip jerked violently, pulled from his knee grip, and his fingertips caught the reel bail just as it went overboard and underwater.

“Never saw a snag so active, “I said.

Doc checked his drag. Loosened. Cranked. Tightened. Cranked. Pulled. Cranked. Loosened. Pulled. And in between adjustments the spool spun like a jet powered merry-go-round.

“This could be the big one,” Doc said.

“Could be? Must be!” I said, grabbing the net, just in case.

Twenty-three minutes later, give or take a lifetime, the fish rolled just below the surface, and muscled under the boat. Doc caught a glimpse of the gray-green giant. “I see it! A whopper of a walleye!” he said.

“Take it easy, Doc,” I said. “Don’t want it to break it off after all this.”

“One more run, and I got him,” Doc said.

Doc was right. A surface swirl once, twice, three times invited the net, and I swooped in to land the beast.

Doc, both exhausted and exhilarated, said, “Wow! What a great walle...”

“What the hell is that thing?”

“Not a walleye, for sure,” Doc said. “But it’s massive.”

“A lake trout?” I said.

“You think?”

“Knobby told us on our first few trips that trout were in here, but nobody ever caught one.”

“I thought there were only walleyes and pike in these lakes,” Doc said.

“But we never fished like this.”

We marveled at the gorgeous creature.

I eyed the stick-on ruler on the inside of the boat hull. “A 42-incher,” I said. “And look how fat it is.”

“Must be close to 30 pounds, easy,” Doc said. “What are we going to do with it?”

“What would you do if it was a walleye?” I said.

Doc thought a second, then, “A 30-pound walleye would end up mounted above the bar in my man cave. But this beauty? Let’s take a picture. Let it go.”

I grabbed my Canon digital, snapped a few pics. Checked the result. Perfect.

With the behemoth still cradled in the net, Doc worked the tiny hook out of its jaw. He lifted it horizontally in front of him with some difficulty, but his broad smile came easy. I took another pic. Doc made sure its gills were pulsing, and slid it back into its ever-so-deep tea-colored habitat.

Not a record catch. Not the walleye of Doc’s dreams. But, boy, oh, boy, was it a Mr. Big.

My fisherman pal not only earned bragging rights, but he had proof. He would show off the catch in his hometown newspaper that fall. And while he’d never catch a walleye as huge, landing that lake trout kept Doc’s hopes alive.

I have to admit I felt mighty fortunate to be part of the story he would tell. And tell. And tell.

Thanks, Doc.

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North with Doc columnist Greg Knowles lives in Green Valley, Arizona. A 5-­volume set of the first 20 years of North with Doc is available in e-reader form at amazon.com.

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