Reflections: Night Moves from the Midwest to Ontario

Late-night casts, haunted corn mazes, and the unforgettable bite of a midnight muskie.

September 25, 2025 By Daniel Isermann

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I’ve always believed that third-shifters possess some sort of superpower. I’m just not wired to routinely operate in the dark without significant supervision and even a modest ration of late-night coffee does funny things to my central nervous system. I’ve dabbled in the darkness on the lakes around my Wisconsin home and am happy to report that the bucketmouth bite largely dies at twilight, a convenient arrangement likely negotiated by the proprietors of the 28 taverns that fall within 10 miles of my front porch. But over the years, nighttime has, on occasion, been the right time, and I’d still be out there casting when Letterman and Leno launched into their nightly monologues, and dare I say, Mr. Carson.

My initial forays after sundown consisted of muggy summer nights spent on the banks of the river that ran just south of our family farm in central Illinois, out past the cornfields where the woods got heavy. Semi-frozen chicken livers and free-range nightcrawlers were launched into the pitch-black dark with hopes that a tubby channel cat would wander by while we halfheartedly poked the fire and complained about daylight things like detasseling corn and yesterday’s batting order. Bullheads were the bread and butter of these operations; without them, fishless would have been the norm.

A half-dozen years later and I could be found with some regularity casting from the carpeted deck of a glittery bass boat, semi-lost on the sprawling expanse of Dale Hollow. In the dark. This was the era before map-laden computer chips and touch-screen GPS. The screen on our state-of-the-art depthfinder was smaller than that of my current smartphone. Working on mysteries without any clues as it were.

Basking in the glow of a blacklight, our fluorescent monofilament looked as thick as paracord and it would jump with a certain kind of feral electricity when a smallmouth hit. We mostly tossed hand-tied hair jigs tipped with a chunk of Uncle Josh’s finest or Hildebrandt Go-Getters, spinnerbaits sporting a single Colorado blade that thumped with such authority you could feel it in your chest. Never have fish hit a bait so hard. On more than one occasion the blade was missing after a “nibble” from a bronze freight train. Our boat captain was prone to dozing upright and we knew it was quitting time when he’d launch a cast into the crown of some tree standing several tiers up the bank.

I am aware that Montana has established a formal claim in the matter, but the expanse of firmament sprawling above the James River country of South Dakota sure seemed awfully big to me. We’d lay there on our sleeping bags staring up at gazillions of stars, almost forgetting the purpose of our trip until the incremental click of line heading out had us on our feet. The flatheads we wrestled were mostly less than 20 pounds, but they were plenty good enough. Landing one was a tremendous feat, because the river was rife with lumber, as it should be in those places where mudcats congregate on a Friday night in late July or August.

When you heard thunder, there was no need to sit and wonder about distance. They were the best thunderstorms when they were way out there, until they were not and we were making a mad dash back to the truck, my four-horse Johnson banging off dead cottonwoods and grinding through silt to get us there before hell broke loose. I recall the first volley included a smattering of pea-sized hail and the whole thing lasted about seven minutes.

Most of my hours spent fishing in the dark were expended in pursuit of muskellunge. Ontario mostly, Lake of the Woods most of all. There’s something intensely primal about chasing ‘lunge after dark, that same sort of uneasy feeling you get when walking to your tree stand well before dawn with only a bow in hand. The lions, tigers, and bears sensation prickling up your spine. Magnified by the very real prospect that your intended quarry is going to abruptly enter the scene just a few feet from the boat, completely unscripted. And I admit that I am a giant pansy. When we run the haunted corn mazes at Halloween, I am unanimously elected as tour guide, sheerly for entertainment value. I can scream like a girl better than both of my daughters.

My biggest muskie came from Minnesota’s Lake Vermilion after dark, on the rocks so to speak. The fish fancied one of Bruce Shumway’s very capable bucktails sporting a sexy skirt of black marabou and single blade of gaudy orange, Colorado style—my favorite color scheme. It was a boatside strike and would be the first of four fish we’d catch before breakfast. It’s an easy memory to recall—there’s a thin white line running an inch or so across my left thumb. A stitch-worthy incision from a tooth that was treated with ample application of Charmin and duct tape. The adrenaline helped some too.

I agree with old Bob and them Silver Bullet Boys. It is funny how the night moves, and that’s part of what makes it special. Scandalous in a way, certainly several notches below the lust-filled transaction unfolding in the back of that ’60 Chevy. But it always seems like you’re up to some kind of mischief when you’re out there after dark. Maybe I have a few all-night forays for muskies or mudcats left in me, but I no longer qualify as young and restless and bored. I do like to linger and watch the bats come out and track the jets headed for Minneapolis and Chicago. But I’d better get back to the house before my wife calls the volunteer fire department requesting a search and rescue.

Daniel Isermann is a fishery scientist who has contributed to In-Fisherman publications for more than two decades.