Tales and Trails

BY DAVE BECK Sometimes everything makes sense

Friends come and go as we move through life. Some we see often and others drift away but remain as friends regardless of how many miles or years separate the last meeting. Tob is a friend who came into my life and shared something special with me. I will owe him a debt of gratitude for as long as I can cast a musky lure. Tob is the one who put me onto musky fishing over 25 years ago but sadly he passed away recently. I will never be able to repay that debt.

When Tob took me under his wing and showed me the musky ropes I didn’t think much of the sport. The first six hours of pitching big lures was pretty uneventful and I would have been OK if we had called it a day. Actually, the day trip turned into night and I was all for packing it in and heading to the landing. Back then I was a bass and walleye guy and as such, I was used to fish action. I was pretty sure this was going to be the one and only musky outing of my life and then the storm hit.

As I reeled in my borrowed black bucktail with orange blades towards the boat for what felt like the 1000th time it felt as if a bolt of lightning had struck my line. I could feel a surge of power through my line and fishing rod. I had never felt anything like that before in my life. Suddenly the water exploded and a musky, with my lure in its mouth, jumped completely out of the water. The entire sequence was caught silhouetted against the barely lit southwestern sky. Two things got hooked that night: that 40-inch musky and me.

Fast forward to last Monday night. I was just about to doze off when my phone buzzed

announcing an incoming message. It was late so I didn’t check it until the next morn- ing. When I read the message, I was floored with the news of Tob’s passing. The real irony was that I was going musky fishing. While on the water I was reminded of Tob’s theories, views and opinions of all things he considered important in his life. From topwater lures to coyote calls Tob, a wannabe wordsmith, always had a “plethora” of things to talk about. After a minor tangle in my line, I could hear him ask “need some help?”, but the offer was a dig on me; not a genuine offer to help. It wasn’t uncommon for him to catch me off guard. On one outing after dipping my third musky of the day he announced that he was just like that Israeli guy. I gave up try- ing to figure it out and then he said: “I’m a NET’IN YAHOO”. And that is how he became the Original Musky Net Man.

It was easy for me to see and hear Tob in many of the spots where we not just fished, but caught fish. Eventually I moved to a spot where Tob had caught a dandy fifty-plus-inch musky. As I moved closer to the exact spot, I switched lures to throw the same lure that Tob had thrown on that night so long ago. Now for this part I need to add a measure of authenticity. If what I am about to say is not true, may I never catch another musky for the rest of my life. In the middle of my prayer to Tob, I said his name and a fish hammered my lure, knocking it out of the water and then it was gone. A tear rolled down my check and then I smiled.

Sometimes in life nothing makes sense and sometimes everything makes sense.