I awoke before dawn the last morning. I wanted one last chance at the big one. I hadn’t really hit the casting hard, and Tuscarora promised pike and lake trout, although with the heat I doubted I would find any of the latter.

I paddled east to the nearest island. The wind quartered and I had to pull full to slip leeward of a rocky island dotted with green scrub and a lonely sentinel pine. As I reached quiet water, a sharp drop off beckoned. The Mepps slapped the water loudly. As it sunk, the sound swallowed by the grey water and already forgotten, I had to count by breaths to keep from reeling too soon. I imagined the silver tumble down a drowned cliff face. The first reel pulled hard and firm: the blades were free and clear. The hit is always unexpected - even when weather, structure, lure and cast align with the perfect certainty of a pike striking. Hard and low, the first surge always over-promises, but when he stayed deep and turned for big water, a lump formed in the back of my throat. For the first time, I felt the heady mix of fear and wonder that cloaks big fish like a morning fog. The canoe swang and the leviathan started to rise. The first deep flash stirs the imagination even more. Knicks in the line, bent swivels and rusty hooks all haunted me. The second run tested drag and patience. By now, I am holding a paddle in one hand, trying to stay leeward as I choked down on the rod, using my forearm to release the building rhythmic pressure. The surges were shorter each time, but frayed lines test frayed nerves. The wide back, like a submarine just surfaced, immediately sapped my faith in actually landing the fish. One wishes for a gaff and some crew at times like this - or a shotgun. I was almost paralyzed by the remorse I would feel if no one else saw this fish. Black green and slab wide, the pike just rested for the next round, eyeing me like a fighter across the ring that is planning a knockout. In the brief pause, I dared a picture. Putting a glove on with one hand while staring down a monster is neither easy nor enjoyable, but the idea of lipping that toothy jaw unmanned me. By the time it was in the boat, I was second guessing the whole endeavor. A live pike in a canoe - with rods, lures, and lunch all within an easy flip and surge of 3+ feet of green muscle - is an invitation to use my dump bag. A Boundary Waters pike pushes you right to the edge, right to the moment you have to use your “hush fishy.” It won’t stop until you kill it - just the way it has always lived, hunted and died. Any less would disrespect its single-minded purpose, beautiful in its simplicity. Thankfully, the lure ripped loose, and with a lucky, desperate shovel, I dumped the slimy monster back into the depths. He paused on the surface; I could sense his disappointment that I hadn’t flipped, that he didn’t get one last bite. With a single sudden surge, he was gone. Swimming would never be the same. A big fish is the perfect way to end a trip. I knew I didn’t deserve it, but I promised to remember how grateful I felt, exhausted by the struggle, covered in slime, blood and glory. The mile over the Tuscarora-Missing Link passed quickly, the smoke driving me on, the smell of victory lingering over my fishy hands. I was at the Round dock by 2. The truck registered 102 on start up. By Grand Marais, it was 93. In a blink, my trip was over. I drove to Duluth, and after a hotel shower, a big steak, and more than a few cold beers, I bought a gallon of milk and sprawled in the cold sheets. My last thoughts that night were of regrets, points I didn’t paddle past, bays I left unexplored, miles I left in the tank.