song of the burbot
I was a fly fisherman out for a day of charter fishing on a company outing. I don't find any real sport in having a captain prepare your rod, hand it to you and then instruct you to "Wind, wind, wi-i-i-i-nd!" when the fish hits. On the other hand, it was fishing and not working, so it could have been worse.
We were fishing for lake trout on Lake Michigan near Frankfort, Michgan. When my turn came to "fish", I hooked into something after only a few moments. The line had run very deep due to the nature of the "Dodger" style lure I was using (a large, fluorescent metal surfboard with a treble hook on it) and the rod bent severely as I wound, wound, wound in an effort to bring whatever it was to the surface. There was no evidence of a fight, just the kind of pressure and effort it would take to reel in a submerged log. After 30 minutes and arms that were turning limp, the captain announced that the fish was breaking water as he gaffed it and brought it aboard.
I thought he was pulling my leg when he said, "Looks like you're gonna be a Master Angler, that's a nice burbot you've caught there." It was a decent size fish but it looked prehistoric. I figured I was a lot deeper than I thought, you know, down there where the water is so deep and dark the fish have no eyes. He explained on the way back to shore that the burbot was half catfish, half eel...neither half appealing to the fly fisherman in me. "A real delicacy", he assured me..."commonly known as 'poor man's lobster'".
I was still wary of the whole incident, waiting for the ribbing that might accompany stories of legendary "snipe" hunting. However, when we got into port, he hung and photographed the fish and proceeded to fill out the necessary paperwork for the Michigan DNR. I was indeed applying for Master Angler status and, as it happened, qualified with the third largest burbot of 2000 and a permanent spot in the state record book.
