It has the absolute worst public access to a lake I’ve ever seen. It’s a murky mucky morass of weeds and loon goop at the end of a grassy lane that has no room for any parking, you ain’t turning around, and you back in from the last mailbox an eighth of a mile back. After you sloosh your shallow draft boat in, then you amble back up the lane, there’s a grassy spot to park one truck and trailer, so if you’re first, that’s good, if you’re not, you’re walking for a quite a ways. That disgusting public access is what makes this lake a walleye mecca worth fishing.
Just as the sun’s setting, you row out til you get into deeper water, lower the skeg, turn it over, and motor slowly out to the only point on the lake. We anchor in fourteen feet. Minnows get lowered to the bottom, and then we wait.
First thing, the wind dies down, the lake’s surface goes smooth, glassy flat, then a million or more insects are suddenly winging over the placid surface, a snug, a tug and up comes the first walleye of the evening, and after several more added to the catch, a seemingly connected squadron of assault bats arrives. The aerial display is impressive, and the added clicks- it’s fast, super repetitive, like a buzzing of sorts.
The sun’s gone, the walleyes have stopped biting, one wonders where the clicking bats went, we hear them no more. It’s time to go; with one last look up at the night’s stars, we head back to the access of agony.
--The trout whisperer
