If you are part of a regular crew of pals who hunt, or fish, or hike, or camp, you probably know what I am talking about here. It seems that every such group has in it one person who stirs the must chuckles, make the most mistakes, or says the funniest things, usually unintentionally. These are the folks who don't even have bad luck; they have no luck at all. Muskie was our guy.



In all the years of prior fishing trips, he was the one who caught the fewest fish, none to be exact; though he regularly reported ?killin? em? when he was fishing mountain streams by himself??oh man, you guys shoulda been there? he'd say, ? I took about twenty just below Steve's cabin??pretty good productivity for a stretch of water that ran ten inches deep for about 100 feet before curling under a bridge to the opposite side of the road. Of course, it was eight feet across, so anything is possible.

At any rate, on this particular trip to the Yough Dam, we had set up our typical campsite on the smallish peninsula we affectionately dubbed ?Stough's Point,? a slab of land jutting like the toe of stylish high heel into the lake. In the space of that roughly 40 x 70 x 30 pie shaped paradise, we arranged four pick up trucks, tail gates toward the water with canvas ?roofs? tented between two of them, creating a cooking area and a dry haven when rains would fall (and they often did in May). The campfire took the center spot of the site, and boats were tugged off truck caps and lugged to the launch ramps, which many other people mistook for mere shoreline. At the outer-most spot on the Point, Muskie set up his folding chair to, in his words, ?get the best casting spot after you clowns go out on the boats.? Muskie was not one to risk venturing out on to the water; he, instead, preferred to be camp manager and ?guard the stuff? while we were out. Muskie was also the un-official Fire master, the one responsible for gathering firewood and constructing a pile for the night's campfire. From several hundred yards distance, as the campsite faded from view, we could see Muskie casting out and plopping down for a hard day's fishing while we scoured the coves and the breakpoints, the rip-rap and the fallen trees, eager to ?find? the perch, or the walleyes, or the bass, or the crappies, or?.anything that swam, except carp.

As we returned a few hours later, Muskie was still plopped in his chair, fishing away, though he reeled in to let boats ?dock? in the soft muddy ramps. Hoppie shouted ?Hey, Musk...catch anything?? ?Naw...I was too busy getting the fire ready, man; that's hard work.? This event and this exchange had happened just this way for so many weeks and so many years. Muskie took his usual verbal beating at the fire that night The jawing and teasing continued till after midnight and a case of beer had come and gone. Nothing seemed new; Muskie's lack of luck continued; the man was catch-less?until early the next morning?.

About 6:30 or so, we heard loud shouts??Hoppie, where's the net...where's the net'I got the sumbitch?where's the net'he got away yesterday, but he's mine now?.? We poured out of the trucks to see Muskie with his fishing hat slapped upside the old dead tree that sat on the north side of the point?inside was a genuine pilated woodpecker?Muskie needed special equipment to assure the capture'we laughed and cheered and tossed him the ?musky? net so he could finish the job and show us his catch, the first (and only) at Stough's Point. I guess no one goes without any luck forever.