I love the Ozarks.
The way the sun plays hide-and-seek across the hills… how the fog hangs low on an autumn morning, catching light like it was borrowed from heaven itself. The steady hum of cicadas rising in waves—soft at first, then swelling like a choir. If you press your hand gently against the bark of a tree full of them, they’ll go silent. As if all of creation pauses to listen.
I love all that dearly.
But a very close second is Ontario, where the farther north you go, the better the fishing gets—and the quieter your soul becomes.
A summer day on a shield lake in northern Ontario doesn’t shout. It whispers.
Morning begins in hush. The lake lies still as glass, mirroring a sky brushed with lavender and gold. Loons call across the bay, their voices rising like prayers between the pines. The scent of cedar and campfire clings to the breeze, and you can hear your own heartbeat if you stop and listen.
I’d taken my daughter Sydney and my future son-in-law Taylor on this trip. Just the three of us, and a boat full of expectation. Two days from that week stand out. One was a morning where every pass over a mid-lake hump yielded walleye after walleye. Fish so big they would’ve made the front page of the bait shop wall back home.
And then came a moment I’ll never forget.
We were headed out of the camp bay toward the main lake, and just before open water, there’s a rock pile—rumored to hold musky. I’d seen it proven true years earlier. So I throttled down and looked at my crew.
“You’ve got one chance,” I said. “Make it count.”
I didn’t cast. I wanted one of them to have the shot. I rigged their lines with the perfect setup—a big Colorado-bladed white spinnerbait and the fattest Kaitlin’s grub money can buy.
Sydney went first. She’s the best angler in our family, no question. God gave her a feel for fishing that can’t be taught. But that day, she was working with a heavier bait and a rod she wasn’t used to.
Her cast? It landed ten feet from the boat. Not even close to the rock pile. I saw the frustration in her face before she even started to reel in.
But then—out of nowhere—a musky exploded from beneath the boat like a torpedo, hammering the lure with terrifying force.
Everything went wild.
Sydney clung to the rod with both hands, eyes wide. Taylor started stomping and pacing around the boat like he’d seen a ghost—his excitement thumping against the aluminum floor. I was yelling and laughing and praying all at once.
And just like that, the fish was gone.
Dove under the boat and shook loose.
Heartbreak with gills.
If you’ve ever lost a musky at the boat, you know. It’s not just a fish—it’s a living myth. A dream you briefly held in your hands before it vanished into the deep like it never happened.
Sydney was quiet. Taylor was pacing. I just sat there, soaking in the beauty of the chaos. I’d put her on the fish, at the exact right moment, with the exact right lure. It had all come together—except the ending.
But then… grace showed up.
Without hesitation, Sydney fired off another cast. Same angle. Same splash. Same not-so-perfect landing.
And once again—BOOM.
Another musky. This one smaller, but still a beast. The water exploded. The fish jumped three times. Taylor sprang into action—I hollered, “Grab the net!”—and he did. The boat erupted again. And this time… we won.
A 42-inch musky, gleaming with all the glory of the north woods.
I watched my daughter cradle that fish and felt something holy settle into my chest. A mix of joy, relief, and awe. The one that got away had hurt. But the one she caught? It healed something.
That’s the thing about fishing. And about life.
Sometimes you miss your moment. You mess up the cast.
But then—by grace alone—you get another one.
And sometimes, on the second cast, everything changes.
See more stories about the Ozarks: The Tree That Waited for the Preacher