In the midst of one of those tiny coves that indent the Eastern Shore of the Pike Bay Narrows, there lies a small island, which by some is called Paradise, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Mallard Island. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good clerks of the county, from the inveterate propensity of these waterfowl to linger about the island shores on early spring days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of sounding precise and authentic. Not far from this island, perhaps about two hundred yards, there is a large bay of water, which is the heart of one of the most beautiful places in the whole world. Big Bay and its surrounding waters are filled with island points and rocky reefs that can rouse a fisherman into a full day of casting and blasting about in the search for the giant muskies that roam these darkened waters. Then, as the skies turn crimson from the waning light, the shriek of an eagle or the call of a loon breaks in on the silence brought by the impending darkness and hints to the more timid of boaters that it is time to pack it in for the day lest those reefs and rocky points find their way deep into the hull of their transport.

From the ore that tints the waters, and the spectacular crimson character of its sunsets, this magnificent lake has long been known by the name of Lake Vermilion, and its tendency for production of the large toothy creatures sought by many is well known throughout all the neighboring country. A dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by an old campground owner to ensure the bookings were sufficient to allow him to reside in this beautiful countryside rather than return to the crowded confines of the more southerly regions of the state. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the fishermen that travel there, causing them to return frequently to the area and to cast in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights especially if the Chicago Connection is sharing the waters of the day. The campgrounds and musky message boards abound with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions.

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure in a large black fishing boat, seemingly without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Norseman pilot, whose head exploded in self-righteous anger as he tried in vain to land midst the numerous boats in Pike Bay. He is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, seeking vengeance on the unwary fishermen who dared to deny him his right to unimpeded use of the lake. His haunts, although confined to water level -- since you would be ill-advised to fly an aircraft without a head but many the boatsman never use theirs anyway, are not confined to Pike Bay, but extend at times to the adjacent coves, and especially to the vicinity of rocky reefs sometimes at great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the ghost rides forth in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Narrows, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the seaplane base before daybreak.

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known at all the campground firesides and musky message boards, by the name of the Headless Norseman of Pike Bay Narrows. It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the lake, but is unconsciously imbibed by everyone who resides there for a time. However dispassionate they may have been before they entered that rocky region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow obsessed, to dream dreams of giant muskellunge, and see apparitions.

In this by-place of nature, in a remote period of American history, a worthy wight of the name of Bob Crane sojourned to Lake Vermilion from his native land of Scotland, for the purpose of searching out the toothy inhabitants of the area. Since a prank gone awry in the chemistry class at his small high school, he was to be known by his friends forevermore as Icky. Truth to say, Icky Bob Crane was a determined man, and after his first frustrating day on the water with no luck in locating the legendary muskellunge purported to reside in the lake, he exclaimed to himself "Where these fish are, I didnae ken. Tomorrow I had better hire a musky guide to assist me with this endeavor."

Icky’s appetite for the marvelous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by his residence in this spell-bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. On that first night he stretched out on a lawn chair and pondered over the old spellbinding tales being told by his newfound acquaintances, Shine and Shovelhead, as they sat around the campfire at the McKinley Park Campgrounds. He listened to the tales until the gathering darkness blocked the path to his campsite from his view. Then, as he wended his way back to his tent, every sound of nature at that witching hour fluttered his excited imagination, --from the lonely cry of a loon in the adjoining bay, or the dreary hooting of the screech owl, to the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path. His only resource on this occasion, either to drown thought or drive away evil spirits, was to sing Rick Derringer tunes. The good people of Lake Vermilion, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were filled with awe at hearing his melody floating in a Gaelic accent from the distant shore. As he lay in his tent long after the lake had grown still from the days activity, he could have sworn he heard the sound of an approaching watercraft travelling at a lunatic’s pace across the long-ago darkened waters of Big Bay and passing quickly through the Narrows before the sound was captured and then silenced by the pines that lined the point. Icky Bob shuddered and drawing his sleeping bag up around his head, he began to hum another tune to chase the dire thoughts from his mind.

Yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would have passed a pleasant week of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more mystification than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together – A Lake Vermilion Musky Guide with an unending determination to search out and capture the behemoths of the North. Among these, the most incredible was a burly, roaring, roguish stick, of the name of Thomas. The legend of the country round which rang with his feats of intensity and power of endurance when it came to fishing the Big V. Many were the clients forced to admit that the efforts of the day had worn them out only to hear "I have just one more spot to hit before we pack it in." Thomas was broad-shouldered with shiny dark hair, and a pleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and self-confidence. From his penchant for the endless pursuit of the giant muskellunge and his ability to coax them into his boat he had received the nickname of Musky Tom, by which he was now universally known, from his long-time friend "No-Fish" Nielsen. He was famed for great knowledge and skill in Musky fishing, being as handy with a rod and reel as a pro from his early childhood.

He was always ready for either a fish hunt or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill will in his composition; and with all his roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had three Golden Retriever companions, Bailey, Barney and Homer J. who regarded him as their idol, and at the head of whom he scoured the lake-country for miles round. He was well known for wearing a ZZ Top cap that purportedly brought him much luck with his angling. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the cabins at daybreak, with a whoop and a Hoo-De-Hoo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had passed by, and then exclaim, "Aye, there goes Musky Tom and the Mallard Island Marauders!"

Such was the formidable host with whom Icky Bob Crane would have to contend, and, considering, all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the adventure, and a wiser man would have despaired. His newfound friends from the night before had mentioned that a local guide from Mallard Island had assisted them while they were having boat problems and had succeeded in making their trip to Vermilion a most eventful one. As Mallard Island lies within a stone’s throw of the campground’s waterway, Icky decided to drop by to inquire about the purchase of his services for the day. As he approached the dock, he was greeted with a most earnest warning by the three Marauders. Two of the crew boarded his watercraft as soon as it kissed the dock. As Icky attempted to flee, in fear that he was being set upon by wild dogs, the last of the crew dove from the dock and began to circle the boat thus cutting off his retreat. This was no ordinary retriever it seemed. He had a large round head and jowls like a cinnamon bear, and a countenance to match. Just as Icky was beginning to fear that this was his end, he heard the loud booming voice of the island’s other occupant. "Hey, what’s goin’ on down here? What are you guys up to?" The two would-be stowaways immediately disembarked and made tracks for the shore, but the other continued to circle the boat menacingly. As the roaring Musky Tom appeared in the clearing on shore, Icky was still not sure whether his choice to drop by this outwardly peaceful island would mark the end of his days on this fine Earth. But things calmed down quickly as soon as Icky stammered out the purpose of his visit. Before long, the only reminder of the unpleasantness of his arrival was the still circling bear-dog in the water.

As fate would have it, Musky Tom had an opening for the day and they quickly agreed to an afternoon and evening filled with fishing the hotspots for Muskies on the Big V. After settling on a time to begin the adventure and discussing the very reasonable fee, Icky was feeling very much at ease and relieved that things were now taking a turn for the better despite his initial misgivings about the days events. But, as Icky turned to start the motor to begin his trip back to the campground, he espied the bear-dog still circling his boat. As he spun round to ask how to relieve himself of this incredibly persistent bane of his existence, he found that Musky Tom and the two Marauders were nowhere to be seen, having disappeared beyond the dense tree-lined shore. Those now familiar dire thoughts began to creep back into the mind of Icky Bob. Then a sharp whistle arose from somewhere in the midst of the island’s woodland and the ever-circling bear-dog departed, having been called by his master, and disappeared into the thick of the island’s forest. Icky began to feel nervous again, then quickly dismissed the actions of the islands occupants after convincing himself that the tales of the night before were the cause of his consternation. But he whistled his favorite tunes all the way back to the campground hoping to chase this anxiety further from his being.

Upon arriving back at the campground, Icky Bob secured his boat to the dock, as he would not need it for the remainder of the day. He hurried to his campsite to begin his preparations for the upcoming adventure. Although Icky was somewhat of a newcomer to Musky fishing, his interest in the sport had been growing for many a year and he had amassed quite a repertoire of equipment for the task. He had case upon case of various colors, shapes, sizes and weights of jerk-baits, spinner-baits, crank-baits and gliders. He gazed at the collection and his confusion grew. He struggled to remember the advice he had been given by Mad Matt and Brett as they had helped him fill out his collection. Was it the loon colored Skitter Critter that Mad Matt had guaranteed would catch the mighty muskellunge on the Big V? There was just too much information and too many choices. Then he remembered that Musky Tom had mentioned that he was equipped with everything they would need for the day, saving sunscreen, a sandwich and a refreshment or two. So he set himself to preparing a hearty lunch for himself arranging everything he would need on the dock. Then he sat and waited for the appointed time to arrive. Icky Bob was quite relaxed now that the excitement of the preparations had overshadowed the uneasy feelings from the morning’s activities.

In the distance, Icky Bob heard the roar of a motor and the sound sent a chill up his spine as it was brought to mind the roar of the midnight blast he had heard in the darkest hours of the evening before. Icky Bob shuddered and hummed a few comforting verses to himself. A large black Lund boat rounded the point and as it drew closer Icky recognized the captain as Musky Tom. Icky was relieved to see that the Marauders were not at hand and quickly boarded the boat and settled himself in for the trip, his excitement growing with each passing minute.

The day was spent pleasantly with the power of the Zs working their magic on the lakes abundant supply of Muskies. A full moon had already risen long before the setting of the sun so the fish and the wildlife on shore were all active. The lake itself lay motionless and the clear blue sky was only broken by a few white puffy clouds high on the horizon. Icky learned much about the fine arts of tracking down and then tempting the mighty muskellunge to the boat. He missed a few fish because of his excitement as they broke the water and attacked his top-water bait near the boat. The crashing and splashing about of these magnificent creatures as they attempted to free themselves from capture were astonishing to see and Icky had a difficult time concentrating on keeping a tight line. However, he was having the time of his life despite his inability to boat these behemoths and failed to notice either the time of day or the approaching storm on the Western horizon.

Toward dusk, the thunderclouds built higher and higher and blocked the remaining sun from view causing a premature midnight-like darkness to fall over the lake. A cold chill ran up the spine of Icky Bob as the combination of the full moon above him and the dark black clouds looming above the horizon brought to mind the tales told on the night before. For it was just such a day that was mentioned in the most disconcerting of the tales, a tale of a old fisherman by the name of Walleye Willie who had ventured out on Lake Vermilion while the waters were calm and the sun was high and bright. A full moon had also wheeled through the noontime skies on that day. As the tale was told, the weather had turned rapidly and he was forced to take refuge on an island in the middle of Big Bay as his small fishing boat was being tossed and rolled by the crushing waves that marked the impending arrival of the storm. He returned to his family the next day with the tale of a seemingly headless spectre (for anyone with their head still attached would have taken shelter long before a storm of such magnitude advanced on the lake) and his troupe of hobgoblins that had haunted the shoreline of this island just before the onset of the lightening and thunder. The spectre seemed to be in search of something as it prowled along the shores to the right and left of the spot where the fisherman lay hidden (in fear that he was the object of the search). There was then much commotion and splashing as the spectre seemed to find what he was searching for in the skinny waters near the shoreline. This had been followed by a bright flash of light that brought no thunder. Willie had peered out through the thicket where he lay hidden only to see the apparition hunched over the side of the boat in the act of placing something in the water. As the phantom was hunched down and had his back to Willie, he could not see anything above the shoulders. But on the left shoulder he thought he saw the head of a large fiery red dragon with bulging yellow eyes. Willie hunkered back further in his hiding place and then the spectre roared off again towards the Narrows just before the full weight of the storm had crashed and thundered on the island where he had taken shelter. He had vowed to never fish again upon the waters of Lake Vermilion and had packed up family and furniture and moved to an area far from the reaches of the spirits that haunt the Big V.

Icky repeated this tale to Musky Tom and asked whether he believed in the local tales of hauntings and hobgoblins. Musky Tom only laughed and said that he may have heard a story or two and then added that Icky Bob need not worry as they could be off the water and back safely in their camps before any demons or spirits could muster up the nerve to haunt them. The lake sat now in total darkness as Musky Tom made that one last cast before the storm raged in. Icky watched as the lure approached the boat and all of a sudden about six feet from the boat the water seemed to explode as a giant muskellunge broke the water’s surface. The violent nature of the crashing and thrashing about was a sight to behold. Being in the state of mind that he was in, Icky very nearly dove out of the boat to escape the monolithic monster that seemed bent on bringing a quick end to his days. But he came to his senses and was brought back to reality by a command from Musky Tom to "Get the net!" Icky hurriedly complied with the request and after a short fight the monstrous fish was in the net securely, if not calmly. Musky Tom adeptly removed the hooks and instructed Icky to get the camera for a quick picture. As he lifted the fish from the net, Icky watched in amazement, as the fish seemed to have no end to its massive length. It was the largest most cantankerous fish that Icky had ever seen in his life.

Icky slowly raised the camera to take the picture, his attention held by the magnificent fish that was now displayed before him. He snapped the first picture out of reflex but as he gazed through the viewfinder to get the correct focus a cold chill ran up his spine. For through the viewfinder the sight that he beheld would have set even the most unwavering disbeliever in ghosts back on his heels. The image was indeed that of the exceptional fish in its entire splendor held forth in the arms of a headless phantom. Icky dropped the camera on the spot and turned to flee the ghoul only to trip on the net in his haste. Icky stumbled headlong into the bow of the boat striking his head with a tremendous crash as he fell. In this manner he had escaped the spectre that would haunt even the bravest of men throughout their existence.

The remaining details of this story are fuzzy from this point. The next morning at the campground as the other campers awoke and gathered for the mornings exchange of fish stories from the previous day they found Icky’s campsite both unoccupied and undisturbed from the night before, for Icky had not returned to camp that night. The boat remained at the dock where he had left it the previous day and all of his gear and possessions including an old beat up pickup truck remained unclaimed. They found a camera near the campsite with exposed film still intact and when they had it developed the image of the headless hobgoblin and the giant muskellunge was among the pictures that were produced.

The mysterious event caused much speculation about the campgrounds that day. The stories of Walleye Willie, and a whole budget of others were called to mind; and when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that Icky Bob had been carried off by the Headless Norseman. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him. The lot of his unclaimed possessions were eventually sold on Ebay at prices far beyond the imagination of the locals and the proceeds were used for a campground shelter. It is true, an old fisherman, who had been surfing the net several years after had happened upon the Rick Derringer message board. It is from him that this account of the ghostly adventure was received. He relayed the fact that Icky Bob was still alive; that he had left the area through fear of the goblin; that he had moved back to his native Scotland; had changed his name to Eddy Duar; married a local girl; had received his Masters degree; and had changed his career. Musky Tom, too, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Icky Bob was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the photograph; which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell. The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Icky Bob was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite story often told about the county, round the winter evening fire. Big Bay is yet reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate camper, and the local fishermen, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, humming a Rick Derringer tune among the tranquil solitude of Lake Vermilion. The End

I wish that I may live to fish until my dying day.

And when it comes to my last cast

then I most humbly pray:

When in the Lord's great landing net

and Peacefully asleep,

that in his Mercy I be judged

Big enough to keep. -- Anonymous