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I'm writing this week's article from my family's cottage, south of Manitowish Waters, Wisconsin. If you've ever been fortunate enough to spend time in and around this beautiful area, two things become abundantly clear in a hurry - in this part of the world, muskies are the undisputed heavyweight champion of the fishing world, and the surrounding region is seriously steeped in 20's and 30's Chicago gangster legend and lore.

The Manitowish Waters area was host to the April 22, 1934 botchedshootout between numerous FBI agents and the Dillinger gang, who were hiding out at Little Bohemia, a popular resort on the shore of Little Star Lake. The seventeen agents - dispatched from the St. Paul and Chicago bureaus - mistook three local men for gang members as their car wound its way along Little Bo's long driveway. These men had just finished their Sunday night dinner. The feds, blocking the driveway's entrance, yelled, "Halt!" numerous times to the trio in the car but the shouts were not heard over the blaring radio and the heavy snowfall obscured their vision. The agents, believing the car's occupants to be Dillinger and his gang, began blasting away with their .38s and Thompson submachine guns. Inside Little Bohemia, playing cards in the bar, John Dillinger and his gang, including such notables as Lester Gillis, alias Baby Face Nelson, and the particularly nasty Homer Van Meter, were alerted to the FBI's presence outside the lodge and a fierce 15-minute gun battle ensued.

Unlike the disoriented agents who weren't familiar with the layout of

the lodge and its surrounding property, Dillinger and his gang knew the lodge and area well and escaped with relative ease, disappearing along the lake's shoreline under cover of darkness.

I'm always amazed that this area has retained so many of the landmarks and names from that bygone era. Little Bohemia has changed very little since that cold April evening in 1934. We like to dine there at least once each summer for lunch. My boys and I ooh and aah over the bullet-riddled windows and walls and our minds drift back in time as we view the items and clothing Dillinger and his gang hastily left behind that night. It's all carefully preserved and on display at the lodge for guests and visitors to see. Also, many local family names that are integral to the story of the Little Bohemia shootout, like Voss (of Voss' Resort, the lodge near Little Bohemia that became the FBI's staging area for the raid - it's still there and the same as it always was) and LaPorte (of LaPorte's grocery store just south of Little Bohemia on Highway 51).

From the time that both my boys were extremely young, they could do a pretty respectable James Cagney impersonation. Every time we'd drive by Little Bohemia, I'd announce, "There's Little Bo!" Then, adjusting the rearview mirror to get a good look at either Anders or Augie, my chest would swell with pride when one of them would pop out his nook, bite his lower lip and say, "Woooo, you dirty rat...you killed my brother," or, "You'll never take me alive, copper! Pow, pow, pow!" Either these boys are going to wind up with pretty sharp senses of humor, or, I don't even want to think of the other possible consequence.

As far as muskies go, it was discovered last week that a particularmuskie had taken up residence underneath our dock and pontoon boat at the cottage. Not exactly good news to break to my wife's sisters' families by telephone. We'd all heard the story of the neighbor a few places down the lake that was allegedly bitten by a muskie. Never mind that his toe may or may not have been nipped in 1947. Like gangster lore, muskie tales grow taller with time.

After we all witnessed this sharp-toothed torpedo shoot out from underneath the dock and pontoon time and time again to rob us of several hooked smallmouth bass and bluegills, I'd had enough of that nonsense. This fish was too bold. We had a possible toe-nipper on our hands. The brazen muskie put on amazing bursts of speed and made quick work of these fish. It was like Wild Kingdom in a sort of gory yet fascinating way. My boys, after seeing this, logically figured their toes and fingers would be next on the menu.

I knew what I had to do. I tied up a live bait rig on a custom-made steel leader and teased that muskie from its lair. It was as easy as that. Stupid muskie thought he was being handed another easy meal. He whacked my bait and casually swam back underneath the pontoon. I set the hook so hard I think I hurt his grandchildren. He shot back out into plain view. The fight was on but it was brief. Tough luck, dummy. Anders was there with the net and cleanly scooped the beast up and out of the water. I slipped my hand inside a gill cover to lift the fish out of the net for some pictures. The muskie - with plenty of fight left in him - didn't take too kindly to that idea. He thrashed and whipped and spun and cut my hand and thumb up pretty badly. When I finally held the fish up, I noticed quite a bit of blood dripping from the muskie's tail. I thought I'd injured the fish. Turns out it was my thumb that was losing quite a bit of blood. I still don't know which of us taught the other a lesson. We'll call it a draw. Most importantly though, that fish did decide to leave our dock and pontoon and move on, so things worked out well in the end.

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