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When you're a kid, it can be tough to eventually discover that things aren't always what they seem to be. Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy are two prime examples that come to mind.

This past Memorial Day, my niece and nephew, Anna and Duncan, son Anders, and brothers-in-law Bil and Mark, witnessed yours truly exhibit extreme maladaptive behavior after losing what might have been my largest walleye to date. Now as I think back on the episode, I do believe I exhibited classic symptoms of what psychologists refer to as intermittent explosive disorder. Not too good coming from a guy that recently learned he has high blood pressure. And it certainly didn't play too well with the wide-eyed kiddies. Understand that when I use the word "maladaptive," I mean maladaptive in the truest sense of the word. If you've read enough of my columns, you should know that I don't mince words or stretch the truth. Okay, that last part about stretching the truth is a big fat fib, but you understand what I mean.

The whole episode began on Trout Lake near Boulder Junction, Wisconsin. We started fishing at 9:00 a.m. with the plan that we'd get off the water and return to the cottage before lunchtime. Bil and I had put a few walleyes on ice the day before, so we made this abbreviated trip in hopes that we could put a few more fish in the livewell to feed all fifteen of us staying at the cottage. Bil picked up a dandy 22-incher and my son hit a good 16-inch eater, so things were looking pretty good by about 11 o'clock.

At 11:30, with the end of our fishing time plainly in sight, my pink _-ounce Fireball jig tipped with an over-sized shiner was mercilessly pounded thirty-feet down as we drifted the inside turn of a wind-swept island reef. I was spooled with Power-Pro and ran five feet of 6# fluorocarbon leader connected by a barrel swivel. So much for the technical B.S. What is important to know is that I had a big walleye on the end of my line. Once it was at the surface we got a good look at its sheer girth and length and I think I may have barked something unintelligible like "Somminumbench! ...'EYE!"

After that, my memory fails me. It's all a blur. I have some hazy recollections of Uncle Bil firing up the big engine, waves splashing over the stern as I attempted to get more line on my reel and a skinny kid working a six-foot long net. The whole scene was very reminiscent of the movie Jaws. It's too late now, but what I should've done was toss a couple of classic Quint lines over my shoulder as I gallantly fought that fish. "Yeah, that's real fine expensive gear you brought out here, Mr. Hooper. 'Course I don't know what that bastard walleye's gonna do with it...might eat it I suppose. Seen one eat a rockin' chair one time. Hey Chiefy, next time you just ask me which line to pull, right?" Of course, this Quint quote would've been tailor-made: "Back home we got a taxidermy man. He gonna have a heart attack when he see what I brung him."

To a nine or ten-year-old, the first time you witness your otherwise even-keeled uncle behave in that manner can't be too different than finding a box of your own baby teeth in Mom's or Dad's sock drawer. Like I said, discovering that things aren't what they seem to be can be a bit disconcerting. Of course, a box of teeth doesn't scream "G------IT! when you open it and scare you half to death either. I guess that'd be one fairly big difference.

After I swore like a merchant marine and rod-whipped the starboard gunwale of Uncle Bil's $35,000 Lund Pro-V into submission with my new $100 rod, I guess at some point I bit down on my right index finger pretty hard. I assume that's what happened because after we got back to the cottage I realized my finger hurt like the dickens and I could plainly see purple impressions of my front teeth behind the first knuckle.

You're probably wondering how big that walleye was, right? After giving that question a week's time and some considerable thought, I'm going to say 32 or 33 inches. When I retell this story in a year or two, there's no telling how big that walleye will be. Heck, by that time it could very well have been a state record fish.

Strictly speaking as a writer, I sure am glad I lost that fish.

Dan Brown's weekly outdoor column is brought to you by Frankie's Bait and Marine, in Chisago City, and St. Croix Outdoors, in St. Croix Falls, Wis.

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