For some folks, fishing is relaxing. I wish I could be one of those people.

From an early age, fishing and relaxation are two things that have rarely intersected in my life.

I went on my first real fishing trip at the age of eight. I was excited, in no small measure because my father had bought me my first actual rod and reel. It was the walleye opener and we arrived at Lake Mille Lacs, shortly before midnight, in high winds and snow flurries. It felt like January, but that never slowed down my Dad when the walleye were biting.

Now anyone who advises parents these days on how to introduce your child to fishing would quickly explain that such an approach is more likely to induce post-traumatic stress in a young person than a life-long love of the sport. My initial introduction to fishing involved nearly freezing to death on the floor of a boat in the middle of the night, and puking in the water when the seasickness finally hit.

It didn’t help that subsequent fishing trips involved, at various times, 1,200-mile expeditions while traveling in the back of a jam-packed pickup truck and an assortment of near-death experiences, including the time we nearly capsized in raging rapids in northern Saskatchewan on our way to some other remote mother lode of walleye and northern pike. Then there was the time I was unceremoniously tossed off a dock into deep water four days after the ice left Lac La Ronge, although in the interests of full disclosure I did make six bucks on the incident.

These weren’t fishing trips so much as tests of survival. Fishing and “ordeal” have been inextricably linked in my mind ever since.

I will say that it’s gotten better over the years, in part because I occasionally get out with one of my guide friends these days. That actually does make fishing relaxing, even for someone, like me, with deep emotional scars on the subject.

I’ve found other ways to manage the trauma as well— such as overnight fishing trips into the Boundary Waters. A couple 150-rod portages are just enough of an ordeal to remind me that I’m going fishing, without being overwhelming.

Big Moose Lake was the destination for my most recent therapy session, accompanied by my friend Jake Schmidt. It’s valuable that Jake is totally easy-going, which helps me stay calm. It also helps that he’s a trained medical responder, just in case I have a fishing-related, PTSD flashback.

Neither of us had been to Big Moose before, and it was a pleasant surprise. The trip in was pretty easy, with one long and one relatively short portage, and a single lift over a beaver dam. Just over two hours from put-in, and we were setting up camp.

Big Moose is in the Trout Lake portion of the Boundary Waters, which sees relatively few visitors. Travel north of the Echo Trail on the Moose River and you can hit traffic jams at portages at times. Take it south to Big Moose and you’re unlikely to see a soul. As far as we could tell, there was one other occupied campsite on the lake, but at 1,031 acres, it’s a big chunk of real estate, one which we shared from decidedly discrete distances.

Big Moose is big, but also shallow, with a maximum depth of only about 15 feet.

I had expected the lake to be bog-stained, like many other large, shallow lakes in the region, so I was surprised that the lake is quite clear. Had I thought more about it, that actually made sense since Big Moose is at the head of the Moose River watershed. Northern waters tend to pick up their stain as they pass through swamps and bogs, so the lakes at the top of the watershed are generally clearer than those further downstream.

The campsite we selected, on the lake’s north side, was ideal, and even included a nice cache of firewood that was almost dry despite heavy rain the night before we left. The tent site was large, flat and as free of rocks and roots as any I’d seen in the BW before.

We set up camp, had a little lunch, and next headed out fishing. Without a graph, we knew we were winging it, but I’ve gotten away with that before on wilderness lakes.

We had seen the folks from that other campsite working a particular point, about three-quarters of a mile away, while we ate lunch. They vacated the spot just in time for us to make a pass through the area, and Jake picked up a nice walleye as we did. He was rigged for walleye and I was looking for northern, and within a couple more minutes, I had a nice northern on the line. Obviously, we stayed there for a while, and Jake picked up a couple more walleye, while I brought a second nice northern right to the boat, before it turned away from my daredevil. Moments later, Jake was pulling in a nice northern, probably the same fish.

Eventually they shut off, but not before we had a nice mess of fish. We worked the shore for a while, but only caught smallmouth, some nice ones, in fact, which we tossed back in disgust.

Day Two was more of the same. We worked a much larger stretch of lake, in hopes of finding more walleye and northern hot spots, but the bass dominated the action in the morning. After a couple hours without a single walleye or northern on the stringer, we headed back to the honey hole from the day before. The first few passes yielded a couple weak strikes, but a little persistence paid off and soon we had tied into them again, picking up several nice walleye over the course of an hour or so. With what we had cleaned the day before, it filled us out on walleye, so we headed back to camp for a late lunch.

Our experience on Big Moose was not atypical, at least according to some of the fishing blogs I’ve read. While it used to have a reputation as a solid lake for walleye and northern, most anglers have complained recently that the bass seem to be taking over. Most said there’s a walleye honey hole or two still left, but not much in between, except for bass. That was our experience as well. Hopefully it’s a temporary phase.

As for my fishing-related trauma, I’m still working on that. A few more trips to the BW and I expect I’ll be showing progress.