Hook, Line, and Tall Tale
A Fish-y Story That Became Local Lore
Every small town has its legends, and in our corner of the Wisconsin woods, my brother-in-law Billy Dahl was one of them. Ask any of the locals, and they’ll have an epic and often hilarious story of one kind or another to tell you.
He enjoyed the lifestyle that comes with living where many others only visit – wearing 20-year-old shirts, smoking Marlboros and hanging out with his buddies – a group collectively known as The Henchmen. Billy never married or had children. His friends were his family. (No disrespect to his real family, of course.) Life as a Henchman was about fishing, snowmobiling, bar-hopping, working blue-collar jobs, listening to George Thorogood on repeat while drinking beers and having fun. You’d often find them standing around in a pole barn, drinks in hand, making fun of each other. If you were married and had to check in with your wife before agreeing on the date for the next outing, you were a “scarred kitty.” If you weren’t at the last pole barn gathering, you missed the giant bear that strolled through, nearly mauling them all to death. In short, they were experts at playfully gaslighting each other.
One of my favorite stories is about the time Billy did the impossible—hooked the biggest muskie anyone had ever seen in real life. It’s the kind of story that grows with each telling, blending truth with just enough fiction to make it legendary.
In his words:
One night I was preparing to head out to the local bar for another all-nighter. As usual, I went out to the end of my dock to set a line with my huge muskie lure, set the rod in a holder, smoked a cigarette, and headed to the bar.
I got home late – around 2 AM. We had closed the bar down. I was buzzing. I went out to the end of the dock to have a final smoke and check my line. I picked up a pole and was surprised to feel a tug. I started casually trying to reel it in – but it was clear this was going to take some strength. I tossed the cigarette I had just lit into the lake and felt the adrenaline surging through my body. I’d need to use two hands if I was going to reel this thing in. I reared back on the line over and over, fighting hard against what could only be a record-breaking-sized muskie that clearly wasn’t about to give in. I’d get the advantage, then that giant fish would flip and splash, and I’d lose ground. I fought that fish until dawn broke. The pre-dawn hours were cool and dewy, but I was dripping with sweat and exhausted, falling onto the sandy beach with a whopper of a fish finally captured.
He boasted that story to anyone listening as he proudly showed off the mounted fish he displayed on his wall. Only Billy could do something so epic.
But, as with any good legend, there’s always more beneath the surface. Consider this version of the story:
One day after the 5 PM “no wake” time started on the lake – when it gets noticeably quiet and all you can hear are the giggles of kids splashing in the water down the way, we noticed a bunch of people gathering at the public boat launch. Mickey, my other brother-in-law – and the youngest of the Dahl brothers – was curious. The rest of us were a bit indifferent and just wanted to enjoy the peace that comes with “no wake” time after the relentless sound of jet skis all day.
Mickey couldn’t entice any of us to go with him to check out the scene, so he hopped on the pontoon and nonchalantly trolled towards the launch, casting a fishing line as he went so as not to look too conspicuous.
From our perspective on the beach, we could see that he had slowly made his way over and had hopped out of the pontoon into knee-height water to see what everyone was looking at. Then we noticed that he had jumped back in the pontoon and was returning to us with haste. He beached the boat, jumped into the wet sand, and excitedly reported that a “really big fish” had washed up on shore.
“No way,” we all said, laughing.
“I’m not kidding you guys … it’s huge,” he said, holding his hands far apart. “You could put your head in its mouth,” he said, “it’s so big!”
“Oohhkkaayyy, Mickey,” my husband scoffed, slinging disrespect the way all older brothers make their younger brothers endure – even those in their 40s.
Mickey shook his head, kicked the water, and threw up his arms in a 'whatever, man' gesture.
But something had piqued Billy’s interest, and in a classic “hold my beer” moment, he grabbed his fishing net, pushed the pontoon out, hopped on, and headed to the landing as fast as possible without breaking a wake. It wasn’t long before we saw him returning and the crowd at the landing dispersing. Billy indeed had a huge – and very dead – muskie in tow. It was pretty pale, having been dead for a while. He quickly showed us all before wrapping it up in a bunch of old weeklies and tossing it into his freezer.
“What are you going to do with that? You’re not seriously going to take that to a taxidermist, are you?” his brothers asked.
“Hell yes, I am,” he responded. “I don’t care what it costs.”
He concocted his version of the story, which he enthusiastically shared with his buddies, and no one believed him until he brought the fish back from the taxidermist months later. Mouths dropped. The story spread. Baby Dahl (as he was known) had once again cemented his status as a local legend.
Years later, my husband and I ran into a bunch of Billy’s friends. As often happens, old stories bubbled up over a round of drinks, and eventually, the fish story resurfaced. We chuckled, expecting someone to reveal the truth behind Billy’s tale finally. But to our surprise, every one of them swore up and down that Billy had reeled in that monstrous muskie, just as he’d claimed.
I exchanged a look with my husband, realizing they were all still in the dark. “You guys…you don’t know, do you?” my husband asked, unable to hide his grin.
“Know what?” one of them asked, suddenly serious. The room quieted.
“Billy didn’t catch that fish,” he said, letting the words hang in the air. “It was already dead when he found it. He just...well, he made the rest up.”
For a moment, there was silence. Then, disbelief turned to slow, dawning realization. “You’re shittin’ me,” one of them muttered, shaking his head. “No way. That son of a … He got us all!”
Laughter erupted around the table, glasses clinked, and someone raised a toast. “To Billy,” they said, grinning. “The king of bullshit!”
The laughter faded, but we all knew that the stories – even the fishy ones – would live on, even though Billy was gone.
Oh ya had me. So much love
Fish stories are always fun and always suspect to the real story.