First things first: Muskie camps are not a thing. As far as I know, my friends and I run the only one in existence. I’m not even sure that “camp” is the right word. There’s no wooden plaque with a hand-carved rainbow that would welcome you to a trout camp, only a crush of reeds where we pull the boats up through the brambles and out of sight. Nor is it a deer camp. There’s no wood shack with a wood stove and an 8-pointer on the porch, though we share an indifference to hygiene. No, our muskie retreat is a tent-and-tarp, public-land sort of affair, our only residential luxury the waxed canvas A-frame our spiritual leader—an enthusiast of 18th-century voyageur culture—packs along from time to time. By day, we ply the black water for muskies; by night, we drink whiskey under a dark sky. Sometimes, but not always, we smell like Esox.