Burried the Hook

In the fall of 2024, I headed out one Sunday morning in September and was absolutely killing it. I launched from my usual spot at Boone’s Landing in Union, KY, and worked my way upriver toward Cincinnati. Nothing I caught was record‑breaking, but the bite was steady enough that I didn’t want to come off the water. One of those rare days where the river is a gift that keeps on giving.

By late morning, boat traffic picked up and my usual spots dried out, so I spun the bow around and drifted back downstream. I decided to try a few of those “maybe someday” locations — the ones that are usually spotty but don’t get much pressure.

I ended up trying my luck near Patriot Indiana. This area tends to get a little more active when the river has a mild currernt as there are a few small, shallow inlets. As I was pulling up I worked my way through some other fisherman who were trying their luck on the main channel. First cast I landed a decent bass. Second cast, I hit another one. Third cast, same result! The other fisherman came over and said that was the most impressive thing he had seen on the river in a long time.

And then… pride before the fall.

Feeling pretty good about myself, I chatted with the guy for a minute. During the conversation, I drifted a bit, but instead of repositioning like a sane person, I decided to “just send one.” Big mistake. I forgot I had another rod out, snagged it on the cast, and my crankbait took a hard left turn — straight through my hat and into my head.

I tried for a while to get the treble hook out, but it was buried deep. After what felt like an hour (probably five minutes), I realized I had to start cutting the tangled rods off my head just to free myself. I eventually got the mess of line and gear off, but the crankbait was still lodged in my skull.

Since I was alone, I had no choice but to head back to the dock and hope someone was around to help. Fifteen minutes later, I pulled in to find the place completely empty. Of course. So I trailered the boat, all while trying not to laugh at how ridiculous I must’ve looked with a lure dangling from my head. The drive home was another 10-15 minutes, I didn’t make it home until about 30-45 minutes after the accident.

My wife, who’s a Nurse Practitioner, took one look at me and said, “Well… that’s new.” She tried pliers and every trick she had, but the hook wouldn’t budge. We ended up going to her office, where she used a scalpel to cut it out. No long‑term issues, unless you count the cleaning lady who walked in mid‑procedure and probably has a story she’ll never forget.

The whole experience reinforced something I already believed: always wear sunglasses or something to protect your eyes when you’re fishing. I can’t imagine how this story would’ve ended if that hook had found my eye instead of my hard head.