The farther I pushed into the river, the more familiar the feeling became. My boots started to lose contact with the riverbed, and cold water began creeping into my waders. I’d gambled that I could make it across before the water got too deep, but the river called my bluff. Looking like the least coordinated astronaut in history, I performed a maneuver somewhere between Neil Armstrong’s “one giant leap for mankind” and a panicked doggy paddle before finally reaching the opposite bank.
I had barely turned around when I spotted my buddy, Jimmie Foster, heading into the same stretch of water. Since I’m about six inches taller than Jimmie, I knew exactly how this was going to end. I yelled for him to turn back, but he kept coming, perhaps trying to hear what I was shouting. Then, in the span of a few seconds…three, two, one…liftoff.
I splashed back into the river and grabbed hold of him while keeping one eye on his fly rod, making sure it didn’t disappear downstream. We were both destined for soggy feet the rest of the day, but that was a small price to pay. There are far worse outcomes than a little water in your waders.
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What Jimmie didn’t realize at that moment was that he was about to face one of them: the very real possibility of getting skunked on a big fishing trip.
The Sting of a Big-Trip Skunking
Admittedly, there are many things worse than not catching a fish. With everything going on in the world today , overseas war, domestic unrest, grocery bills and gas prices rising higher and higher, putting up a goose egg on a fishing trip seems trivial. But in the moment, imagining all those trout extending their metaphorical middle fins at you, it still stings.
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Every angler I know spouts some variation of the same phrase before each trip: “I don’t care if I catch anything,” or “I’m just happy to be out there.” I say those exact same things too, and I don’t really believe me. I know I enjoy talking about the trips where I’m catching trout by the barrelful a heck of a lot more than the ones where I don’t have at least a couple of grip and grins on my phone.
When Your Buddy Can’t Buy a Bite
I’ve been skunked on many an occasion without a second thought, but catching nothing on a big trip, one that you had to take time off work, cross state lines, and reserve a hotel room or campsite, that truly hurts. Walking back to your truck or van when a well-meaning hiker asks, “Did you catch anything?” and your only honest answer is “tree branches and lots of them?” How can I justify all these expensive fly rods to my wife when I can’t catch anything with them? It’s almost enough to make any angler want to trade their fly rods for bird-watching binoculars.
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What’s even worse is when it’s your buddy struggling, the one who you introduced to the sport. You feel an almost familial responsibility to help him, like Robert DeNiro and Ray Liotta in Goodfellas. I desperately wanted to tussle his hair and tell him, “You’ll get ‘em next time, slugger.” Did he blame me? Did I not give him enough guidance? Will he still chip in for gas money?
I gave Jimmie his first fly rod after he was nearly killed in a motorcycle crash. I figured fishing would be a lot safer than riding alongside drivers constantly distracted on their cell phones or in the throes of road rage. What I should have considered is that fish can be dangerous in their own right. Psychologically dangerous.
Chasing Trout on the Pere Marquette
So that’s how, a year or two later, Jimmie took a week off to fish the Pere Marquette and Grand River with me. The section of the Pere Marquette near the town of Baldwin is gorgeous. But because the river is so heavily pressured, the native brookies are very picky. If you don’t have a perfect fly and the perfect drift, they’ll turn up their nose like a high-society debutante being offered an Old Style beer.
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To better our chances, we visited the 1884 Fly Shop that first morning. We left with an assortment of stone flies, nymphs, elk hair caddis, and Parachute Adams in various sizes. When we hit the river, I cast the Parachute Adams into a riffle that looked like it might hold some trout, but if they were in there, they weren’t interested in coming topside for a meal. After a few more failed attempts, I switched to the nymph and soon caught my first rainbow of the trip. I netted the trout and heard a cheer of encouragement from Jimmie downstream. When we decided to call it quits for the day, Jimmie hadn’t yet caught anything, but we were both confident there was a brookie with his name on it in this river.
Day two followed roughly the same pattern. I hooked into a nice brook trout with a lot of fight in it, but I lifted out of the water a little too early. I fumbled the net for a brief moment, which was more than enough time for the fish to wiggle off. Downstream, Jimmie yelled adamantly the fish didn’t count.
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Three Days of Frustration
I’m a decent fly fisher, and I was only catching maybe a couple of fish a day on the Pere Marquette. Knowing the reputation of the river, I was more than happy with that. But Jimmie wasn’t even getting a token swipe at his nymph rig. Although Jimmie was less experienced than me, he had caught fish on a fly before, namely the aggressive panfish found in our Fall Creek home waters. Watching him rack up goose egg after goose egg during our trip was like watching a brightly colored Happy Birthday mylar balloon slowly deflate in front of you.
Despite putting up a brave face, I could tell Jimmie was getting increasingly frustrated, and the pressure was on me to get him into some fish. Anything short of donning scuba gear and hooking a frozen tilapia onto his fly was on the table. Before our third day on the water, I tried giving Jimmie some casting advice. I’m far from Lefty Kreh, but I thought I could share a few insights that I’ve learned from much better fly anglers who’ve helped me over the years. But after about a minute, I noticed his jaw set and eyes glaze over. The male ego is a curious thing; for better or worse, he would do this his way.
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Calling in the Cavalry
After a third day of no success, and a little more swimming, it was time for a change. So we headed to Grand Rapids, where we hooked up with Tom Werkman of Werkman Outfitters, one of the best fishing guides in the United States. We would target smallmouth bass on the Grand River. These fish are known to be really aggressive, so I knew it was just a matter of time before Jimmie had one in the net. I mean, if Tom Werkman couldn’t get Jimmie into some fish, who could?
That’s the question we asked ourselves again and again as Jimmie’s bad luck continued. He had a couple of strikes on his streamer, but nothing to show for it. Seeing his frustration, I almost felt bad when I reeled in a few nice bass. Almost.
One Last Chance
On the last day, the only thing that mattered was getting Jimmie a fish. Everyone felt the tension as we met up at the boat launch. Tom and I were as wound up as an Evel Knievel stunt cycle. Jimmie looked like Willy Loman in waders, clearly resigned to his fate.
First cast of the day, the moment after the streamer hit the water, the rod bent nearly in half. Jimmie reeled as Tom and I loudly cheered and silently prayed. Seconds from water to net seemingly dragged on forever for me; I can’t imagine what they felt like for Jimmie. When Tom lifted the smallie out of the water and into the boat, you could physically see the weight lifting off Jimmie’s shoulders. As a lifelong Cubs fan, the closest feeling I could relate it to was the final seconds of game seven of the 2016 World Series, although I didn’t cry this time around.
The curse lifted, we could all relax and have an awesome day on the water. Jimmie even caught one or two other bass, as well as a pike that bit through my line not two minutes before. I’m not bitter about it. I was happy for my friend, who wouldn’t have to tell his wife, “That’s why they call it fishing, not catching.”
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