Back in the day, my late friend Jamie used to tell a whopper of a fish story. He told an elaborate tale about catching trout with his bare hands. No fishing pole, bare hands only.
The story and the location and techniques employed stayed consistent with each telling, and Jamie always told it so well that it never got old or stale. But it just seemed a little fishy. I just never could quite bite on the concept of sneaking up on a trout, patiently easing a hand under the trout’s belly, slowly tickling its belly until the trout was lulled into an unwary state, then snatching the trout out of the water with a bare hand.
Truth be known, I don’t fish, so what do I really know?
But I do like to go on fishing excursions.
There is no place in the Upper Great Lakes region quite like the Porcupine Mountains and a favorite place in the Porkies is the Little Carp River area. One day Jeremy was planning to do some catch and release fly fishing there and asked if I wanted to tag along. No need to ask that question twice.
It was a lovely day and there was a steady stream of happy hikers out enjoying the trails. Upon reaching the Little Carp, we left the trail and descended into the river valley.
I stayed behind Jeremy, so that the fish would not be spooked. He had on waders and stepped into the river then very systematically began working the shorelines and waters while making his way downstream, occasionally pausing to pay extra attention and masterfully drop the fly very strategically into a pool or promising area. Jeremy is a good fisherman.
There was muscle memory and calculus and artistry behind each arced trajectory of the well-placed fly.
I, on the other hand, was perfectly content to bumble along comfortably behind. In my knee-high rubber boots, I wandered about in the cool water, scrambled up and down the banks, climbed a rather canyon-like sandstone cut wall and was startled by a snake upon breaking over the top, and stared at a cloud for a while unable to decide whether it looked like Elvis or Tupac.
Jeremy slowed down to work a narrow part of the river with stair-step rapids, giving me the opportunity to pass him up on the bank high above.
The Little Carp widens and its bed levels out near its mouth, giving the tannin-stained waters a brief and lazy respite before colliding headlong into the rollers and surf of Lake Superior. Some hikers with polarized sunglasses were on the banks in this area watching fish.
That water was about eight inches deep that day and there was a large log in the middle that made for a good place to sit and wait while Jeremy methodically worked his way downstream. My feet were overheated from walking that last stretch overland in black rubber boots, and the cool water felt delightful washing over them.
Occasionally there was a tap against my boots. This was confusing, as the current was quite slow and not strong enough to carry debris. The sun started creeping slowly toward the horizon and the shimmer on the water became less intense. The mystery of the boot taps was solved upon being able to see the riverbed thick with brown trout and salmon. Scores of fish. And suddenly I felt the spirit of my late friend Jamie.
I did not need to sneak up on the brown trout as it was right there, and I did not lull it into a mistaken sense of security by tickling its belly.
But I did patiently slip my hand into the water, and when the moment was right, snatched the brown trout out of the water with my bare hand. I held it out before me and in a rather weird moment our eyes locked. I said out loud, “what the fuck?”, and this next part may well have been my imagination, but it looked like the brown trout was mouthing “what the fuck?” simultaneously in return.
Jamie, wherever you are I am sorry for doubting you.
The entire fish out of water encounter lasted seconds at best. With a quick wiggle and a splash, the brown trout slipped out of hand and was gone.
“Jer, I caught a fish!”, I then shouted out incredulously, but he was too far upstream to hear. The half dozen folks standing about the river saw me standing in the water, sans fishing pole and with empty hand outstretched. They probably uttered under their breath, “what the fuck?”
Jeremy eventually made his way down. He listened patiently to this fantastic tale, then detailed his catching and releasing one humpback salmon and six king salmon.
But he cheated. He had a fly rod.
The Unexpected Minimalist 