Back in the day, my late friend Jamie used to tell a whopper of a fish story about catching trout with his bare hands. No tackle, no rod and reel, no creel; bare hands only.
The story and the location and techniques employed stayed consistent with each telling so it was plausible, 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 bite on the concept of him sneaking up then patiently easing a hand under the fish, slowly tickling its belly until lulled into an unwary state, then snatching the trout out of the water with a bare hand.
But truth be known, I don’t fish, so what do I really know?
But I do like to go on fishing excursions.
One day friend Jeremy was planning to do some catch and release fly fishing on the Little Carp River in Michigan’s Porcupine Mountains 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 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, wandering about in the cool water and scrambling up and down the banks. I climbed a small, but canyon-like sandstone cut wall and was startled by a snake upon breaking over the top but didn’t fall backwards. I then 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.
That water was about eight inches deep and there was a partially submerged log in the middle that made for a good place to sit while the water cooled my overheated feet. Occasionally there was a tap against my boots, but with the intense shimmer across the water I could not see the source. As the sun began to sink towards the horizon and the shimmer lessened. The river was 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 false sense of security by tickling its belly, as that just would have been weird.
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 up before me and looked at it. In a rather weird moment our eyes locked and we had, like, a moment. I said out loud, “what the f(expletive)!”, and this next part may well have been my imagination, but it looked like the brown trout was mouthing “what the f(expletive)?” 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 in black knee-high rubber boots, sans fishing pole and with empty hand outstretched. They probably uttered under their breath, “what the f(expletive)?”
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. He obviously had a more productive day. But he cheated.
He had a fly rod.
The Unexpected Minimalist 