How far would you go for a fish? Let me rephrase that, how far
would you go for a smallmouth? Would you risk your rod? Your life? Your
partner? Would you risk everything for one smallmouth?
Well it just so happens those were questions we asked ourselves on
a sunny but chilly September Saturday as we fished the Menominee River in
Northwestern Michigan. The Riverbums going for the last good weekend of smallie
fishing in this particular section of the river. Little had we known that this would
be a day that we would never forget.
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| A heart set in stone... or Mickey Mouse |
Ever thought about the
odds of being here? Here in time. Being you? The conscious being of
you? The entity that dwells within your thoughts and is self
aware? Throughout all of time, past and future. Throughout endless
space and all the places it holds...what are the odds of "you"
happening here and now...or for that matter happening at all? Ok, I know,
philosophy is a bitch but this is the way my father looks at his life and the
lives of others. I think he sees fishing as the embodiment of this.
Always trying to get to the other side to see what lies beneath that
limb or ledge or riffle, because the chances of the greatest cast,
fight and fish being there are as remote as us being here...but here
we are so there he must go. And of course, as his partner in crime,
I must follow for I have found myself inundated with the very same
compulsion of chance, time and opportunity and the fleeting of all three.
Yep, chance, time and
opportunity. As fishermen you know those words all too well. So you’ll
understand that after 7 hours in the river with only a few bites here and there
that when our watches hit 3pm we had a chance at that time for an
unexpected opportunity. We had just waded under a bridge, a big bridge mind you.
I took a breather and went to fix my line when I noticed Dad send a whale of a
cast across the river to this little pool. Practically on the other side of the
river his lure landed as he began to reel in. A hit. Something hit it. Dad
worked it in and I grabbed my camera preparing to catch a nice fight in action.
Now the Menominee is no minor stream. It’s 116-mile flow and averages about
several dozen feet wide. So when he cast again across river, I was in awe at
his ability and how he was able to put it right where he had it before. Another
hit. The smallie had the bait. But, now the tough part. Wading across the
deeper water in the middle and the sharp jagged boulders in the last 20% to the
other side so famously known scattered across the Menominee River. Not an easy
feat when hooked with a smallie. So, he began the trek. And I was not far
behind. We were almost near the deep section, sweating from keeping our legs
steady against the current, our rods balancing us as we lunged and glided
around and over every boulder and obstacle. When suddenly the line loosened.
LOST IT! I won’t begin to list off the words that came out of my conservative
catholic father’s mouth, but I will say I enjoyed every second of it. He wanted
that bass and luckily the bass wanted that lure. Dad was convinced he hadn’t
felt hook as evidence of the tail missing off the soft belly. And then I saw
it, that glimmer in his eye. There was no way we could get to the other side
without scuba diving for the latter half. He turned to look at me, then at the
bridge, then back at me. I turned to look at the bridge and the insanity hit
me, “No way! Dad, like dude, get real! Riverbums, we are the Riverbums, not the
bridgebums.” But he wasn’t listening, we started to wade towards shore and of
course, like the lemming I am, I followed.
Dad motions for me to
exit this side of the river and follow him. "Where we going?
We just got in!"
“You'll see, let's
go" as he seems to be totally void of any caring thought of how long
it took me to get to where I was. Suddenly struck with that really
obnoxious singularly minded, overly focused walk of determination
that half the time turns into a cliff that can't possibly be traversed to
bottom with out six months of total body traction. Or surrounded on three
sides by some black mosquito filled swamp with the partially decade
carcass of something that resembles Yoda. Or those ever so familiar words
"Shit, go back this was a bad idea!" So why, you say do I ever
follow? Well cause the other half of the time something wonderful happens
and he nor I can ever determine which side of the coin will land face up in the
bear shit pile...so I follow.
We climb the hill
after exiting the river to the top of the tracks. And there we stood, 2 anglers
facing an environment of metal, wood, nails and gulp…heights. Dad inspects the
rail a bit and we determine that in-between each panel of wood is well, space.
Empty space. Meaning you misstep once, place one inch of your boot accidentally
between 1 railroad tie and it’s adios Riverbum. But what do we do? What any
angler would do for a fish he knew he could catch. The possibility that there
was a great catch waiting to happen. We bum on. We take the chance. We decide
to do what Indiana Jones did best in the Last Crusade and take that first step
of faith. So, we begin to cross the creaking, still active train tracks. He
tells me to be really careful and not to walk on the timber that hangs over the
edge, as it looks rotten. Is he just saying this to make it more of an adventure
fearing that there is no cosmic black hole mathematically uncalculatable fish
entity on the other side? Or to get me back for leaving my waders in the back
of his car for 4 days after one muddy wade?
So I test the overhang
and just as it cracks under my foot he tells me again not step on it. It’s
like being 5 all over again and being told not to skate on the thin ice though
I do it anyways because it’s just that more fun. Come on, I got to test it.
It’s just in my nature. Then he yells at me to be careful and take it easy just
as he looks back and says "You better hurry up, if a train comes we'd have
to jump 60 feet into the rapids cause it won't be able stop
and it would hit us" Train? TRAIN? I suddenly look
back as if I were expecting it to hit me already. I thought this was
abandoned. Is he bull shitting me? Then as if he was Butch
Cassidy (cause he thinks he is) He says " Don't worry about drowning the
fall will probably kill us.” Oh thanks Dad. And here is the same guy who said I
couldn’t date a guy who owned a Harley because it would kill me. Now here I am
tiptoeing on an old bridge with cracking wood railroad ties and a train is
scheduled for sometime that afternoon. Sometime. Yeah, just tell the morning rush commuters on
the red line that their train is schedule sometime and most likely you’ll find
yourself laying on those tracks!
There comes a point as you are
concentrating on keeping every foot in line with the wood, using your rod to
balance you, that your mind begins to play tricks on you. In your peripheral
vision you see the river. Oh how if you had time and a stable footing you could
admire it’s beauty. Instead the water finds it amusing to tempt the train
TRAPEZING angler by letting a fish jump to your left or suddenly allowing an
eagle appear to your right, like some calculating river nymph. You try your
hardest not to look but you could have sworn you saw a fish jump so you steal a
peek, but lose balance a bit as you swallow your heart and focus back to your
footing and thanking God you did not just plummet to your death. I knew the
same thing was running through my father’s head just a few feet in front of me.
I could see him every once and a while trip up a bit but return to his poise
and suave stature as to not give away that he was sneaking peeks too. We were
only 10 feet from the end of the tracks when suddenly one of the panels that
Dad had just stepped over came loose and we noticed a nail was missing. We both
stopped dead in our tracks, pun intended, and took a breather. If I had stepped
on it most likely my leg would have fallen through and worst, my rod would have
dropped. Oh the horror! Dad motioned for me to give him my hand and he safely
pulled me over the loose panel. Whew! Close one.
When we reached the
other side, we did not even have time to kneel and kiss the beautiful dirt and
grass. Oh land, beautiful sweet land. We hurried down the banks to where we had
remembered the pool. I stepped aside to let dad cast when he noticed, “Girl,
you crossed those tracks too, this fish is just as much yours as it is mine.” I
smiled and we both began to cast. One, two, three, four casts. Side by side. We
were eagerly awaiting our prize. But, nothing. Nothing was hitting. Shoot. We
took too long. We didn’t hurry across those tracks fast enough. “And all that
for nothing.” I said.
“Nothing?” Dad belted. As I listened
to what was about to come, reeling in what seemed to be an uneventful cast
“Look around you girl, look where you are. You crossed those tracks like a
marine. You followed me into battle. You went after a possibility. You took a
risk and gave something a chance. That’s always something.” And just like that
I was hooked. No, I mean it, I had a fish. We both suddenly looked and a
beautiful sized smallie came leaping out of the water with my lure firmly set
in his mouth. Our eyes brightened and dad was even more excited than if he had
caught it as he cheered me on. I reeled in that smallie with the pride of 2
fishermen. We had worked hard for that possibility. We took a risk and by God
it was worth it. And so was the proud look on my Dad’s face.
Now crossing a simple bridge 60 feet high
may not seem as risk taking as fishing in a tornado. But, it’s not about how
dangerous or risky something is, it’s about how faithful, hopeful, dedicated
and just straight up crazy you are to take the chance. To move forward. To
believe in all possibilities. The funny thing is that I'm sure someday (not too
soon I hope) when I first look into my new born baby's eyes and think
of calculating the uncalculatable chances of us being here together,
that I’ll feel the countless opportunities that await him on his
tracks to the other side of whatever river he chooses to cast his fate.
Or her! At least that's a flip of the coin.
Cast Away,
AC & Dad
