Misery Loves Company
The idea of going fishing is not the same thing as actually going fishing. Note: This is not a fish story: I mean it’s a fish story, but not just any fishing story.
I had bought myself this small glass fish tank, filled it with a couple of gallons of nice clean water, furnished it with green seaweeds, and then gently placed our adopted Siamese fighting fish in it to live. The fish lives in his/her water bottle home that sits on the corner of my desk (How do you tell a fish’s gender, or fishes’ gender?). He/she is a beautiful purple/black blend of colors.
As I am about to tell my real fish story, I am keenly aware that he/she floats in suspension midway between the bottom of the tank and the water surface and seems to be staring out the tank at me. I will do my best not to be distracted.
The test of any great fishing story, I presume, is how much it stretches the truth. It won’t be possible to apply this test to my trout-fishing story with my Uncle Albert because it took place at least fifty years ago. I was not more than eight or nine years old when the family visited South River, Ontario. I can’t recall whether we planned to go fishing. That was probably a last-minute decision made after we arrived, and some genius suggested we do so. Since I was a kid, I had to go along on the trip and the overnight trout-fishing sojourn. I was a city kid and didn’t have much experience with the outdoors and associated perils.
Uncle Albert dutifully led us back to Trout Creek of some other remote stream miles from South River. (Remember, I warned anyone who reads this that the facts and details escape me).
Mostly, I remember the misery – ours not the fish. My brother was along, so he could confirm or deny my account. Since he was seven years older than me at the time (and still is), he must remember this misadventure better than I do. I don’t remember if my other brother was there and surely don’t wish to offend him by not including him in the story. If he didn’t go along, lucky for him because things went from bad to worse, and worse than worse.
It was true then and probably remains so today that the idea of fishing is not the same thing as actually going fishing. What I mean is that when you think about going fishing, all these fantasies start popping up in your bead – like the huge fish your are going to catch and the wonderful sunshine and scenery that will stir your soul. It makes you want to thank God for putting you on this wonderful earth, even if for a relatively short time. Before you head out to go fishing, as was the case with our entourage, the sense of anticipation blocks out any alternative possibility, like not catching a damn thing or being wet and cold in the rain the stupid weatherman forgot to forecast.
Anyway, let me shorten this story. We left the car and tramped our way back into the woods to find just the right fishing hole, the one filled with speckled trout ready to leap onto the stream’s bank they were so hungry. I was lost after a mile or so, but not worried because Uncle Alber wan an expert backwoodsman. I had already ingested all the mythical stories about when he was a kid, his horse Copper (I think that was his name), and how he traipsed around the woods in unbelievably cold northern Ontario winter. Uncle Albert was tough to put it as simply as a man can.
Thank God it was mid-summer at the time of my story. Whatever happened we weren’t going freeze our “you know what’s” off. The flies and mosquitoes were happy it was not winter either. But you put up with that kind of annoyance on a grand quest to fill your bag with scrumptious trout. We may have walked twenty-five miles to get to the fishing hole (probably two at most).
Anyway, let me shorten this story. I wish I could embellish this fishing story with an account of a bear attack, but nothing as dramatic as that happened. Everything seemed to be going according to plan. Uncle Albert was in his glory. Nothing would please him more than being out in nature with his nephews. The sky was blue and the sun bright. We were warm in our companionship and camaraderie.
That was until the black clouds started moving in and the temperature started dropping. I don’t remember if we had planned to stay in the woods overnight, but we did. I can’t recall if we had the proper equipment. We must not have had a tent, but a raincoat or two, and some sandwiches, beer (of course) and soda. I probably was commissioned to be a porter, a job I would willingly assume, in the spirit of “the true outdoorsmen”.
When the rain started, it came lightly at first. An ingenious backwoods survivor that he was, Uncle Albert gathered some wooden limbs and constructed a makeshift lean-to. On the limbs, he spread the raincoat(s) to shelter us from the rain. I may have prayed the rain went away, but if I did, my prayer wasn’t answered. God must have misunderstood, although he is supposed to be perfect and incapable of miscommunication. By the middle of the night, the rain drenched our little camping area. I also recall the place we laid down to sleep on was on the side of a hill. Not only were we getting wet, but ready to slide down the slope to who knows what fate below.
By morning, I had learned something profound from Uncle Albert: “Every man for himself!” None of us slept a wink except our leader. The rain, the cold, and your Uncle Albert’s snoring conspired to torment us all night long. However, the real rub was not those things. Uncle Albert kept pulling the covers over himself, whenever he felt cold or the wet seeping past the leaning contraption, he had made to shelter us (him). By morning, I was dead tired, frozen, and angry. My brother was probably the same, but I don’t remember him saying anything. Oh, that was another lesson I learned: “Suffer in silence.”
We were amazed when morning arrived, and the sun came out. Uncle Albert awoke early in his usual cheerful mood. He had slept like a baby, I concluded. We still had time to do some more fishing before heading back to civilization.
I don’t remember if we caught anything.
Jack Boyd, Arizona, 2025
