[Lard Almighty]

The last time I fished Lake Fork in 2009. My dad and I had booked a guide, Rick, for four days of fishing. The first day a huge storm rolled through and cancelled any hope of fishing. Day 2 and 3 were both horrible, with cold temps, wind, and cloudless skies. I thought Day 4 would be our day as we were greeted with cloud cover and milder temps. It started out well with some nice bass, including a sweet 6-5, and my PB crappie. But as the day wore on, the weather got colder, the wind picked up, and the rain started.

By the afternoon my dad and I were both soaking wet, and the already modest fishing had taken a nosedive. Rick wanted to know if we wanted to head in early. I looked back at my dad on the pedestal seat, shivering and doing his best to keep the chill out. I could tell he was done. But I turned to Rick and said, “Let’s try one more spot.”

Rick motored us to a cove that was about as sheltered from the wind as we could find. As he dropped the trolling motor and I threw my first cast, it felt like something clicked. I don’t know whether it was knowing that this could be the last time I ever fish this lake, or that on any given cast I could hook the bass of a lifetime, or even if it was just to spite the lousy weather that ruined my dream fishing trip. I no longer felt the cold, or the wind, or the rain. I was on auto-pilot, focused solely on the reel, the lure, and where my next cast was going. Almost robotically, it was cast-reel, cast-reel, cast-reel. I have been in a zone before, but never had I been this focused, this entranced by the act of fishing.

WHAM!

My automated motions screeched to a halt as the rod doubled over. Muscle memory took over and I set the hook hard on a nice bass. After a strong fight, I brought a nice 4 pounder to my thumb. Rick smiled in approval. My dad snapped a photo as I held the fish up high and proud. I laid the fish back in the rain-buffeted lake and it swam off strong. I said to Rick, “Let’s keep going.”

We made our way further around the cove and I once again became lost in my actions. The howling winds, the hum of the trolling motor, the sizzling spatter of rain on the water; my ears were deaf to it all. My hands, cold and trembling less than an hour before, felt warm, steady, sure. Through my damp fingers I could feel the action of the lure. Every wobble, every shake, every bead clacking against the inside felt as though it was happening inside my hands.

And then I felt something different.

I reared back on the hook and felt the shaking head of another nice fish. I shouted in excitement as I pulled 4 more pounds of Lake Fork largemouth into the boat. Out, once again, came my dad’s camera. Cold, exhausted, and as happy as I had ever been, I triumphantly held my catch high. After the moment had been immortalized in pixels, I watched the bass swim off into the murky water. I stood up and looked at Rick, who could tell by my smile that I wanted to keep going. With icy rain dripping off the end of his nose, he gave me his one word answer:

“Uncle.”

The ride back to the dock was brutal. Running unprotected, at 40 miles per hour, through a driving rain, over white caps so tall that the steering column on Rick’s boat broke, is the most miserable experience I could ever wish on my worst enemy. Still, it seemed a fitting end as I believe Lake Fork and I came to an understanding that day. Just as the lake would not always give up its green jewels without a fight, neither would I be deterred by the lake’s best efforts to keep them from me.

I go fishing a lot. I catch a lot of fish. But that day on Lake Fork, in the cold, cold rain, was one of the few times where I felt like I truly knew what it meant to be a fisherman.