Fly-fishing is for Sissies!

Something from the tackle box:

       Moses asked the Lord, “Suppose everyone refuses to listen to my message, and no one believes that you really appeared to me?”

       The Lord answered, “What’s that in your hand?”

       “A walking stick,” Moses replied.

       “Throw it down!”  the Lord commanded.  So Moses threw the stick on the ground.  It immediately turned into a snake, and Moses jumped back.

       “Pick it up by the tail!”  the Lord told him.  And when Moses did this, the snake turned back into a walking stick.

       “Do this,” the Lord said, “and the Israelites will believe that you have seen me, the God who was worshiped by their ancestors Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.”  (Exodus 4:1-5 CEV)

my wife Kathy is a mighty fine watercolor artist

      

        When I’m up at my place on Long Lake, one of my favorite things to do is to go wading in the waters right around my own cottage, fly rod in hand, in the early morning light of dawn.  Those who live on inland-lake waters know that, for an hour or so right around sunrise, the breezes will often cease and the surface of the water will become dead calm, so that the whole lake becomes a giant mirror perfectly reflecting what ever is going on above its surface in the lightening sky of morning.  It doesn’t last long.  Once the sun is much above the tops of the trees the breezes will pick up and the surface of the lake will become its usual rippled and broken reflection of the world above.  The same thing often happens at sunset as well, but the visual effect is usually lost to the wake left by the fleet of early evening pontoon boats cruising round and round the lake until it’s dark. 

the morning calm

       That early morning calm is also great for fly-fishing in waders for reasons other than the scenery.  The youngsters on their jet-skis and tubes towed behind powerboats haven’t even gotten out of bed yet, let alone started their daily routine of driving the top feeding fish down into deeper water.  And there is often a thick mist on the lake that keeps any potential boat traffic wanting to go faster than you can row, tied to its dock.  When I’m fly-fishing the sunrise waters I often feel like I’ve got the whole lake to myself for an hour or two, even on the big holiday weekends.  I like that.

This is me right near my dock

       I have to wear chest-waders when I fly-fish the lake like this, hip boots won’t do.  There is  a lot of good firm bottom around my place, but it slopes into deep water fairly near the shoreline.  I know that to get enough room to work a popper on a fly-line out into the water, and not get snagged in the tree-lined shore on the back side of my cast, I’m going to have to get into the water at least waist deep.  It’s all part of the fun. 

       When I wade into the water next to my own dock I can go to the right or the left for good fishing.  If I go left I cross in front of the water entrance to my own boathouse and then it’s a short wade to Roy and Bonnie’s dock.  If I work my way around the end of their long dock, with the water almost reaching the top of my waders, I can get to a huge spread of lily pads marking where one of the springs feeding the lake makes it’s entrance from a huge marsh across the road and off to the west.  Fishing around the edges of that spread of lily pads has put a lot of bluegills in the frying pan over the years.

       But if I feel like trying for some bigger fish, smallmouth bass, I go to the right from my dock.  There is a large vacant lot on that side of my place that provides about sixty yards of undeveloped shoreline, with lots of trees leaning out over the water, and eventually falling in to form the underwater structures that bass love wait in ambush around.  Once past the trees you come to Chuck   Chuck and Dar have lots of boats and their waterfront looks like a marina in the summertime.  With that many dock posts going down into the water the bass have even more places to lurk in the shade.  This is a good stretch to wade around and fish in before most people have even sat down to their breakfast.  And, like I said, I usually have it all to myself. – But not always. 

and Dar’s complex of docks.

       I will always remember the day I engaged in a little competitive bass fishing on one of these perfect mornings.  I had determined the night before to go out at first light and fish for gills off to the left, maybe catch my lunch.  I had all my gear rigged and ready to go before I went to bed.  Just slip into the waders and fishing vest, grab the nine-foot, three-weight rod, already rigged out with a rubber spider tied to the end of the tippet, and then get into the water.  If I had been going to fish for bass, off to the right, I would have set up something a bit heavier, a five or seven-weight rod, but the lighter three-weight is really more fun to catch the smaller fish on, and that’s what I was going after. 

a perfect morning for wading around my boathouse

       It was a perfect confluence of all the conditions I love most about that time and place to fish.  The water was dead calm and a very thick mist lay on the lake, a dense fog that didn’t even let you see as far as you could cast.  I eased into the water as quietly as I could and worked my way over to the lily pads.  The only sounds were the early morning bird songs from shore and the low throat noises of a family of mergansers that swam close enough to get a glance at what I was doing through the mist before turning to go fish for themselves further off into the lily pads. 

       The environment was mystical, - but the fishing was not.  After half an hour of casting without a single fish rising to several different bugs, flies and poppers that I tried, I decided to backtrack and try the bassier waters off to the right of my dock.  The sky was getting much lighter but the mist was still on the water, just not quite as heavy, you could see out twenty yards or more now.  I didn’t want to take the time to change rods and I reassured myself with the observation that most of the bass I’d been seeing over by Chuck and Dar’s place were only running about a foot long at most, a size which the three weight rod and 5X tippet could handle if I didn’t try to just muscle them in.

       So I started working in that direction, the tree lined bank on my right and the mist covered open water on my left.  You had to go slow and pay attention, because this was the stretch of submerged logs and branches, so I was pretty focused on the water right in front of me. – And that’s when the bass boat crept up on me out of the mist over my left shoulder. 

       I hadn’t heard it coming because they were using an electric trolling motor to ease themselves through the heavy mist around the edge of the lake and cast their crank baits and rubber worms up around all the docks and other near shore hangouts that bass like.  There were three young men in the boat, all well under thirty I would guess, one in the front swivel seat, on in the back swivel seat and one standing mid-boat between them. 

       They had seen me before I had seen them and had stopped fishing to give a wide berth until they got around me, which was the courteous thing to do, and I appreciated that. 

       “Good morning,” said the one in the middle, quite politely, “Havin’ any luck?” 

       “I haven’t had a single fish show any interest at all in anything I’m offering yet this morning,” I replied.

       The one in the back came back, “Well, do you ever catch anything worth pullin’ up out of the water fishing that way?” which made the other two chuckle. 

       It wasn’t quite as polite as his friend’s opening question, but still, the tone was more in the manner of a good natured jest than a blatant insult, so I shrugged and smiled and said, “Oh, don’t worry about me.  I catch my fair share of decent fish.”

       “Oh yeah, I’ll bet!” snarked the one in the front of the boat, just as they were pulling up abreast of me.  And then he added. “If you ask me, I think fly fishing is for sissies!” which made the others chuckle even louder than before. 

       And that very moment is when I got another assurance that, yes, there really is a God, and yes, he really does love me, because no sooner were the words out of his mouth than the water where I had just laid my popper with a beautiful long cast erupted like someone had tossed a pumpkin in the water!  My long light rod bent over like a one-day-old moon as I set my hook on a very nice bass that proceeded to splash and jump like she was auditioning for the cirque du soleil.

       I make it a general rule not to overtly pray to catch any particular fish, I believe that there are much more important things to pray about in this life, but I was really hoping that I would be allowed to get this particular fish in close enough to lift her out of the water by her lip before that boat of young bucks disappeared into the mist in front of me.  And that’s just the way it happened, thanks be to God.

       She wasn’t the biggest bass I’ve ever landed with a fly rod, but as I held her up for inspection it was obvious to anyone with eyes that she was easily better than a foot long, which is more fish than I’m often able to land on that light of tackle. 

       “Well, I guess I’ve been blessed with my fair share again today boys,” I beamed as they pulled away ahead of me

       The lad standing in the middle laughed and applauded.  “Well done!” he called back, making his own cast as they sank into the mist.

       “What are ya’ clappin’ for?” I heard the one in front gripe under his breath to his friend.

       “Well, he’s one fish up on us for the day!” came the reply, which I believe was intentionally spoken loud enough for me to hear, and certainly did make the fellow in the back of the boat laugh loud enough to hear. 

       “harrumph, – well – I still think fly fishing is for sissies, - mumble, grumble….” 

       And then they were gone.  I wished them well. 

       I don’t often kiss a fish before I put them back in the water, but I did that morning.  She may not have been the biggest little smallmouth bass I’ve ever caught, but she was definitely the most beautiful!

Something to take home in your creel:

       Catching a fish with a fly-rod in front of some snarky pups in a fancy bass boat is in no way, shape or form, an example of witnessing to, let alone defending, one’s faith.  I would blush to even suggest that it was.  But there is an applicable lesson to be gleaned from the incident, as there is from any grace-filled moment you can recognize and acknowledge as such in life. 

       As a Christian, I believe that God is right there with us in all of our circumstance, be they good, bad, or somewhere in-between.  And I believe the promise that He will give us the things to say and do when we are called on to defend our faith in the face of those who ridicule, or even persecute us for it.  As a pastor, I’ve preached as much.  God promised it to Moses, and Jesus promises it to all of his followers.  (Exodus 4:11-12 & Matthew 10:18-20) 

       And yet, I can think of many, many times when I’ve later thought, ‘I should have said this,’ or, ‘I could have done that,’ instead of just standing there like an idiot and holding my tongue when I’m faced with mocking or disparaging words.  Everyone I’ve ever talked to about this has admitted to often feeling the same way themselves.  It would seem that this is far the more common way things turn out for us in these situations.  No one I know has admitted to feeling like they’ve just played the part of a Moses speaking to Pharaoh, or of a Stephen witnessing to the Sanhedrin, I know that I’ve never felt that way, and I believe there is a good and valid reason for this.

       God does not need us to defend Him, which is what we’re really wishing we had done when we think like this.  He has never needed any of us to defend him.  Those who make a habit of trying to defend God, or of even wanting to defend God, are wading in deep waters with a mucky bottom.  They thrash, and splash and make quite a foolish spectacle of themselves, - and they usually end up all wet despite all their histrionics, or more likely, as a result of them.  God does not need or want us to do that for Him.

       We, however, are always in need of a God to defend us, - and especially so when we are about doing the business of his Kingdom in the face of those opposed to it.  That he will do, just as he promised.  And when it happens it just happens, without any effort on our part over and above just being there for it to happen through.  This is what God did for Moses, and what the Spirit of Christ did for his disciples. This is what God has promised to do for us yet today, whenever HE feels it is called for.  And when it does happen for you, if ever, it really will be as easy as pointing to the fish that’s been placed there in your hand, and simply saying, “This is God’s work, and not mine.”  

Little Joe's Big Fish

Something from the tackle box:

       Adam and Eve had a son.  Then Eve said, “I’ll name him Cain because I got him with the help of the Lord.”  Later she had another son and named him Abel.

       Able became a sheep farmer, but Cain farmed the land.  One day, Cain gave part of his harvest to the Lord, and Abel also gave an offering to the Lord.  He killed the first-born lamb from one of his sheep and gave the Lord the best parts of it.  The Lord was pleased with Abel and his offering, but not with Cain and his offering.  This made Cain so angry that he could not hide his feelings.

       The Lord said to Cain: “What’s wrong with you?  Why do you have such an angry look on your face?  If you had done the right thing, you would be smiling.  But you did the wrong thing, and now sin is waiting to attack you like a lion.  Sin wants to destroy you, but don’t let it!”  (Genesis 4:1-7 CEV)

      I am the oldest of three siblings who are all pretty close together in age.  I was born in October of 1956, my sister a year and a half later in April of 58, and my brother a year and a half after that, in October of 1959, just three years younger than me to the month. 

       I would like to be able to report to you that my brother, sister and I always got along well as young children growing up together out in the countryside, that we laughed and played together in constant mutual love and admiration, binding ourselves together as lifelong allies, bound by the ties of both blood and kindred spirit, to face whatever a wicked and hate filled world could throw at us in it’s demonic attempt to rend our bonds of familial love.  But that would be a bald-faced lie. 

       It’s not that we never laughed and played together.  Why, that might almost be as likely to happen as not on any given day, at least for short spurts of time.  We never woke up and set our hearts on actually killing one another in the fashion of Cain, at least not that I can now recall.  But I can remember plenty of times when I felt though I would not have minded watching some horrible accident befall one or both of my siblings, and a few times when I would have positively welcomed such an unfortunate event.  Please remember that I was a child and regrettable sibling rivalry has been a constant in the human condition since chapter 4 in the bible. 

       The usual way it would play out between my brother, sister and I was that, sometime during the day, two of us would join forces to get the goat of the third one until the desired effect was achieved.  My little brother was the easiest to get to cry, because he was the littlest.  My sister was the easiest to get to scream like a girl, because she was a girl.  And I was the easiest to get to turn red-faced with impotent fury, because I was the oldest, and the slowest.  As the senior sibling I thought that deference and respect from my bother and sister were my birthright.  They did not.  And for many years they could easily outrun me once I blew my top, magnifying their victory, as my anger would burn even brighter for the fuel of their laughter beating its hasty retreat out of my reach. 

       The saving grace, perhaps for all of us, was that I knew that within hours the alliance could, and often would, shift and I would be part of the gang of two, causing my little brother to cry like a baby or my little sister to scream like a girl, getting my revenge on both of them in turn with the help of the other.  

       Now, these facts about my childhood don’t really have any direct bearing on the fishing story I am going to relate to you, other than to let you know that, while we could get along, and occasionally did get along when it suited us, benevolent goodwill was not the default emotional setting between my brother, sister and I for most of our childhood.  So, on with the story.

       For much of my youth both of my parents worked as teachers at the local high school, which meant that we all had a lot of free time during summer break.  Now, my father liked to use some of his summer break to go and do some pike and walleye fishing in northern Ontario.  Quite often he would go in company with his teaching colleague and friend, Mel Kivela. 

       Mel and Dad had a lot in common.  Apart from both being industrial arts teachers at Maple Valley Junior-Senior High School, they had each grown up as children of Finnish immigrants in the hardy out-of-doors culture of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, which is a special kind of bond to share, just ask any Yooper. 

       Neither one of them would have ever referred to themselves as being “avid sportsmen,” but cold-water lake fishing was in their blood, genetically and culturally.  And so they would go to Longlac, Ontario after northern pike and walleye for a week or so, once or twice a summer, sometimes by themselves, sometimes taking other friends and colleagues along, and sometimes… taking their families!

       Yes!  About once every other summer or so, starting when I was around ten years old, Mom, my siblings and I, along with an occasional aunt, uncle or grandparent, all got to go fishing in Northern Ontario with Dad.  For a young lad like I was, that was the stuff of dreams.  Wilderness adventure, par excellence! 

       Now, we all expected to catch lots of fish on these trips, and we always did.  Back in the 1960’s the Ontario game laws were truly generous in regard to catch and possession limits on most fish, even for out-of-province guests.  There were far, far more fish than people in and around those thousands of lakes and it wasn’t an issue back then.  There was a limit and you were likely to be pulled over and your coolers checked at the border when you left Canada, but unless you had more than one ice-chest full of fish per person in the vehicle, you were probably OK. 

a nice day's catch

       So numbers would not be the determining factor in who would be hailed as the best fisher-kid when we all went north with Pop, both within the family and within the circle of other people, locals and visitors, around the fishing camp.  We would all catch our share of fish.  Everyone did.  But who would catch the biggest fish – of that day – of that week?  The answer to those questions really mattered in our minds.  That is what would make a difference in our Adventurer standing within the community!  

       Here’s the set-up:  We stayed at a fishing camp, which was a commercial operation that rented its cabins, boats, and various other services to visiting fishermen.  I remember there being about five or six cabins, each of which had a rustic but functional kitchen/dinning area with running water and electricity from the camp generator, and two bedrooms with about four bunks each.   A couple of community outhouses served their traditional function for the entire camp.  The whole place could accommodate about forty plus guests.  

       You could fish or rest at fishing camp, whatever you liked.  If you wanted to fish, you could fish, morning, noon and night.  If you wanted to stay in the cabin, talk and play cards most of the time, you could do that too.  Mom spent the bulk of her time in the cabin.  I never let a boat leave shore without me. 

       The only other building was the camp office and fish cleaning station.  The only reason it was called the office was because there was a phone on the wall with a pencil and pad of paper hanging from it by a string.   It was also where the camp owner could be found, along with a couple of other locals who would clean, filet and pack your fish in ice so fast and cheaply that everyone used their services even if they were good at cleaning fish themselves. 

       The office was also where these same locals would post the stats on the camp’s biggest fish of the day, of the week, and of the season, on the blackboard.  Separate columns for walleye, pike and lake trout.  Each line would record the length and weight of the leading fish, along with the name of the lucky fisherman in each time frame, for all to admire. 

       My dad told me that there had been a few occasions when his name had been up on that board in the biggest catch of the day category for both walleye and pike.  What we didn’t learn until much later was that it usually happened when he and Mel were the only guests at the camp who had gone out fishing that day.  In any event, to my ten-year-old mind, to see your name on that blackboard was the sign and seal of fishing greatness.  It was an accolade truly to be desired. 

       Although the fishing camp was on a lake, and boats were kept there at the camp, most of the serious fishermen and women didn’t fish the lake the camp was on unless bad weather threatened.  The camp also kept boats on half a dozen or so other lakes within an hour’s drive and hike, which was often ten minutes driving and fifty minutes hiking.  Most of these lakes were big and clean, and without a single building or any sign of human industry at all to be seen other than the camp’s boat chained to a tree where the trail met the water.  It really was wilderness.  And boy, there was a lot of fish! 

       We would troll those big beautiful lakes using wooden minnows and spoon lures, and I learned a lot about fishing.  I learned that when we trolled past grasses and weed beds we were quite likely to hook a northern pike or two.  When we went past a bunch of barely submerged rocks you could expect to be hooking up with some walleye. 

 

norhtern pike

      I liked the pike best, because they thrashed around and fought a lot harder than the walleye did.  I had my favorite blue and silver Rapala minnow lure with two sets of treble hooks, a bit shorter than the standard three-hook rig. I caught a lot of fish with that one lure, all pike, and I thought we should stick to the grassy banks and the weed beds where I could use it to its best advantage. 

walleye

       But, of course, the adults liked the walleye better, because it really is a better eating fish, and it’s what you want to show off with by serving to company when you got back home.  In any event, when you made a long circuit of just about any of the lakes the camp kept boats on you would hit both weed cover and rock cover in turn, so we all got the kind of fish we wanted.  I don’t ever remember going to any of the lakes for a morning or an afternoon and coming back to camp without at least a couple of nice fish for each person in the boat. 

       It was satisfying and it was fun, - but none of our names were going up on the board.  And least of all mine.  Although I caught my fair share, I never had the biggest fish of the day just from our boat, let alone for the camp, and no one from our boat ever had the biggest fish of the day for the camp in any species category.  That is, until the last afternoon of our last day for that trip up. 

       My mom, who did go out fishing with us at least a couple of times on each trip, had decided she would make our last outing before packing up.  Which meant that we would be fishing one of the lakes that wouldn’t be quite so hard to reach as some others were.  Dad picked one called Chrystal Lake.  It could be seen from the road and was only a short walk from where you parked to where the boats were chained up.  For this reason it got fished a little heavier than some of the remoter lakes we accessed from our base.  The camp kept a couple of boats there, and you might reasonably expect to see other fishermen on the lake at the same time that you were fishing, which rarely happened on some of those lakes.  It was a baby’s lake in my opinion. 

       Chrystal Lake was also not considered a good pike lake at all, which chagrined me, but walleyes could be caught as there were plenty of the rock formations they liked.  It was also a lake where you had a good chance to hook up with a lake trout, which is a critter that I had never even seen, let alone landed.  If I was to get my name up on the board on our last day in Canada for the summer, that category would be as good as any I guessed.  So we got there and put out for our last afternoon of fishing, the whole family, my mom and my dad, my brother and my sister, and me, in one boat.

       We fished all afternoon, and it felt like a long afternoon because the fishing was not all that good.  Nothing like I had come to expect.  As evening approached and mom started hinting that we should head back to camp for supper, we only had four fish on the stringer, none of which would get any of our names on the calk-board at camp.  I had caught one, but it was the smallest of the four.  Even though mine was the smallest, at least I had a fish.  My little brother Joe had been skunked so far.  In fact, about a half hour before we turned our boat towards the landing, he had handed his rod to my dad and had curled up in the bow of the boat for a nap, which hadn’t bothered my sister, my dad or I, but was probably the biggest reason my mom had suggested that we call it quits for the day. 

       And so we turned in that direction.  One last cut across the lake, one last chance to catch a fish, before we got in the car and left with our memories and our cooler of fish. 

       The last run into the landing was as unproductive as most of the afternoon had been.  As dad cut the engine on approaching the landing and we all reeled our lines in and stowed our rods, dad, mom, sis and I.  Joe was still semi-napping in the front of the boat.  When Joe had given up on the fishing earlier my dad had just propped his rod up in the back corner of the boat, lure still trailing out behind us.  Five lures are better than four after all.  So now he handed it back up to my little brother with instructions to “crank ‘er in Joe.  Were done for the day.” 

       Joe yawned – and started to reel in his line.  It had played out there quite a ways and would take some cranking.  And you already know what’s going to happen next, don’t you? 

       All of a sudden his rod tip jerked in three quick pulses before bowing over in a deep arc as line started to scream out of his reel.

       “Hey, - I got one!”  he shouted with a big smile on his face, as we all sat there with our rods stowed away.

       “Good for you!” beamed mom.

       “Yeah Joe!” shouted my little sister.

       “It’s a big one.  Let him run for a while and tire out a bit before you start to reel him in,” advised my smiling father.  “If he comes towards us take up the slack.  I’ll have the net ready.” 

       I just sat there in disbelief, and actually hoped that the fish would get away.

       But it didn’t.  Little brother managed to eventually crank that fish in close enough for my father to net into the boat.  And it was spectacular, the biggest walleye that I’ve personally ever seen to this very day.  I was mortified. 

       As we were getting our fish and gear out of the boat another couple of men from our camp were just arriving to do some evening fishing.  They took one look at that fish and said, “Holy Mackerel! Someone’s getting their name up on the board tonight!  Who caught it?  YOU!   The littlest always catches the biggest fish I guess!  Where’d you get him?  Right there!  Well Frank, forget the boat.  I guess we ought to just fish from shore right here tonight. Ha, ha, ha!” 

       My brother just beamed. - I did not.      

       It was the same back at the camp, especially with the locals working in the fish cleaning office.  “Holy Mackerel!  Are you sure you don’t want us to save this one whole to be mounted?  No!  Well then, let’s measure and weigh it before we clean it.  This one is going up on the board!  -  Oh my!” –

       The owner walked over to the chalkboard.  First he erased the current biggest fish of the day in the walleye column, set down the fish’s stats, followed by the name, Joe Jarvie.  Then he erased the entry in the biggest walleye of the week slot, and wrote in Joe Jarvie again.  And then – he erased the info that was in the biggest walleye of the season line, put in the new fish numbers, and in all caps printed out JOE JARVIE – 7 YEARS OLD! 

       It was a long ride back to Michigan the next day.  I don’t remember speaking one single word to my little brother the whole way home.

       But I do remember him whispering something to me with mom and dad right there in the car to keep him safe.  Which was wise, because if I was ever going to play the part of Cain it might have been the very moment that he whispered across the back seat to me,  “It’s OK big brother, - I may have caught the biggest fish, - but you sure did catch the littlest one!”  

 Something to take home in your creel:

       I do not know if my little brother’s entry on that fishing camp’s wall of fame was able to stand up for the whole season or not.  I may have, or it may not have.  I did not ask, and no one ever told me.  But all these years later I like to think that it did stand up.  Which is funny, because I don’t think that Joe ever really cared one way or the other. 

       Joe didn’t really care about fishing back then, and he still doesn’t. Joe doesn’t fish.  Joe has never even owned a fishing rod as an adult that I know of, unless he kept the one he was given by my dad to go fishing with in Canada back when he we were kids, the same one he caught that walleye on.  I imagine that it was sold at a yard sale years ago now, or just discarded into the trash.  I wish I had it now, just for the memory it holds, but Joe doesn’t. 

        Joe’s idea of outdoors recreation is to work on his Upper Peninsula hay farm whenever he’s not busy being the band director at Lake Michigan Catholic High School.  He and his wife Julie are two of the people that I love the most in my life.  Although I admit that list has grown larger as I’ve matured.  He asks me to take time off from my church duties and be a chaperone for his trips with the LMCCHS band to Orlando Florida and Disney World every other February.  I believe I’ve been on eleven of those trips with his High School band now, and I am anxiously looking forward to the few more that may possibly happen before Joe retires in about five years.  I love every minute I get to spend with my younger brother. 

       I wonder if Cain would have ever come around to that way of thinking about his brother Able – if he had only been able to grit his teeth through his anger for just one more long trip home?

Pastor Eric & Mike at Prayer

Something from the tackle box:

       The Lord said to Eliphaz, “What my servant Job has said about me is true, but I am angry at you and your two friends for not telling the truth.  So I want you to go over to Job and offer seven bulls and seven goats on an altar as a sacrifice to please me.  After this, Job will pray, and I will agree not to punish you for your foolishness.”  Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar obeyed the Lord, and he answered Job’s prayer.  After Job had prayed for his three friends, the Lord made Job twice as rich as he had been before.  (Job 42:7-10  CEV)

       First of all, I ask you to pray for everyone.  Ask God to help and bless them all, and tell God how thankful you are for each of them.  (1Timothy 2:1 CEV)

       Not every fishing story that I have to tell is my own fishing story.  Over the years I’ve heard and read fishing stories that have taught me a lot about life, both natural life and spiritual life, stories which have become dear to my heart because they have both entertained me and helped me grow.  Of course, I can’t repeat stories I’ve gotten from Norman Maclean, Robert Traver,or Patrick McMannus without infringing on copyright laws and getting myself in a lot of hot water.  You’ll have to read their fishing stories for yourself, which I highly recommend that you do. 

       But some fishing stories that I’ve gotten from other folks I can tell with impunity because they were given to me by friends who expressly told me that I could retell the story, - or there was at least an implied understanding that I could retell it, - or I just assumed that I could retell it because I knew full well that it had never been set down on paper, let alone copyrighted. 

      The two stories I’m telling you today are of this kind.  – er – I mean, the first kind of re-tellable story I mentioned.  My friend, colleague, teacher and mentor in pastoral ministry, the Reverend Eric Lison, is another professional sky-pilot who has enjoyed fishing over his lifetime, and he has expressly told me that I can use these stories about fishing – and prayer – that come from his life.  So, thank you brother Eric. 

neither big nor piney

      Just before Eric came to the small town in Michigan to pastor the Congregational church where I was a member back in the 90s, he had spent a good number of years leading the Community Congregational Church of Big Piney, Wyoming, - which is neither big nor piney.  With a population of 454 souls and an elevation of 6798 feet above sea level, Big Piney sits on a high plain in the mountain country of western Wyoming near the waters of the Green River. 

       The town was established back in the late 1800’s by cattle ranchers who where moving a herd of a thousand head through the area on their way to somewhere else, and got stuck there by the weather for the whole winter.  They figured that this must be where God wanted them and so they set up a ranch and a town.  As good a reason as any, I suppose.

       Because of its elevation and exposed position on those high grasslands, the government put a weather station at Big Piney in 1930.  That very year Big Piney registered the coldest year-round average temperature of any town in the United States, earning it the nickname of Ice-box of the Nation. 

       These are not great tidbits to put in your Chamber of Commerce brochure aimed at attracting new residents and businesses to the area.  But when the Community Congregational Church of Big Piney asked Eric to come out there and be their pastor, my future friend felt that it was something God wanted him to do.  And so he took his wife and his two young sons from the Pittsburg, Pennsylvania area all the way out to the wilds of western Wyoming, where they would stay for quite a few years. 

the Congregational Church in Big Piney a long time ago

       You’ve heard it said that, in life, timing is everything.  Well I don’t believe that it’s everything, but it certainly is something.  And the timing of Pastor Eric’s move to Big Piney was problematic.  They arrived in October, right on the cusp of the long, hard and brutally cold winter months, without having the opportunity to enjoy the brief splendor of a high country spring and summer as a buffer to what was coming.  There was nothing to do for it but to settle into the parsonage and face the facts of high country winter life in community with those who already lived there and knew what it was all about. 

       It was tough.  And yes, spit can freeze into ice before it hits the ground.  But the good people out there, and in places like that, go to church anyway most of the time, the weather not withstanding.  In the average rancher based community’s spiritual outlook on life, if you don’t go to church because the weather is bad, you’re completely missing the whole point of going to church in the first place. 

       That first winter the established community took the new pastor and his family under their collective wing and tried to make it as bearable as possible for them.  One of the people in that community was Mike.  Mike was a church deacon - and he was a fisherman. 

       Mike explained to my friend Eric that almost every winter the area would experience what could just barely be called a “January thaw.”  Not that much would actually thaw out, mind you, but the daytime temperatures would just break the barrier and climb into the thirties for about a week or so on average. 

       Mike extolled this brief respite from the normally sub-zero days of winter as a wonderful chance to go out to the Green River and fish for the trout that would perk up with the brief temperature rise.  Obviously, you had to dress warmly, but it would be bearable, and even a lot of fun if you got into a nice bunch of fish.  He offered to outfit the new pastor with some of his own tackle and take him to a good fishable spot on the Green to show him the ropes just as soon as the conditions were right, and my friend Eric accepted the invitation.    

       With the arrangements all made, the thaw finally came, and Pastor Eric and Mike drove out to the Green River to fish.  It was a sunny and beautiful day, and every bit as wonderful a break from the horrible winter cold that Mike had said it would be, or – at least it would be for Eric that day.  They were casting from shore with metal spoon lures and the fish were biting, or – at least they were for Eric. 

       My friend caught the first, and the second, and the third trout.  And then he caught the fourth, - and the fifth, - and the sixth trout, - at which point he’d reached his limit.  They were all nice fish, about three to four pounds each.  Now Mike is right there, trying to be as graceful as he can to the new pastor, but every fisherman who has been getting skunked while his fishing buddy limits out, standing right next to him, has to know how badly Mike’s psyche was twisting up by this time. 

       “Mike, I’ve got my limit.  Should I stop and just watch while you fish for a while?” asked Eric. 

       “No. - Keep fishing,” Mike replied.  “If you catch any more we’ll just put  ‘em with any I get.  It looks like I’m not going to catch my limit today anyway.” 

       So they fished on, - and my friend Eric caught the seventh fish, - and then the eighth fish of the day, - each as nice as the first six. 

       “OK, that’s enough for one day.  It’s time to head back home,” said the dejected yet graceful organizer of the outing.  He was genuinely happy that his new pastor was having such a wonderful time catching fish, but it was getting pretty embarrassing, especially since he had placed himself in the role of resident expert for Eric’s introduction to Wyoming trout fishing. 

       Once they had stowed their tackle and the fish, and then climbed into the vehicle for the drive home, Mike asked, with as much of a smile on his face as he could muster, “OK pastor, - what’s your secret?  You were obviously doing something that I wasn’t doing to catch all those fish, while I got nothing.”

       Now Eric had just been fishing.  That’s all.  As far as he could tell there was no obvious reason that he had caught all eight of the trout that were taken that day while Mike had caught none.  BUT, being the man – and the pastor – that he is, Eric was not going to pass up this opportunity to have some fun with his new deacon – and just maybe teach him a little theological lesson in Christian living to boot.

       Now understand that Eric is just making this up as he goes along at this point when he says to Mike, “Well, – I was praying while I fished. - Maybe that was it.”

       “NO, that wasn’t it because I was praying too!  There’s got to be something else you were doing!” 

       “Yeah, - but Mike, - you probably weren’t praying the same way I was praying! – Each time I cast my lure into the water I would say this same prayer, over and over again, - with all my heart, - ‘O Lord, - please let MIKE catch a fish. - O Lord, please let MIKE catch a fish.’” 

       “Oh. – So, - each time you cast your lure, - you prayed, - ‘O Lord, - please let MIKE catch a fish.’”

       “That’s right.”

       “And after praying, ‘O Lord, - please let MIKE catch a fish,’ over and over again, - YOU would eventually catch another fish, - again and again.  That’s how it worked?” 

       “That’s how it worked today!  Isn’t it amazing!” 

       Now, even though Eric is obviously baiting Mike here with this fishy line, I hope you can see the big theological lesson that my friend was also trying to teach his parishioner.  Gracious and self-less prayer for the sake of others is far more pleasing to God than prayer concerned only with one’s own self and welfare. Not that we should never petition God for our own needs, if they are genuine needs, but intercession for the needs of others is far nobler, far more righteous, far more Christ-like, than petitions for self are, and they are often more effective in surprisingly abundant ways.  Amazingly, intercessory prayer is often likely to result in blessings all around, for all concerned, the pray-er and the prayed-for, together.

       Look at the example of Job in the bible.  Much of the 42 chapters in the book of Job present the title character vehemently talking both with and about God, concerning his OWN wretched circumstances.  We see Job defending himself, - complaining, pleading, wailing and arguing with his friends and with God, if not for some redress, at least for some answers as to why God has allowed so much misery to suddenly befall HIS blameless life.  And the only answer that Job ever gets to all of his self-centered haranguing, as just and true as God himself admitted that it all was, is an eloquent, “Who are you to question Me about anything,” speech from God.  That’s it!  That’s all he gets up to this point in the story. 

       But afterwards, Job is asked to pray on behalf of his three old friends, who never prayed for Job’s welfare without injecting their self-righteous certainty that all of Job’s problems were really Job’s own fault, which they were wrong about.   And when Job prays that his three friends be forgiven for expressing all of their firmly held beliefs, which they had just learned were untrue and offensive to God, not only are they returned to God’s good graces, - but JOB is also restored to twice as much prosperity as he had enjoyed before his sufferings began. 

       Maybe God intended to do that all along.  I don’t know.  But it’s interesting that it didn’t happen until Job had prayed for his friends who hadn’t been through anything comparable to what he had just gone through. 

       The scriptures don’t teach that it will always work that way, and it often doesn’t.  Still, I’ve learned that when I pray that I catch fish, it doesn’t really seem to make any significant difference one way or the other in the number of fish I catch that day for having made that prayer.  The average is the same whether I’ve prayed to catch fish or haven’t prayed to catch fish.  I know, because I keep track of that sort of thing. 

       I do pray when I fish.  In fact, I pray almost constantly when I fish.  But it’s more in the nature of just enjoying God’s company, which I can’t help but continuously notice whenever I’m out on the water, than it is in the nature of any kind of verbal supplication. 

       I’ve also learned that when I’ve been thinking about, praying over, and doing good things for others in life, for their sake and not for mine, doing so as a servant of God, - in the pattern of Christ, - and in His Spirit, - my life just seems to get blessed in all kinds of wonderful ways, large and small, over and above its normal blessed state.  If it isn’t good fishing, it will be something else. 

       Or maybe, in being that way, I’m just put in the spiritual frame of mind to notice more of the blessings that have always all been there for me ever more fully, and it just seems like I’m being blessed more.  Who can tell?  You go figure it out with your own life, by trying it for yourself, and you will see how it works.

       That is the big spiritual truth that lies at the very core of the half-serious game that pastor Eric is playing with his friend’s head in their silly little exchange about prayer being used as a fishing technique.  So, back to the fishing story: 

       Even though this light hearted exchange about what constitutes effective fishing prayer has all been good natured joshing between the two new friends, the pastor wonders if the parishioner might have learned anything at all from it.  Eric’s hope is that when next they go fishing Mike will make a great show of loudly praying, “O Lord, - please let ERIC catch a fish,” before he makes his first cast.  It will be meant in jest of course, but it will show that the concept has taken hold, that the knowledge that praying for others is more acceptable to God, and more likely to bear fruit into the world than prayers for self, has at least gained some foothold in Mike’s heart.  One can hope.

       The hope is encouraged the next time they go out fishing together.  Mike questions Eric about the prayer again.  “OK, - let me get this straight. – You prayed, ‘O Lord, - please let MIKE catch a fish,’ and each time you ended up catching a fish.” 

       “That’s right.” 

        “OK, I’ve got it.”

       As Mike winds up to make his first cast of the day he shouts to the sky, “O Lord, - Please let MIKE catch a fish!” 

       He hadn’t learned a thing.

Something to take home in your creel:

       Prayer is a tricky subject for me.  Even though I’m a man of faith, a professional even, the vagaries of just how prayer works from one occasion to the next baffle and even disturb me.  I know it works.  I’ve seen it work.  I have been told that it always works.  And I pray every single day in confident faith that it will work.  But I also know full well that it doesn’t always, or even often, work the way that I hope it will work. 

       From my admittedly limited point of view it sometimes seems to have made not one wit of difference one way or the other that I’ve prayed at all, for myself or for others, even though I accept that it has made a difference from God’s unlimited point of view.  Still, it is a frustratingly holy practice for me to pray and be satisfied with, ‘Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, in earth as it is in heaven,’ when I can’t always see it working out that way.

       My friend Eric has another story about prayer and fishing on the Green River that takes place the following year, in October.  The really cold winter weather has come early this year, as it sometimes does in all of its freezing cruelty in Big Piney, but the time for the salmon run has come and one can stand some pretty cold temperatures for the sake of those wonderful fish if the wind is dead calm and the sun is out.  And they needed to be, because on this sunny October day in Big Piney the temperature display on the bank sign says that it’s thirty five degrees below zero.  Which is cold for October, even in Big Piney.

A sunny but icy day on the Green River

       Eric has gone out to fish by himself this time.  The water will be open down by the dam, forty five miles away, and he figures he’ll have the spot all to himself because of the temperature.  It is bitter cold and the banks are frozen icy when he gets there, but the wind is still, the sun is out, and the salmon fishing is very good. 

       About the time that Eric needs to be heading back home he’s got 5 nice salmon, only one fish away from his limit.  And so he prays, - “O God, - please let me catch just one more fish, - so that I can go home with my limit. - After all, - Mike isn’t here to pray for today.”

       Well, God has a sense of humor too.  Right after the prayer Eric casts his lure out into the icy river and, low and behold, he gets a strike.  A nice one!  He yanks back on his rod to set the hook, but the fish runs in a direction he isn’t expecting it to run and he has to shift his body to compensate.  -  And that’s when he looses his footing on the icy bank and slides all the way down into the Green River, getting completely soaked from the belt down. 

       Amazingly, Eric manages to keep the fish on his line.   In a few minutes he lands his last fish, limiting out.  His prayer has been answered.  He steps out of the water and his pants immediately freeze solid.  He stows the fish and his tackle.  At thirty-five degrees below zero it will take a long time for the car heater to make a difference in his comfort level on that forty-five mile ride home.  His prayer has been answered all right, but not in the way he had hoped for.  God can be funny like that. 

       Eric’s next prayer of the day was, “O, God, - please let my car start after sitting outside in these temperatures all this time,” and he still counts himself blessed that God saw fit to answer that one without any more object lessons attached.