Fishing Road Trip from Hell

Twenty years later, I remember the silence inside the car as we retreated home. The radio was on, but the three of us were quiet, and had been for some time. Sunrise was a few hours away. Joe was half-asleep in the back of the minivan, and I rode shotgun while Andy drove. He’d been driving for nearly 10 hours straight. We’d offered to give him a break, but he wouldn’t budge. Maybe driving provided him with a distraction to forget, temporarily, the last 48 hours.

The closer we got to home, the deeper the reality of our defeat seemed to sink in. So, I decided to try and lighten the mood by breaking the silence. I turned the radio down, then said, loud enough for Joe to hear in the back, “Let’s talk about what just happened.”

Mountains > Beach

It was March 2000, and with our last high-school spring break approaching, we wanted an adventure. Joe and Andy and I had known each other since kindergarten, yet it was only in the last year that the three of us discovered something new we had in common: a love for fishing. So, while other guys in our class were getting ready for beer-fueled beach bashes in Florida, the three of us decided on something a little wilder—a fishing road trip.

As we discussed destinations, I pitched Arkansas’s White River or Lake Taneycomo in southern Missouri—two spots known for big trout—but Andy suggested something more epic. “I want to fish in the mountains,” he said. It was hard not to love the sound of that. After some research, we settled on Rock Creek, a stream in eastern Kentucky.

On the day of departure, Andy picked Joe and me up at 3 A.M. in his mom’s minivan, trailering a camper with a bumper sticker that read: LIFESTYLES OF THE POOR AND UNKNOWN. To hell with Florida. This was going to be the best spring break ever.

Skunked and Stalled

The first hiccup came as soon as we reached the mountains. The old Aerostar stalled on a hill, and Joe and I had to get out and push. But the fact that we were within sight of Rock Creek inspired us to work harder until the minivan was cruising again.

The second hiccup came when we started fishing. In the few hours we all fished between setting up camp and cooking dinner, no one saw as much as a sunfish, let alone a trout.

It was mostly quiet around the campfire that night until we eventually discussed plans for the next day. First, we’d run to the nearest town and have the van checked out. Then we’d come back and explore Rock Creek until we found some fish.

The next morning, about an hour after the van died on another steep hill, Joe, Andy, and I crammed into the cab of a tow truck driven by a guy named J.R., en route to Bob’s Garage.

As Bob worked on the van, a buddy of his struck up a conversation with us. He was a little odd but nice enough, and offered some advice for Rock Creek. “What you do is this,” he said. “You find a spot chock full of trout, and then you stick your head in the water and scream. And if that don’t work, use corn.”

The pit stop at Bob’s cost us most of the day, and I couldn’t wait to fish. We decided to move to a new campsite for the night, but first Andy and Joe dropped me off at Rock Creek. They insisted I fish while they went to break down camp. I didn’t argue. The only problem was that I was in such a rush to hit the stream, I failed to grab my reel. By the time I realized it was in the van, Joe and Andy were gone. When the guys eventually returned, we fished the area hard for a few hours, but we knew it was pointless. As with yesterday’s spot, there were no fish here. As night began to fall, we had a come-to-Jesus discussion. None of us wanted to go home early, but we also didn’t want to waste another night there. That’s when Andy threw out a Plan B.

“How about Lake Taneycomo?”

We figured the drive there would take four hours. If we left right then, we’d roll into the campground at midnight, giving us three full days to chase trout.

On the Road Again…

The first leg of that drive to Taneycomo was powered by laughter, loud music, and a pile of junk food. We were psyched to be headed toward a spot where we could fish with confidence, but more than that, it was the adventurous spontaneity that boosted our spirits. This was our first-ever unsupervised road trip together, so to capitalize on the freedom that we could go wherever the hell we wanted was thrilling. Life was good.

Too good, as it turned out.

We’d been having so much fun that we lost track of time. Four hours had passed, and we were still nowhere close to Taneycomo. We had miscalculated the distance; if we wanted to get there, we still had another seven hours to go.

I was ready to call the trip, but my pals were more reluctant to go home skunked. So, they devised a Plan C. Kentucky Lake wasn’t far. We could drive there and spend the night. Come morning, we’d fish some, then figure out our next move.

We pulled into the parking lot and saw a sign on the gate at the boat ramp: CLOSED UNTIL SEPTEMBER 1. Less than 48 hours after the best spring break ever began, we called it quits.

Delirium Sets In

“Let’s talk about what just happened,” I said.

As we were nearing home, I began to recount, in painful detail, every moment of the trip. Maybe we were just delirious, but by the time I finished, we were all in tears and our sides hurt from laughing so hard. It was the best part of the trip.

***

Twenty years later, I would’ve guessed that I could still recite the details of that trip as accurately as I did in the minivan on the way home. But it’s only because of an essay I wrote in the weeks after our return—an essay I recently reread for the first time in two decades—that I know the complete story.

I’d forgotten about that odd duck at Bob’s Garage. I’d forgotten about plans B and C. And I’d forgotten—or was too self centered at the time to see—just what a jerk I was on that trip. But it’s all there, in my story.

When the van stalled, I was furious at having to get out and push. After that first fishless evening, I ridiculed Joe and Andy for picking such a great place. The reason no one spoke around the campfire? It was because I couldn’t stop sulking. I was so furious at one point that I screamed into the night, “I just want to catch some f—ing fish!” Hell, I even blamed the guys for driving off with my reel.

Revisiting that essay was excruciating. It reminded me of how, back then, fly fishing was less of an escape and more of a competition—and when I lost, my anger often won. I’d break rods. I’d seethe in streams. I’d lash out at friends. I would like to believe that is no longer the case—that my compulsion to win is in my past. All I want from fly fishing anymore is an escape.

After I reread the essay, I shot a text to Andy and Joe, offering an apology, which they both kindly accepted. “I don’t know how you didn’t leave me with J.R., the tow-truck driver,” I added.

Andy responded: “We discussed that option.”

Happy Ending

A few days after we got back from Kentucky—I guess after Andy and Joe had had a much needed, and deserved, break from me—they asked if I wanted to join them at a farm pond. We must have landed over 100 fish that day. It was perfect.

I treasured that day then because of all the fish we caught. I treasure that day now because of my friends, who saw past my flaws and still let me share their company on the water.

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