Fishing Junk Water

“Look man, I’ve lived here almost my whole life, and I’ve never once seen or heard of anyone fishing on that lake.”
“No, no, no, trust me, there’s fish in there!”
“Okay… maybe some sunfish or bullhead, but nothing of any significance.”
“Just trust me. Come out in the boat one time. You’ll see.”

So that’s how it started. One little boat ride around some ragtag, supposedly fishless lake in an even more ragtag town.

I’d driven past this lake a million times in my life. It sits right across the road from the fairgrounds. In high school, I once went to my drumming friend’s house to practice, and they lived on that lake. His parents probably still do, though I couldn’t even tell you which house it was anymore.

More recently, I’ve visited the lake a few times each summer to collect water samples to test for E. coli. It technically has a “beach,” but I wouldn’t be caught dead swimming there, even though it has never once tested positive. It’s shallow. Weedy. A thick muck bottom. There’s always an alarming amount of foamy, oily-looking stuff floating near the shoreline.

And then there’s the tunnel.

A creepy little tunnel under the road from the parking lot. It’s the only public access point. Every time I’ve walked through it, the place has been filled with knee-deep dried leaves left over from whenever “last fall” was. Based on the historic vibe of the town, I’ve always assumed there were probably needles or used condoms hidden somewhere under those leaves.

My buddy Eric, who owns the property immediately next to the beach, assures me that “no one is doing that in the tunnel.”

The opening conversation happened on July 4th, 2025. Eric had somehow convinced me to venture out on one of my least favorite holidays to meet him at a nearby campground for an evening of fishing. The last text I received from him simply said:

“Oh, and bring some worms.”

Where the hell do you buy worms on the Fourth of July in the middle of nowhere?

I dug some out of my compost pile.

I arrived around 6 p.m. Because he was camping, Eric was already three sheets to the wind. He had this “great idea” about a spot he wanted us to try. So we tossed his gear into the back of my truck and drove the half mile to the end of the camp road where the open bank-fishing area is.

Before I could even cover myself in the necessary thick layer of DEET, he was off down the berm trail that runs along the river, cooler of Two-Hearted Ale in hand.

I had been down that trail before, so I yelled after him, “I don’t think we can actually reach the water down there!”

But he was already gone, waving for me to hurry up.

We walked and walked and walked. Collecting entire families of ticks on our pant legs. Moving further and further away from the river.

If there’s one thing to know about Eric, it’s that he has to come to conclusions on his own. You can’t convince him of anything until he convinces himself.

Eventually we turned around and fished the open space where we had parked.

The water was mud-brown and riled up from recent heavy rains. A strong wind pushed river water back upstream from the lake outlet. Eric baited his hook with a few of my compost worms, added a weight to the line, tossed it into the middle, and lit a cigarette.

I cast. Cast again. Changed flies. Cast some more.

Even though I had zero expectations of catching anything here, it was still disappointing. It had been a rough year. Honestly, any fish would do.

What happened next proves that fishing, or catching rather, has nothing to do with skill, expertise, gear, or any of the things fly anglers spend seasons perfecting. Catching fish is pure luck.

Right place. Right time.

As Eric puffed his cigarette, I glanced over and yelled, “Dude, you’ve got a fish on your line!”

Another important fact about Eric: he only catches fish when he has either a cigarette lit or a freshly cracked beer in his hand.

This fish was putting a serious bend in his rod. Something good.

I dropped my gear to help him land it because, of course, we never have a net.

As the fish got closer, I first thought it was a massive bass based on the shape. But when it splashed near my feet in the mucky bank water, I shouted, “Holy f*ck, it’s a drum!”

A freshwater drum (Aplodinotus grunniens), also known as a sheepshead.

Often considered a junk fish by anglers targeting tastier walleye or perch, a freshwater drum would be a prize for any fly angler seeking adventures outside the usual trout streams.

And in true Eric fashion, he had absolutely no idea what he had on the end of his line. Nor would he touch it.

That became my job.

Because I was far more excited about the fish itself.

But he will never let me forget the time he caught a fancy fish while I caught absolutely nothing.

Nine days later, I found myself in Eric’s boat on Lake Swamp-Nasty, still deeply skeptical that it held any real fish at all.

It was a beautiful July evening. I wore shorts and sandals, not my usual fishing attire, because I assumed this would amount to little more than a sunset boat ride.

I packed a small box of flies ranging from tiny nymphs and dries to musky flies. I also brought my first fly rod with me, an Eagle Claw Black Eagle. It’s my “not too heavy, not too light, not entirely sure what I’m about to encounter” rod.

Eric brought the beer cooler and worms, and we pushed off the dock.

Now there are lake people and there are river people. I’m a river person. I grew up on a river. I understand rivers. I can read where the structure is and where fish are likely to hold.

Lakes are different.

To me they just look… flat.

I can’t see the structure. And in this lake, structure mainly consisted of plant life. There were virtually no depth changes, no submerged logs. Just muck and weeds.

Luckily, I had my personal fish-finder on board who “knew” exactly where the fish would be.

He stopped the boat in the middle of a weed bed and lit a cigarette.

I picked a random fly and started casting.

I don’t remember how many flies I tried or how many times we moved around, but eventually it started to feel like my doubts were justified.

No fish.

As the sun sank lower, we drifted around exploring inlets and shallow corners of the lake. Frog water. Lots of frog water.

I wanted just a few more casts before giving up. So I cast back toward the inlet we had just exited.

BAM.

Some kind of rocket ship smashed my fly.

When the fish came to hand, I couldn’t believe it. Pike.

Sure, it was just a 12-inch hammer handle, but it was a sign of life. Even Eric seemed surprised, even though he was the one who had been promoting his own lake all along.

We continued bringing similar fish to the boat until sunset, and I was hooked.

Pike on the fly is addictive, if you didn’t already know. Size doesn’t matter. They eat with reckless abandon and always feel twice as big as they actually are.

I went home happy. Already planning the next outing. Dreaming about baby pike’s parents and grandparents.

They must be there… right?

That was the beginning of my pike-obsessed summer.

Earlier that spring, I had my job pulled out from under me. I was unemployed, depressed, and struggling to focus on what came next. Fishing this ridiculous little lake was exactly what I needed.

It was only fifteen minutes from my house, and Eric gave me complete access to the boat and the lake. It was low-key. No waders. No excessive gear. No huge commitment.

Game on.

I was on that lake at least once a week. Sometimes twice. I started learning patterns, searching for bigger fish, trying to figure out where they roamed.

I discovered they mostly came out to play after 6 p.m., though I never tested the dawn hours. They tended to inhabit the far side of the lake relative to Eric’s house, and they hunted right along the edges of a certain aquatic plant.

I’ve known that plant before. Around here we call it pike weed. I don’t know its proper name, but I know toothy critters live around it.

Despite all the hours I put in, though, I only ever found hammer handles.

That didn’t discourage me in the slightest. Hammer-handle lives matter. And they are incredibly fun. I lost more flies to hammer-handle teeth on that lake than I have during entire seasons elsewhere.

Eventually summer waned, and so did the time I could dedicate to fishing.

I was starting a new position as Associate Professor of Biochemistry at the local university. I had already worked there for five years, but now I was a big-time professor, and I had an enormous amount of preparation to do before classes started.

Still, I vowed to fish the lake whenever I could. At least until ice formed, or until Eric eventually retired the boat for the season.

You never really know when the last trip will be.

On Friday, September 26th, I texted Eric from work: “If I bring you lunch, can we go fish for a couple hours?”

The man is a sucker for a McDonald’s value meal.

So am I.

We ate outside at his picnic table and headed out onto the lake, Two-Hearteds in hand. It was a stunning day, though the air carried the first chill of early fall.

We motored around to the usual spots, but there wasn’t much sign of fish. Not even the eager little ones. Maybe it was simply too early in the day.

But days on the lake aren’t just about fishing.

Eric has become my brother. We are a wildly dysfunctional family, but I don’t think either of us would have it any other way.

Then suddenly it happened. Probably because Eric had both a freshly cracked beer and a lit cigarette.

A V-shaped wake charged toward my fly and hit like a ship’s anchor dropping to the seafloor.

I may have yelled an expletive or three.

Remember, I was still using a 4-weight rod better suited for trout streams. The power of that fish tested every limit of my gear.

All I could do was hold on and whisper “oh shit, oh shit” under my breath.

I have no idea how long the fight lasted. My biggest concern, aside from my rod, was the net. Eric’s boat net barely fit the hammer handles.

There was no way this monster was fitting.

But there he sat, cigarette in his mouth, calmly assuring me he could make it work.

I don’t think he fully realized how big the fish was until it was in the net.

But it was in the net.

I don’t carry a measuring tape, but it was easily over 30 inches. No exaggeration.

This was exactly what I had been searching for.

If my addiction to that lake wasn’t already a problem, it definitely was now.

All I wanted was to repeat that moment.

October was generous, and I managed to get out a few more times, both alone and with another friend and fellow fly-fishing addict, Nick. I shook hands with several more fish over 30 inches, and Nick managed to hook into two before the bitter chill of November finally sent us into our own hibernation.

Those memories carried us through a harsh winter.

But lately I’ve started wondering:

When will be the first day we can get back to Lake Swamp-Nasty and start hunting for our friends again?