Matt Liere: Waiting on a friend

Dad’s friend Eddie loves to fish, and he fishes a lot.

Granted, Eddie is retired and has a lot of free time on his hands – freedom the greater majority of us only wish we had. Gone are the days of shuttling offspring to school and sports; the after-work dashes to the grocery store for panko and a hurried, fish-fry dinner before flute lessons an afterthought.

Some of us still trudge through jobs we hate so we can pay the bills, slop the hogs (aka kids), and complete the honey-dos so that maybe, just maybe, we might get lucky enough to squeeze in a cast or two for bass with a buddy on a random weekend. Not Eddie.

Eddie dedicates one of two chest freezers in his garage solely to fish, typically filling it near capacity by late June. He lifted the lid to proudly show off its contents late last week, provoking me to finally ask where he found time to catch so many fish.

“Well, when you fish every day, you bring home a lot of fish,” he said. “It’s not rocket science.”

“You fish every day?” I asked, incredulously. “How is that possible? Who goes with you? Mike?”

“Occasionally, but usually I just go by myself,” he said. “I like to fish alone.”

I staggered back, mind reeling, the thought of fishing alone a distasteful concept. It did, however, explain how Eddie was buried in fish. Still, I didn’t like it.

I don’t fish alone for a number of reasons, but primarily, it goes against the way I was raised. My formative outdoor adventures have always been shared with or under the instruction of others – and still are. To do otherwise is unnatural

From bagging my first Palouse pheasant under Dad’s watchful eyes in 1981, or shooting a buck from the tree stand sitting next to my own son in 2018, there’s always been someone to share moments with, to relive the highs, dole out congratulations, and rehash the funny conversations connecting the intricate parts of the story. Even simple pleasures like finding periwinkles in their pebble-encrusted homes, or watching osprey dive-bomb a threatening eagle pair – these are best shared in the company of others, experiences that reinforce the beauty and value found far beyond cell screens, politics, occupations and stock markets.

I’d experimented with solitary fishing once, years ago, trying for kokanee on a warm, moonless Loon Lake night. As I suspected, the experience was highly overrated and extremely uncomfortable. Jigging maggots, with nothing but bats and swarming buffalo flies to keep me company, seemed a pathetic exercise in loneliness to confirm what I already knew. I felt vulnerable and dissatisfied, yet had no one to complain to. To add insult to injury, I also got skunked.

While I’m fairly successful managing family obligations and work schedules to accommodate an occasional fishing trip, I can’t say the same for managing my pool of friends. It’s more of a kiddie pool, really, or maybe a small puddle – of acquaintances – a factor that makes finding fishing partners rather tough. Two decades of military service left me with plenty of buddies, but most are geographically scattered, likely scrambling to find friends of their own to fish with.

The weather has been excellent lately, and so has the kokanee bite, but my search for company has been anything but. The Rolling Stones crooned over the radio as I drove home from the lake with an empty cooler, giving me pause to reconsider another solo run. Desperate times sometime call for desperate measures.

Mick chorused in, timely reminding me “I’m Just Waiting on a Friend.” Obviously, he didn’t like to fish alone, either.