4 minute read
The One That Got Away… Almost
The One That Got Away… Almost
► by Adrian Watzke
Every angler has a great story of the one that got away. Spit hooks, snapped lines, broken rods—been there, done that. My great story is about the one that didn’t get away. It was truly a case of, “If you love something set it free and if it comes back, it’s yours forever.”
It’s a given that anyone who fishes may, from time to time, be prone to exaggeration, particularly when talking about the one that got away. And though every word of my story is true, even I have a hard time believing it.
It was a sunny Saturday morning in May of 2005 when my buddy and I decided to try out his inflatable pontoon boats at Star Lake, southwest of Stony Plain. Our target for the day was the rainbow trout that call the lake home. After pumping up the boats and rigging up our fly rods with prince nymph beadheads, we hit the water, cast our lines, and set about trolling as we rowed to where we figured we’d have a shot at some fish.
As we made our way across the lake, I was confident in the knowledge that my rod was secured in the rod holder. Let’s just say “confident” and “knowledge” are two words that shouldn’t go together. One minute I’m rowing at a relaxed pace and the next my fly rod is skipping across the water, out of my sight. Not just any rod, but my first real fly rod—a 9 foot, 5 weight, 4-piece St. Croix Imperial rod with Scientific Anglers reel and line, the whole shebang.
And then I saw it, about 2 feet of rod tip sitting above the water just 20 feet away. Turning the boat, I got within 5 feet before the tip jerked a few times, waterskied for another 5 feet, then disappeared under the water. Gone. Not just gone but gone toward the deepest part of the lake. My buddy goes, “Maybe you got Grandpa?” to which I replied, “No, Grandpa got me.” Fish 1, Adrian 0. Game over.
Sadly, we had only been on the water for about 10 minutes. I paddled about for a bit hoping to see my rod on the lake bottom— not that I was going to compound the situation by attempting to dive in. I told my buddy to keep fishing, and I set out to make up for a lack of a gym membership and was set to spend the rest of the day on this floating rowing machine. It was a beautiful morning with a slight breeze, and despite the loss of my gear, which I couldn’t really afford to replace, I was having fun thinking up Father’s Day scenarios to get a new rod or reel, or both.
After a couple of hours, I suggested that my buddy try the other side of the lake. Leading the way, while looking back over my shoulder, I spotted what appeared to be the tip of a fishing rod sticking out of the water close to the far shore. Wait, that wasn’t just any fishing rod—that was a St. Croix Imperial fly rod, with that oh so familiar moss green floating line. Remembering what happened last time I got close to it, I decided to row across the line, so if it were to take off, the rod would hit the boat and I would have a decent chance of retrieving it.
It turned out to be unnecessary as there wasn’t a fish on the line, but I did get my rod, reel, line, and hook back—a little waterlogged, but intact. My buddy and I just shook our heads and laughed at recovering my gear about a football field and a half from where I lost it.
I can’t even imagine what the odds of this happening were, but I can only assume they were staggering. We fished a little longer and caught nothing, but that didn’t matter. I had already landed the catch of the day—my trusty fly rod “Lucky,” which has been my go-to for two decades now. We stopped for lottery tickets on the way home and though we got Lucky that day, we didn’t get seven-figure, life-changing, fishing-all-the-time kind of lucky. But we didn’t care.
