Plans Get Made
Sometimes, life’s most meaningful relationships are born in the most unexpected ways. The first time I went fishing with Ben—the guy who would become not just a lifelong fishing partner but like a brother—was about as random as it gets.
I’ll admit, the memory is a little hazy on some of the details, but for the most part, it’s as true as any fisherman’s tale—which means it’s just as reliable as the size of the last fish I caught. It’s also a good time to alert the readers to the fact that I ooze sarcasm and dry wit, so be warned.
It started innocently enough, sitting in the foyer of a church, trading exaggerated tales of fly-fishing glory with a friend. I was recounting what I believed at the time were unparalleled fishing exploits when he casually suggested, “You should go fishing with my brother, Ben.”
A couple of quick phone calls later, plans were made. Before I knew it, we were piling our gear into Ben’s little Toyota pickup and heading for the backcountry near Princeton, BC. Neither of us knew it then, but that weekend would mark the start of something much bigger than a fishing trip.
A Change of Plans
Our original destination turned out to still be locked in winter’s grip, thoroughly encased in ice. But as any good fisherman knows, adaptability is key. A quick detour led us to a small lake—or maybe it was just a large pond—with crystal-clear water and defined shoals that promised good fishing.
I don’t remember exactly when the action started, but I know this: we caught a lot of fish. And we weren’t just fishing; we were on the cutting edge of angling techniques (or so we thought). Matching the hatch? Oh, we did that—with the legendary ’52 Buick fly pattern, a staple in BC’s interior waters. It wasn’t just fishing; it was science, art, and a bit of luck rolled into one.
Weather, Campfires, and Conversations
The weather was classic early-season chaos—plenty of rain and the occasional fleeting dry spell. But we didn’t care. The campfire burned warm and constant, giving two young guys who had barely spoken before plenty of time to connect.
It wasn’t a particularly “productive” trip by today’s standards. But the real catch that weekend wasn’t the fish—it was the friendship. A brotherhood.
A Bond Forged in the Wild
That trip was the beginning of something life-changing. Since then, and it’s been many years now, Ben and I have shared countless adventures and hundreds of days in the backwoods of British Columbia. We’ve laughed, aged, and toasted to everything from big catches to the simple joy of being outdoors. From the wilds of BC to the mundane day-to-day grind of life in the Lower Mainland, our bond has only grown stronger.
Looking back, that little lake and the venerable ’52 Buick hold a special place in my heart. But more than the fishing, it’s the connection we forged that keeps me coming back to the water. Fly fishing may have brought us together, but it’s the friendship that’s endured—the kind of bond that makes a fishing partner feel more like family.
And that’s the magic of the outdoors. Sometimes, the biggest catch isn’t the fish—it’s the memories, the laughter, and the people you share it all with.
