Going Down In Flames (The Ballad of A Fishing Guide)

By Rod Petersen

As you can already gather, most of these stories take place with three things; Connor, a boat, and a chance to catch fish. This adventure is no different.

Connor and I had a day off together due to some unforeseen scheduling error that benefited us, as it usually happened. To this advantage, we decided to take Connor’s boat out on Yellowstone Lake and fish the better part of the day away. Armed with nothing more than a few bags of Lays chips, some Cokes, and our rods, we hitched the boat to the truck and started out for the lake.

As fishing trips go, the start of this one was no different. We launched the boat. Tied it up at the dock. Parked the truck and trailer. Talked with the old men who hang out at the docks. They asked the usual questions such as, “What y’all fishin’ with?”, “How deep y’all catching them at?”, “Are y’all targeting Lakers or Cut’s?” Connor and I answer back in tangled unison. I don’t think they understood us initially. Then Connor began answering them and I started eating my chips. I never shared what depth I fish at because I know those pesky gillnetters are always eavesdropping like the CIA. As Connor and the old fishermen carried on talking, I began loading up my gear. When I was finished, I settled down in my seat and got comfy for the long ride. It is about this point where I realize I have damn-near eaten through my rations of Lays chips. I began looking for Connor’s chips just so I wouldn’t starve on the long voyage. Before I was successful in finding where he had hidden them, we were ready to leave. We exchanged our goodbyes with the older fishermen and headed out onto the lake.

It was a picturesque day on the lake. The lake was one of those blue hues that melted into the sky. Blending that border between earth and sky. The only thing standing in the way to break up the outline was the Absaroka Mountains. They stood as tall watchmen over the lake and the majority of the park. The peaks, all covered in soft white snow, looked like they could reach up into the sky and pull down a cloud. The ride out to the spot Connor wanted to fish was short.

When we approached our spot to start trolling, we began getting the Bimini top set up and setting out our lines.  It was at this moment I found that I had stashed sunflower seeds in my tackle box. Maybe squirrels aren’t wrong for stashing snacks everywhere they can. After the setup, this is the part of fishing that gets pretty easy. Most fishermen when they say “I’m going fishing” they actually mean trolling, and in many cases, they are dragging lines at thirty feet of depth in almost two hundred feet of water. This style of fishing is to catch a break and a buzz, not necessarily to catch a personal best fish. For Connor and me, it is the complete opposite. When we say we are going fishing we mean it. We are attempting to cover as much water as possible to try and find those ten-plus pound Lake Trout somewhere down near the bottom.

The first spot we stopped at, we trolled for over an hour, and we did not even get a nibble. We talked loudly and very shortly, while David Allen Coe blared through the speaker, about moving to a new spot. In less than a few minutes, we had our lines up, and were on our way to a new spot. All without missing the chorus to You Never Even Called Me By My Name.

This second spot was a regular sport for both Connor and me and we knew we would pick up something here. After some time, we picked up a few Lake Trout and were now taking our time to reset some lures and fix some tackle. Connor finally revealed where he had hidden his chips and began snacking on them. I had my head down working on tying on a new lure when all of a sudden, I heard a loud, inaudible shouting that sounded like “MFFFFFFFFRRRRNNNNNFFFFFNNN”. I look up from tying a knot to see Connor, with a mouth full of chips attempting to talk, and pointing at a lead-core flyrod we had set up for trolling. The rod was doubled over with presumably a fish on the other end. I jumped up only to get tangled in the braided line I was working on. Similar to a rabbit getting caught in a snare. I went down with a hard thud into the boat. Connor took off running for the back of the boat to grab the rod. Let me tell you, I am glad Connor got there first because I know absolutely nothing about trolling with a flyrod, palming the reel, or any of that. It is kind of like a fishing sorcery in a way. Far from the regular traditional tackle I have used since I was a child.

As I began to untangle myself, Connor started fighting for his life on the back of the boat. There he was standing in all his glory. Barefoot and without a care in the world, except for landing that fish on the other end of the line. For the better part of five minutes, Connor and the fish held a sort of dance. Back and forth they went. Connor would start stripping line, then the fish would make a giant run out for deep water. It was a magnificent display of angling to watch. Eventually, the fish tired out enough for Connor to bring it near the boat. Here I assisted in netting what was a massive Cutthroat Trout. The Cutty was a bright pomegranate red with a deep red jawline so easily recognizable for Cuttys’. Its back was a deep purple, and the fins in contrast were a bright yellow. After some cheering and a few pictures, Connor released the fish back into the lake. Then we picked up where we left off on our trolling.

After another hour or so passed Connor and I decided to call it a day. We picked up our lines and strapped down the top as we started to head toward the marina. The ride there was about twenty minutes or so as we enjoyed the lake and the mountain air on our way back in.

We pulled up the lateral buoys that mark the entrance to the channel into the marina. Through the buoys was a small entrance to the marina that passed under a bridge. Once under the bridge, you are in the marina and in more maneuverable waters. We ended up running into a little traffic. This traffic consisted of the same Grady White boats we work on for our guide jobs. As we came off of plain, we began to notice the Grady in front of us was captained by Jack, a good friend of ours. We started up a friendly conversation over our bow and Jack and his guests replied over their stern to us as we all slowly taxi in past the buoys. It was at this point I began smelling something that reminded me of oil burning on a motor. I looked at Connor and said, “Do you smell that?” He sniffed the air a few times and replied, “Yeah, I smell that. It must be Grady Eight. She was out getting work done on the motor just a few days ago”. I still smelled burning oil, but Connor was right, Grady Eight had been out of the water several times for motor issues. At that altitude, many motors had problems working as they normally would at lower elevations, so this was not a huge issue. I begin packing up my tackle, so it is out of our way when we begin the process of docking. When I tucked my head down to grab some lures, I was suddenly hit was a smell of burnt plastic. I jump up to my feet and say to Connor “Connor that’s us. We are smoking”. Connor does what every child is taught from a young age in elementary school. He grabbed the fire extinguisher. “Great!” I thought to myself, but where exactly is the fire? Without saying a word Connor and I began pulling all the equipment out of from under the storage area of the boat. After a frantic few minutes of Connor and I removing our gear out from under the storage area, we could not find the fire on the boat. Smoke began coming out of the electronic panel across the dash. Connor looked at me panic-stricken and asked, “Where’s the fire extinguisher?”. I started to realize as I looked around that the fire extinguisher was nowhere in sight. Presumably buried under the pile of assorted lifejackets, fishing bags, and miscellaneous items we just threw in the rear of the boat. It is at this moment that Connor turned off the boat. We were now dead in the water under the bridge. Floating in the middle of the small channel that leads into the marina. It was at this moment Connor handed me an oar and told me to keep the boat going steady through the channel. He then turned to the control panel and began looking for where the smoke was coming from. I crawled up to the front of the boat to start paddling like my life depended on it just to get us out from under the bridge. After a few moments of rowing, I heard Connor shout “OH”. Just then I turned around to see Connor removing the side panel of the boat that covered the electrical wiring, and a big black cloud of smoke came out from behind the wall. There was a cable inside that looked like the electrical wrapping had melted from bow to stern. We found that there was no immediate fire, and with the motor off we decided just to row the boat into the ramps at the marina. We were hoping to get a closer look at the electrical cables once the boat was trailed.

Focused on the task at hand. Connor and I were rowing the StarCraft as if we were crossing the Delaware River with George Washington. We must have been a sight to behold. These two fishing guides, rowing their private boat into the marina, with all their stuff peculiarly perched on the stern of their boat. As if things couldn’t get any worse, The Lake Queen II, the 43-passenger tour boat of Yellowstone Lake, was leaving the marina as we were passing by. We saw two of our good friends Captain Ken and Captain Charlie driving the Lake Queen and heard over their intercoms as they passed on our port side.. “And if you look to your left, you can see two of our fishing guides rowing their boat.” We did our best to give the most Lewis and Clark impersonation for the Park guests as we kept rowing to get to the boat ramp. As we pulled into the first dock, I half expected the old men to be there still. I kind of hoped they would. There was no way they were going to believe the day we had unless they saw it with their own eyes.