The Other Side of 3:00 a.m.

Written by Andy Whitcomb

Depending on who takes me steelhead fishing in PA, I’ll either see a frozen sunset or sunrise.

A few years ago, I wrote an article for Pennsylvania Angler and Boater about “Guy”, who takes me steelhead fishing in tributaries of Lake Erie whenever I make the trek from Oklahoma to visit my in-laws. But that is only half of the story. If I’m not fishing in PA with “Guy”, I’m fishing with my wife’s cousin, Jeremy.

Each fisherman offers a unique experience. Retired school teacher, Guy’s fishing trips usually include 3:00 a.m. departures, lures, Elk Creek, King’s Restaurant hash, and raiding a Wal-Mart Hot-Wheels bin. Leaving directly after his construction job, Jeremy’s trips usually include 3:00 a.m. returns, bait, Walnut Creek, and a couple of gas station hotdogs. Each was surprised to learn that I fished with the other. A little bit of a competition has developed with each determined that I would have a more successful fishing trip with them. This has worked out very well for me.

Oh yeah, and did I mention that “Guy” use to be Jeremy’s teacher back when swats were still allowed?

Jeremy is a big guy with a neck seemingly shortened from years of weight-lifting, whereas I’m about 1/3 neck. I had only seen him a couple of times, amounting to little more than a burly handshake at several family functions and knew little about him except that he had served in the military in Desert Storm. Late afternoon one frigid December day, I met Jeremy at a truck stop on I-80, threw my gear in the back of his truck, and hopped in, taking advantage of his generous offer to take me on my first steelhead fishing trip.

One story I heard before fishing with him involved him fishing with a friend and the friend’s young son. They had been fishing for a while when another fisherman arrived and waded in just upstream, crowding the boy as if he wasn’t there. Soon their lines tangled and Jeremy assisted with untangling but didn’t say anything. The second time the fisherman’s line drifted down and tangled with the boy’s line, Jeremy warned the fisherman and suggested he try his luck elsewhere. On the 3rd entanglement, Jeremy said nothing but reached out and cut the fisherman’s line. When the fisherman retied, failed to stop crowding the boy and began to fish again, not altering his methods, Jeremy, who once weighed 300 pounds, in a refreshing dose of stream-side justice, physically removed the man from the stream and said simply, “You’re done.”

It was 20 degrees and flat dark when we finally reached the creek. We rigged and tried skein and live minnows by the boat ramp first. When this failed to produce a bump, he decided we should try closer to the mouth, grabbed all his gear, and started to hike. In my haste to keep up with the swinging lantern now rapidly disappearing in the trees, I quickly reeled in and, not knowing how far we were going, draped the tiny treble hook over one pole-clutching frozen finger and grabbed the minnow bucket with the remaining fingers of one hand; the rest of my tackle, camera, and flashlight with the other.

The trail was steep, slick, and muddy, and with a flashlight that seemed to require a good jostle or two every few steps, I had to concentrate on my footing. Roots threatened to trip my feet and branches did their best to ensnare my rod and line. Jeremy seemed immune to these issues. He was agile, sure-footed, and breezed up the greasy trail. It wasn’t long up this hill before I realized that I had no way of knowing if the hook was now embedded in a numb finger. No time to stop for an emergency hook-ectomy. I feared falling too far behind on this strange trail in the woods at night. Or worse, tripping with Jeremy’s minnow bucket. So I just tighten my grip and tried to keep up. The lantern eventually came to rest near the shore of Erie and I was greatly relieved that the treble hook and finger proved not to be connected.

Fishing that night would produce only two steelhead smolts, which we quickly returned. But this was one of those fishing trips where actually catching seemed of less importance. Shivering for hours, I learned to retie a hook with trembling fingers using only the light from a flashlight wedged between my chin and neck. Then there was the trick of staying awake in the warm truck at 1:00 a.m. on the 2 hour drive back, watching for deer. I also got to know and admire my guide who imparted such knowledge as fishing with fish eggs and dipping chewing tobacco with the same fingers, does not make the best pairing.

(Thanks Jeremy for all of the great fishing trips! Looking forward to you and your sister’s safe return from overseas!)