Homefish

If my geographical life were represented via pie chart, the largest slice would be labeled MIDWEST. I grew up in and around Green Bay; went to college in Marquette, MI; had stints in Milwaukee and Madison.

But then there was that nine year stretch when I lived 2,200 miles away in Seattle and played at being a westerner.

Now Seattle is over and I’m back in the land between oceans. Many people in Seattle call this “fly-over country” and cannot distinguish among Milwaukee, Minneapolis, and Minnesota. They also frequently called me Adam or Anthony even though my name is Andy. I’ve never been sure what to make of the latter (because really call me whatever you want I guess), but I always did wish they’d try a bit harder with their knowledge of basic U.S. geography.

But enough of that. What I really want to talk about is the trout of Wisconsin and how angry they are with me.

In the summer of 2012, when I was still a Wisconsinite in good standing, I finally figured out how to fish the streams whose fish had eluded me my whole life. And when I started catching those trout, I could feel the streams congratulating me. After looking askance at me all my life, they finally nodded approval and allowed me into their private club, plying me with cigars and whiskey and fraternal bonding. I could tell it was hard for them. They had a hard time learning to trust me. But I had proven myself and they had no choice. I had put in my time. I had cracked the code.

But then I turned my back on them. I moved out west. I fished legendary trout waters in Idaho and Montana. While I was away, Wisconsin streams would look at my Instagram feed, populated as it was with substantial westslope cutthroat trout silhouetted against majestic mountains, and spit. Yes, those Wisconsin streams would spit, curse my name, tell themselves they always knew they shouldn’t trust me, tell themselves “Never again with that guy. Hope he enjoys the West, cuz he’s never catching another fish here.”

Welp. Here I am! I’m back! And oh how these Wisconsin streams are enjoying their revenge. Waters I used to fish with confidence (and success) are dark and shadowy and overgrown with tag alders of made of spite and resentment. To the streams I grew up with, the streams where I once was welcomed as a champion, I am now just some other out-of-state asshole wondering where all the trout went.

I learned a long time ago that you have to pay your dues on a trout stream, as in life. You scout it, you study its surface for bugs, you contemplate where trout might live, you pore over maps, you pray to see its trout rise, you stalk people on YouTube for the best access points, you read all the articles you can get your hands on, you buy flies at the nearest fly shops until the fly shop people share a bit of intel (I guess that’s just called bribery). And then, of course, you try to fish it. And you still get skunked once or twice or a hundred times before you catch anything at all. That’s what I mean by paying your dues. On all except the most forgiving waters, you don’t just walk up and start catching trout, and if you grow up fishing those forgiving waters, well, I don’t particularly respect you.

So yeah. Paying dues. It matters. But what I didn’t know until now is that I must forever pay those dues, and my entrance into the club has been revoked, and by moving out West and becoming a successful angler in other states, I was turning my back on Wisconsin’s trout and now they will make me pay.

My home state hates me right now. Its trout want to hurt me. They are succeeding.