Never Been Skunked: Confessions of a Trout Whisperer
Excerpt: From the Blackfoot River in Montana to the lakes of Woodland Park, my record is unbroken: never skunked. But the real story isn’t the fish — it’s what fishing teaches us about aging with attitude.
Ask a roomful of fly fishers if they’ve ever been skunked and you’ll get the same reaction you’d get if you’d asked whether they’ve ever worn Crocs in public: a long pause, an embarrassed look downward, and then a mumbled confession.
Everyone gets skunked.
Everyone.
Well… almost everyone.
I’ve fished the Blackfoot River in Montana, the Mammoth Lakes region in California, the headwaters of the Colorado River in Rocky Mountain National Park, Grand Lake, countless lakes just west of Granby, and the private trout waters of Woodland Park, Colorado.
And somehow — through luck, skill, stubbornness, or divine aquatic intervention — I’ve never been skunked.
Never.
This is not a brag. This is a medical mystery.
Blackfoot Bill Is Born
My record began on the Blackfoot River. One day, after catching my tenth fish before lunch, someone on the bank said, “Hey, look, it’s Blackfoot Bill!” It stuck. I didn’t choose the name; the name chose me.
There’s something poetic about it, too — a sort of western mystique blended with the subtle implication that trout should probably be terrified of me.
And they are.
I can feel it.
The Conditions Don’t Matter
Rain? Snow? Wind? Hail?
Trout apparently don’t care — so neither do I.
I’ve caught fish with ice forming in my beard.
I’ve caught fish with sweat dripping into my polarized glasses.
I’ve caught fish when the barometer tanked, when the water rose, when the water dropped, when other anglers said, “Don’t bother today.”
For some reason, the trout and I have reached an understanding:
they show up, I show up, and one of us always ends up wet.
Mammoth Lakes: The Test
If Montana gave me my name, California tried to take it away.
The Mammoth Lakes region is stunning. It’s also full of trout with PhDs in evasion. They study you. They judge you. They ignore your flies with the same disdain a cat shows for a $40 toy you bought on Amazon.
But on a cold morning in late fall, while other anglers cursed the wind and packed their gear, I tied on a zebra midge, dropped it into a slick, and hooked a rainbow so fat and strong it felt like trying to reel in a football.
Record intact.
Colorado: Where Trout Go to Graduate
When I moved to Colorado, I feared the streak would end. Colorado trout are smart. Wild. Educated. Many of them are college-bound. Some of them already have degrees.
And yet…
Whether at the headwaters of the Colorado River, the lakes near Granby, or the beautiful waters of Woodland Park, I kept catching them.
Sometimes 20 in a morning.
Sometimes just one.
But always something.
Colorado trout are honest.
They’ll let you know if you’re doing it wrong.
They’ll also reward you when you’re doing it right.
And I think part of the reason I’ve never been skunked here is simple:
I listen to what the river is telling me.
It whispers clues.
It shows patterns.
It adjusts its mood like a middle-school theater kid — dramatic and unpredictable, but expressive if you pay attention.
Rainbow Falls: The Cathedral
If I could fish only one place for the rest of my life, it would be Rainbow Falls Mountain Trout in Woodland Park. It’s part trout sanctuary, part spiritual retreat, part outdoor therapy session. And the fish? They’re magnificent.
My average day at Rainbow Falls looks something like this:
Catch a trout
Release a trout
Catch a bigger trout
Release a bigger trout
Wonder if the fish are taking turns
Catch a trout that looks like it owns property
Eat a sandwich
Catch a trout that makes me question physics
I’ve caught more trout there than I can count. Some days 40 or more. Some days just a handful. But always something.
The One That Almost Broke the Streak
There was one day — and only one — when the universe tried to humble me.
Cold. Windy. Miserable.
Not a rise in sight.
No action below.
The fish had all apparently joined a union and declared a strike.
Hours passed.
Nothing.
And then, right as I was about to accept defeat, I saw a tiny ripple near the far bank. Just one. Barely there. The kind of signal you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention.
I tied on a size 22 midge — the kind of fly that should come with tweezers and a magnifying glass — and made a soft, slow cast.
The take was gentle.
The fight was short.
The trout was small.
But it saved the streak.
The Real Reason I Fish
People often ask me why I fish.
Is it the thrill?
The challenge?
The scenery?
The gear?
The science?
Sure — all of that is part of it.
But the real answer is simpler:
Fishing gives me back the parts of myself cancer tried to take.
When I’m on the water, I am not:
a survivor
a patient
a man who has taken 10 pills a day
someone who has gone through radiation cystitis
someone who has had hyperbaric oxygen treatments
someone who has faced recurrence
I am just Bill.
A man with a fly rod.
A man listening to water and waiting for the world to breathe.
Fishing is meditation disguised as sport.
Sanity disguised as recreation.
Healing disguised as a hobby.
Why the Streak Matters (And Doesn’t)
People assume I care deeply about the streak. That I protect it. That I record it in a secret leather-bound journal like a monk chronicling miracles.
I don’t.
If I get skunked tomorrow, I’ll shrug, pack up my gear, and go right back the next day.
The streak isn’t a record — it’s a reminder.
A reminder that joy is possible.
A reminder that luck shows up if you keep showing up.
A reminder that a man can reinvent himself at any age.
A reminder that even after cancer, life continues to offer moments of grace.
And yes, a reminder that trout everywhere probably whisper warnings about me.
In the End
I am not a perfect angler.
I miss hooksets.
I tangle line.
I snag branches that clearly move toward me when I’m not looking.
But I show up.
I respect the water.
I observe more than I fight.
I listen for the quiet signals.
I try to be patient and grateful.
And in return?
The trout have always shown up too.
Never skunked.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But if it happens someday — I hope it’s a really big fish that got away.
Because those are the stories worth telling.
