My absolute favorite place in the world is a small, muddy lake in northern Michigan. I’d tell you the name, but it’s a secret. It’s not glamorous, but it’s beautiful. Getting into the lake is as tricky as finding it. There’s no legitimate boat launch, and there are only a few clearings where you can sneak through to the water. If you didn’t know where to look, you’d probably drive right past it. It’s peaceful and secluded. And it’s almost always empty.
Maybe I’ll see a boat or two during the day, but that’s it. The fish I catch here will never be big enough to mount on a wall, but if I pay attention and use the right bait, I’m almost guaranteed to catch three or four.
Michigan has over 11,000 inland lakes and countless rivers and streams. I grew up on the west side of the state, fishing rivers—the Grand, the Manistee, and the Muskegon—and as many lakes and golf course ponds as I could find. Among the lily pads, or along the shoreline of one of the big lakes, Michiganders can step away from their phones and responsibilities. Fishing offers a chance to be bored, to let your mind wander, to take stock.
On my secret lake, everything is still, almost dull, as I methodically cast and retrieve my line. I’m fishing with a ned rig. It’s a jighead with a rubber worm on the hook. I let the lure sink and slowly bounce it off the lake floor to mimic a small bait fish or maybe a crayfish. Suddenly, my line snaps into tension as a hungry bass slurps it up and takes off. I set the hook and reel it in with my tip up, keeping the bass from spitting the lure out. We fight back and forth until I can grab out of the water. It’s not a big one. This is the life.
As I remove the lure, it dawns on me. Fishing like this runs against almost every part of our modern world. It’s the opposite of instant gratification. Slow, plodding effort. Planning and patience. The modern man abhors boredom. The fisherman must embrace it.
Fishing’s flattened mental space makes it easier to see meaning in the little things. I was in almost a trance-like state before this fish showed up. The bass hitting my lure was jarring but welcome. I snap a selfie with the fish before tossing it back.
Boredom is an acquired taste. I used to spend my time on the lake in constant motion, casting my line at every chance I had, with my eyes glued to the water. If I didn’t catch a fish in the first five minutes or so, it was off to the next spot without a second thought. I tried to play the wind, the time of day, other fishermen, and just about every type of fishing rig you can think of. I was fixated purely on what to catch and where to catch it.
As I’ve aged, my fishing priorities have changed a bit. Maybe it’s the accumulation of time I’ve spent on the water, maybe it’s maturity, but I’ve learned a valuable life lesson. It’s not always about the fish. Obviously, I would still prefer to catch a (big) fish, but I’m there for much more than that. Or, maybe I’m there for less. More and more I’m content with casting my line, watching, and waiting. Fishing, for me, has become more about experience and reflection than about catching a fish.
Inevitably, my thoughts drift to the things I’m proud of: the challenges I’ve overcome and the relationships I’ve built. But I can’t help but dwell on the things I’m ashamed of. The mistakes I’ve made, opportunities I’ve missed, and the times I’ve let myself or others down. It can be an uncomfortable peace. Being alone in the quiet means soul-mining. As I reel in my line for the final time, my thoughts turn to the future. I put away my lures and think about the person I want to become and the life I want to build. Then I start the old two-stroke on my jon boat and head back to shore.
My day probably wouldn’t look terribly successful to most people—a couple of big ones but mostly small fish—but what I take away from days like this is much more important.
Tim Dawson is an experienced outdoorsman with a passion for the Mitten State. Follow him on X @TheFairChase1.
