Fishing: Roger’s Remarks for Oct. 6

It was a difficult decision to write this column, but I felt that I needed to share a personal story from 10 years ago that had a life-changing impact on my personal and fishing world. It’s also my recollection of a guy I called a special fishing buddy. After thinking about it, I felt that I would leave him anonymous but tell you his story.

We had been friends for many years, especially since our families were both pretty fanatical outdoors types. It was common for him to hunt or fish with me or my Dad on a moment’s notice. He was a quiet but dedicated angler who knew all our secret spots and info, but was always willing to share his gems, too. We trusted him completely; he was that kind of guy.

I came back to Fresno in 1981 after training for the non-1980 Olympics, excited to get back to my fishing roots. He was about 8 years older, ex-military, and his soft-spoken demeanor belied how tough he was. We were perfect fishing pals for each other. I would call him up about a good bite, and an hour later he would pick me up. We chased stripers for more than 10 years on a regular basis. He netted my first 40-pound striper at Millerton in the evening twilight of 1982. I’ll never forget his soft-spoken question: “Hey Rog, are you sure you got one on?” This, as I held on to the slowly moving truck of a fish holding its ground 40 feet under the boat. “Well, it’s either a Volkswagon on the bottom keeping up with us, or a big fish I can’t move!” was my infamous answer as I stood there with my pole doubled over!

The first signs I noticed that something was wrong was when I called him to go striper fishing and I heard him say that he was going to go squirrel hunting instead? Squirrel hunting? OK. He didn’t seem too excited about it and I could sense that the fire I had always seen in him was pretty low now. He said that he felt that the striper fishing had kind of fallen way off and was getting too hard. But this never stopped him before.

For the next year, I invited him regularly to go fishing and maybe see what was going on, but he always deferred. Finally, I got him to go and we headed up to Millerton and fished into the evening as I watched him halfheartedly casting – and finally kinda giving up. What was wrong?

As we drove home, he brightened up and started asking me some very unusual questions, stuff he had never brought up before. We had a great conversation, but all my bells and whistles were going off, in spite of his cheerful attitude. “You OK? I worriedly asked. “It’s all good, Rog!” he said as he turned and got into his truck. A couple of weeks later I got the call. He had taken his life. My world swayed. I was in shock. Why hadn’t I seen it coming; I knew something was wrong. His family members said he had been depressed and not taking his new meds. He had always been a gentle, sensitive guy that everyone loved, but none of us saw it coming. He had so much to live for! Why? … No answers.

After the funeral I took a trip by myself to Millerton, just to think about all the good trips we had shared. It was a beautiful day, one he would have loved. Yes, I cried. I believe he had been in a lot of mental anguish, but being quiet natured hadn’t shared it. I would like to think that many of the trips we took in his boat were as precious to him as they were to me, and I believe that they were. Funny, knowing him, I found out that yes, just as I suspected, he had sold his boat just days before. Yeah, I believe he had wanted someone else to continue to enjoy the one special thing he cherished; that was him all right! But I still don’t understand it all.

Losing a special fishing buddy is tough but it’s made me try to live each day and fishing trip more passionately! It’s all a gift. Never – ever – give up!

This story was originally published October 6, 2015 at 5:21 PM with the headline "Fishing: Roger’s Remarks for Oct. 6."