Fishing Bill’s Way
I hurt my shoulder a few months ago. Like most injuries at 45, it wasn’t from something awe-inspiring. I was playing pool basketball with my 16-year-old son, went to swat a shot, and felt my shoulder separate. At first it didn’t hurt much, but the next day was another story.
At my chiropractor’s office, I recounted the tale. He shook his head and said, “You can’t be competitive with a 16-year-old male. Just let it go.” It was a humbling reminder of the lessons age teaches us.
When I started guiding in my early twenties, I used it as an outlet for my competitive nature. I had grown up playing sports, and guiding became my new arena. On the Lower Yuba River, I channeled that competitiveness to other guides like Bill Lowe, Mike Bias, and Keith Kaneko. I was the youngest of the group and wanted to be the best—starting earliest, fishing latest, back-rowing runs, and catching the most fish.
The guide I shared the river–and in my mind competed—with most was the late Bill Lowe. He was a seasoned veteran, but I felt the need to outshine him. Most days, by the time I saw Bill on the water, I had already dragged and back-rowed my boat a mile upriver and hooked a fair number of fish as he was just pulling into the put-in. I’d sometimes see him hand his clients hot espressos while they waited for him to get the boat ready. He would wave and smile with a level of enthusiasm that, at the time, felt foreign to me, and I would think, “I’m going to get those clients from him,” or “I’m going to outshine Bill today.”
Bill often passed me as I rowed tirelessly, fueled by IPA and fast food, grinding through runs to hook fish. Unlike me, he didn’t back-row every fish-holding spot. I however saw no better “man-up” move than dragging my boat over rocks and current to give clients another shot.
Every time, at the end of the day, Bill and his clients were laughing as they packed up gear at the takeout, wrapping up their day. I would walk up the ramp and ask how they did, eager to compare numbers with hopes of securing my imaginary victory. Bill’s response was always the same: “Oh, we did great. Great day.” I would press for details.
“How many fish did you get?”
“Oh, we got a few,” or “None today, but it was a ton of fun.”
It was maddening to my younger self, but over time, I realized we weren’t in competition. Bill was simply doing his thing, and I was doing mine.
A few months before Bill passed, I was nearing the last runs of a float. Bill had blown by me earlier, and I knew I would run into him soon, wading with his clients, throwing dries in a run, casting to fish that we both knew would refuse our clients’ best presentations. I always thought he was crazy for the amount of time he spent having his clients throw dries. Surely, side-drifting nymphs would catch more fish.
Later, as expected, I came across Bill—anchored in a run I liked to back-row. Frustrated, I rowed up, only to see him lounging, feet on a cooler, Sierra Pale Ale in hand, while his clients laughed so hard their beers came out of their noses. He grinned and said, “What a great day! You wanna fish here?” Annoyed, I said yes and back-rowed up. Both clients’ indicators slammed down immediately, two rods corked, fish jumping mid-river in a double-hooked dumpster fire. My clients were ecstatic, but Bill and his clients hardly noticed, too absorbed in their laughter. He gave me a thumbs-up, and I rowed off, realizing his clients weren’t focused on the fish but on the experience.
That was the last time I saw Bill alive. What I learned that day became a lifelong lesson. Bill wasn’t competing to catch the most fish—he was competing against life to create the best possible time for himself and his clients.
I’m not proud of how competitive I was as a young guide, but it shaped me. Still, I wonder: If I had been more like Bill, would I have achieved the same success? These days I’m more focused on making sure clients enjoy their time on the water. I value those who appreciate the beauty of the river and the uniqueness of the places I take them just as much as they enjoy a fish attacking their fly with brutal force.
The river and those around us often try to teach us something, whether we realize it or not. I suspect Bill was teaching me all along—I just wasn’t paying attention.
