3 rods and a cane: Why disability doesn’t have to define your outdoor adventure

FIRST CASTS

On our first afternoon, we took a quick tour of the lake, stopping here and there to cast at the most tantalizing spots. Wes and I steadily picked up walleye and pike. Pete didn’t. In the years since he’d fished, he’d gotten so rusty that he needed a quick refresher on the basics of casting with a spinning reel.

The first few days brought other challenges we hadn’t anticipated. A brutal heat wave descended on the region, pushing temperatures to nearly 30ºC, and sending the fish into harder-to-reach places. Wes and I adapted our tactics, fishing deeper and with more finesse. The action was slow, but steady as we boated eater-sized walleye and two-foot pike. Pete, however, continued to struggle.

“He’s not catching anything,” I whispered to Wes as we cleaned up after dinner on our second night. “I’m worried he’s getting discouraged.” Pete hadn’t complained—that wasn’t his style—but I could sense his frustration building. For experienced anglers, a slow day is part of fishing’s natural rhythm. For Pete, each empty retrieve carried more weight.

“Nah, he’s almost there,” said Wes, always the unofficial morale officer on our trips. “We’ve worked out all the kinks, and tomorrow’s going to be the day.”

GOING DEEPER

The next morning, we followed a new plan. We fished hard until noon, then returned to camp for lunch. Pete rested up during the scorching afternoon heat, while Wes and I explored new spots. Then we all headed out again for the evening bite.

During our morning outing, Pete had latched onto a lure that just felt right to him—a gold Willams Bully spoon. Weighing almost an ounce, it cast easily, sank quickly and was easy to control on the retrieve. With it, Pete quickly hooked a few fish. He didn’t get them in, but it was a step in the right direction. And instead of fiddling around changing baits, he stuck with the Bully, honing his skills. And as it turned out, the spoon was perfect for tossing into the deep hole in front of that outflow, where his rod finally doubled over on something truly big.

As the unseen fish twisted, turned and threw its weight around, Pete was excited, but remained focused—while also seeming to not entirely believe it was finally happening. Meanwhile, Wes and I engaged in the age-old fishing tradition of bombarding him with unsolicited, pointless and conflicting advice.

“Keep your rod tip up!” Wes urged.

“Let it run if it wants to,” I added.

Pete tuned us out and tapped into some long-dormant, maybe even genetic, fish-fighting instinct. A few minutes later, Wes plunged our big hoop net into the water, and Pete perfectly led the fish in. It was a broad-backed, 33-inch northern pike—a respectable fish by any standard, and an absolute trophy for a first-timer. As Pete confidently held up the fish for a photo, his face radiated with excitement, reminding me why I fell in love with fishing in the first place.

That night at the cabin, he kept reliving the moment. The strike. The fight. The feeling of connection to something wild and powerful. Landing that pike was more than just a fishing success—it was a reminder that adventure was still very much within Pete’s reach.

And just like that, we found our groove. It wasn’t fancy or complicated, just three guys with different abilities, different levels of fishing experience, and the same desire to be out there, together. For Pete, the dam broke. He began to cast with confidence, and seemed to be knee-deep in fish for the rest of the trip, all on his Bully spoon. He even caught the fish we used for our taco night—his first time supplying others with wild protein.