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

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.

The following evening, we returned to the same outflow. I was using a big Mepps Syclops spoon—the closest thing in my tacklebox to Pete’s Bully—and lightning struck again. As soon as I set the hook, I knew I had a serious fish on the line

“Need any advice?” Pete said from his seat in the bow. “Keep your rod tip up!” he called, guffawing at his own wit. “Set the hook!”

It was a memorable fight, as the fish stayed deep, rolling and shaking its head. Then it came up, and Wes, as brilliant a net man as you could hope for, lifted it into the boat. It was a well-fed 38-inch northern, and just the kind of catch you hope for on an outpost trip.