Powell Walker is a 17-year- old who has been fishing at Lake Powell and following Wayneswords for a long time. This report was sent to the Lake Powell Chronicle and published as a Letter to the Editor. Enjoy!
If all my experiences with prepared fish could be like my first with walleye, there would be a lot fewer fish in the lake. I was about 8 years old and had been hearing for weeks about the striper boils up lake at Bullfrog. When my mom read Wayne Gustaveson’s fishing report I couldn’t imagine there truly was a scene, hungry striper “boiling” as far as the eye could see, feasting on shad, and ripe for the taking.
It was a tale out of “My Fishing Adventured” book and my mom knew if it was true that it was something I had to experience. Unbeknownst to me, she started to watch the weather for a break in the monsoon to take us up there, in hopes of allowing us – the fisherman’s dream - a fish every cast until your arm was sore.
There eventually was one and she put us in a boat and headed 100 miles up lake. A day later we arrived at Hall’s Crossing in an early afternoon downpour. I remember the moment, sitting on the back of a ski boat waiting for the rain to stop. The sound of the raindrops on the tin roof, marking the time, and my unwavering belief in Wayne’s Words when I saw my first boil. I grabbed my pole and started to run. It was one of the few times I didn’t look back to see if my brother was coming. It was here. There was a striper boil and I was going to catch every one of them on my “Toy Story” pole.
I don’t know how many I caught but it was a lot and I was exhausted well before sunset and fast asleep before even a sleeping bag could be found. Then about 8 PM… what I thought back then was the wee hours of the night, I was awakened by the sound of voices and the smell of something I could not place. When I opened my eyes there as a man who looked like Santa, in nothing but overalls, standing on the dock handing my mom a plate of food.
Now if you know my mom, you would know she was horrified that she had to accept this offering of deep fried walleye, but the kindly man had promised earlier in the day while we were waiting for the rain to stop that he would prepare some good eats for the two little fishermen, who in waiting for the boils could do nothing but marvel at the beauty of his fishing boat – a monster relic from decades past, bright orange – and inhabited by a man who could tell a fish story and clean the fish like nobody’s business.
I don’t know if it was because I was half-starved from the limited rations my mom packed, or if it was my first taste of anything deep-fried, but that walleye melted in my mouth: Buttery and crisp.
Quickly, I recognized that was the time to be as silent as possible and not wake my brother, which would mean I would have to give him his share. And so, I ate it all - every delicious bite. Since then, I have gone through phases of trying to replicate its deliciousness but have never come close.
Similarly, we went back for the boils several times over the next several years, but we never saw the man in the overalls again. Sometimes I don’t even think he was real except every time I catch a walleye I can taste that fish and remember, and remember his culinary gift and that reminds me of the love of a mom, to drive 100 miles up lake to let me experience what has to be lake magic.
Powell Walker
Editors Note: Powell Walker, 17, was named after Lake Powell and often visits the lake to fish. His grandmother, Pam Diez, says her grandson likes spending his summers at the lake, and is very passionate about and follows Wayne’s fishing report regularly.
Thanks to Powell Walker for his great story and for following Wayneswords since he was 8 years old! Amazing! Wayne
If all my experiences with prepared fish could be like my first with walleye, there would be a lot fewer fish in the lake. I was about 8 years old and had been hearing for weeks about the striper boils up lake at Bullfrog. When my mom read Wayne Gustaveson’s fishing report I couldn’t imagine there truly was a scene, hungry striper “boiling” as far as the eye could see, feasting on shad, and ripe for the taking.
It was a tale out of “My Fishing Adventured” book and my mom knew if it was true that it was something I had to experience. Unbeknownst to me, she started to watch the weather for a break in the monsoon to take us up there, in hopes of allowing us – the fisherman’s dream - a fish every cast until your arm was sore.
There eventually was one and she put us in a boat and headed 100 miles up lake. A day later we arrived at Hall’s Crossing in an early afternoon downpour. I remember the moment, sitting on the back of a ski boat waiting for the rain to stop. The sound of the raindrops on the tin roof, marking the time, and my unwavering belief in Wayne’s Words when I saw my first boil. I grabbed my pole and started to run. It was one of the few times I didn’t look back to see if my brother was coming. It was here. There was a striper boil and I was going to catch every one of them on my “Toy Story” pole.
I don’t know how many I caught but it was a lot and I was exhausted well before sunset and fast asleep before even a sleeping bag could be found. Then about 8 PM… what I thought back then was the wee hours of the night, I was awakened by the sound of voices and the smell of something I could not place. When I opened my eyes there as a man who looked like Santa, in nothing but overalls, standing on the dock handing my mom a plate of food.
Now if you know my mom, you would know she was horrified that she had to accept this offering of deep fried walleye, but the kindly man had promised earlier in the day while we were waiting for the rain to stop that he would prepare some good eats for the two little fishermen, who in waiting for the boils could do nothing but marvel at the beauty of his fishing boat – a monster relic from decades past, bright orange – and inhabited by a man who could tell a fish story and clean the fish like nobody’s business.
I don’t know if it was because I was half-starved from the limited rations my mom packed, or if it was my first taste of anything deep-fried, but that walleye melted in my mouth: Buttery and crisp.
Quickly, I recognized that was the time to be as silent as possible and not wake my brother, which would mean I would have to give him his share. And so, I ate it all - every delicious bite. Since then, I have gone through phases of trying to replicate its deliciousness but have never come close.
Similarly, we went back for the boils several times over the next several years, but we never saw the man in the overalls again. Sometimes I don’t even think he was real except every time I catch a walleye I can taste that fish and remember, and remember his culinary gift and that reminds me of the love of a mom, to drive 100 miles up lake to let me experience what has to be lake magic.
Powell Walker
Editors Note: Powell Walker, 17, was named after Lake Powell and often visits the lake to fish. His grandmother, Pam Diez, says her grandson likes spending his summers at the lake, and is very passionate about and follows Wayne’s fishing report regularly.
Thanks to Powell Walker for his great story and for following Wayneswords since he was 8 years old! Amazing! Wayne
(I’m the middle boy of three).