Reflections: Quiet Lessons on Fall Browns in the Ozarks

This article was originally titled “Joe Heron” in the Reflections department of the June-July 2022 issue of In-Fisherman.

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I manage to roll out of bed —no alarm needed—early enough to spot the Big Dipper and [I think] Scorpio. “Save your slumber, son, for another day,” my dad was fond of saying.

It’s fall now in the Ozarks, prime time for those bold and beautiful spawning browns. I hunt only sizable bucks. The big girls carry future generations in their belly, do most of the tough stuff, and simply do not need another annoyance. Plus, I hear Dad’s voice extolling the virtues of being a conscientious angler. And though my dad did not phrase it this way, his message was nonetheless undeniably clear: Even if the big female pulls you toward her like a magnet and even if she’s right there in front of you looking as fetching as ever and even if she’s legal to land, it does not mean you are entitled to her.

I’m the first one on the tiny island, quiet in every way one can be quiet. Every move, if any, is deliberate, calculated. I imagine myself a hungry heron stalking its morning meal. It’s dawn now and I’m on my knees still, inching skyward only to improve my vantage point. I have yet to cause wrinkles on the water with an unfurled cast. I can hear my dad’s wise words, “undisturbed water is the best kind of water to fish; never step in it unnecessarily.” The full meaning of that sage advice eluded me then, but today it’s the hallmark of my approach to fishing. Dad would be proud.

The physical act of being quiet sets the right tone for everything else I do. Fret not, he would say, if you don’t see or hear anything, your lack of movement will likely stir a wary fish to move instead. In short order, I spot the protruding lower jaw of a big buck and the milky white mouth—opening, shutting, as if chewing on a chunk of jerky.

A single upstream cast, one semi-circle mend, and I hold vigil over my tiny, barbless apricot egg pattern as it floats close enough to his decent-sized chops and disappears. I throw an air-kiss to the fish gods as my dad smiles down on me. When I mull over my time on the water now, I heed my dad’s philosophy: The more you fish, the less you fish, replacing actual casting with celebrating all that’s around you.

A pleasant offshoot of remaining hushed on the water—especially at twilight—is the amalgamation of all five senses, of being perfectly swallowed up in the moment. Part of my dad’s legacy was showing his oldest boy the proper way to hunt fish, but, come to think of it, his true legacy was what he taught me on land. Work hard, Mark, on staying true to just a few things: be a diligent, oftentimes quiet observer of life and be sure to protect and conserve everything you hold sacred. My Dad’s Christian name was Joseph. Most of his close fishing buddies often referred to him—affectionately and appropriately—as “Joe Heron.” And now I understand why.

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Mark Miller is a retired college professor living with his wife in Ruston, Louisiana. His father had fishing not only in his blood but in his heart, and he passed it on.

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