A Guide to Identifying Fish and Friend Behaviors

Article by Patrick Allred

Cast

I met John in 2015. He was dressed in an ironed button-up shirt, slacks, and his hair combed and crisply parted. That polished look couldn’t have been further from the man I’d come to know. I was working as a behavior therapist at a clinic for kids with autism. John had just accepted the position as a new clinical director, and would soon be my boss, but I didn’t know that yet either. I was playing with a few kids in the jungle gym room, when he walked in and stood in the corner, watching me. Strangers observing wasn’t unusual, but I didn’t care—I was planning to quit and bartend or find something else. I enjoyed the work but saw no future in it. I was in my early twenties, somewhat adrift in life. I had dropped out of school, and wasn’t sure where to turn next.

Later that day, I got a call from the front office. It was John and he wanted to speak to me. We sat down on a couch inside his new office, surrounded by packing boxes and empty filing cabinets. He looked at me, and said something I had never heard anybody tell me before: “You have a gift.”

I stared at him dubiously. He had watched me for about 20 minutes play with kids. What could he know about me? 

“I know, because I have the same gift.”

I fought hard not to roll my eyes at this weird display of confidence. He smiled, knowing how this all must sound. He proceeded to tell me who he was. A young dude, not much older than me, newly married with a kid on the way. He had moved his whole family from California to start a job he had never done before, but he had been working in the field of behavior therapy for years. I could immediately sense he was incredibly passionate about it. I had never seen the kind of intensity with which he spoke about this kind of work. I was intrigued.

Tangle

I accepted John’s offer to work with him, and we quickly became friends. He was weird. His humor was quirky, dark, and could be unintentionally biting. He was loyal to a fault, but struggled with being patient with people he didn’t like. Every conversation with him felt substantial, his brain was constantly moving, assessing, creating. 

He proudly wore only two pairs of Japanese denim. The song “All Star” by Smash Mouth could be interwoven into any conversation. He had a poorly done tattoo of Mt. Rushmore on his chest. When he told me the story of how he got the tattoo, I still didn’t understand why he got it. 

I quickly realized that what I thought was bravado at his “gift” was just a statement of fact. He was insanely good at his job. Working with kids with autism is rewarding and difficult. He somehow was able to connect to even the most reserved kid. He had a sixth sense for being able to tap into their interests, and they would light up. He had no ego when it came to his work. It wasn’t uncommon to see him chasing a child down the hallways of the clinic growling like a dinosaur, or sitting next to a kid quietly inspecting the undersides of leaves to see the sun come through. He understood them in ways that no one else could.

John helped me discover I had a gift as well. We would spend hours together working with kids, I discovered that I was creative in ways that weren’t valued in the outside world. I could make games or activities that would spark the interest of kids with atypical interests. For the first time, I felt like I was good at something.

Hook

John was approached me about it with trepidation at first. We were at lunch, he was eating a whole avocado and a few slices of a brisket he had smoked over the weekend. (“Eating is a nuisance. I just need some protein and I’m good to go.”) He asked me if I had ever heard about tenkara. I said no, but I politely asked what it was. Big mistake.

John doesn’t have hobbies. He has obsessions. He doesn’t do anything without fully diving in. From tenkara, to baseball card collecting, to ugly cars, he devours every bit of information he can find on a subject and then perfects the hobby until he is an expert. Tenkara was no different. 

He had been fishing for about a year at that point. He eagerly explained the basics, showing me videos from “Teton Tenkara”, photos on his phone of unimpressive cutthroat he had caught in a local stream, and the reason why kebari was seen as “true tenkara,” but he didn’t worry about that.

“Okay,” I groaned, checking the clock to see that we had used up our entire lunch break on the conversation, “I’ll go.”

Set

We met at a small creek by his house. It was warm summer Saturday morning. The water was so cold it hurt my feet. He tied everything up and handed me the rod, teaching me the casting motion. Like magic, I had a fish hooked within 10 minutes. We pulled it in, him laughing maniacally, almost dancing with excitement. It was infectious. We alternated with each fish caught, moving up the creek until a bridge stopped our progress. That afternoon, I went and bought some waders and boots.

That summer, we were meeting almost twice a week to go fishing. We had several favorite spots, but a lot of the fun was pouring over maps, and identifying rivers and streams that would be our next Fishing El Dorado. Summer was Chacos and shorts, with sandwiches in plastic bags. He often brought a huge thermos of grape koolaid that had a metallic taste. As it got colder, and we got into our waders and balaclavas, we would bring backpacking stoves and heat up Top Ramen to eat after we were done fishing. 

The drives became integral to the fishing experience. Long conversations of music, relationships, basketball, work drama, the best bad movies, religion, the nuance of meat purchasing, embarrassing sexual encounters, philosophy, nothing was taboo or off limits. 

I found myself looking forward to the conversations as much as the fishing. John always carefully considered the questions I posed, and his advice and insight felt revelatory and tailored. He had an anecdote for everything. He was also vulnerable with his own struggles. His self awareness of his own shortcomings was a refreshing change from typical male bravado. He was quick to express his feelings. He was heartfelt in his concern. 

This was all new to me. Up until then, my friendships were exercises in the sharpest teasing, driest sarcasm, and wettest fart jokes. These deep conversations about complex ideas without irony or judgement, sprinkled with the occasional flatulence showed me a world of masculine friendship I didn’t know existed.  

Catch

For about 4 years, we worked together, fishing all the while. We would start up the rhythm of fishing in spring and then slow down as it got colder. We took a few multiple day trips, backpacking, or staying in hotels when he wanted to get a good nights sleep.

I eventually left the clinic job to pursue other career choices, but John and I continued to fish together. The rhythm slowed as life got busier, and the outings became fewer and farther between.

I distinctly remember a conversation during this time. We were suiting up outside his Subaru on a dirt road, the leaves on the aspens around us were just starting to turn yellow.

“Let’s make a deal Patrick. I don’t want us to feel any obligation to maintaining this relationship, we’re both busy, so either of us declining an offer to go fishing doesn’t mean anything.  Whether it’s next week or next year, we’ll always pick up where we left off. Just know that we’ll always be friends.”

At the time, I laughed ignoring his earnestness, “Of course man, but I get the first cast at the beaver dam this time. You blew it stomping around in the mud last time we were here.”

John died nine months later on May 17, 2023. I don’t know the details, just that he got some respiratory problems, went to the hospital, they sent him home with some medicine and he died that night. I hadn’t seen him in about seven months. We had texted a few weeks before about getting together, but it never materialized. 

I didn’t fish at all that year. 

Release

I drove out yesterday to fish one of our old stretches. It’s cold, but sunny. The trees are mostly bare, which is nice because it’s easier to find my fly when I inevitably snag it on an overhead branch. The water levels are low, but there are some nice deep holes next to the banks that I can make out some hogs drifting down in the shadows. I have a misshapen “Utah Killer Bug” fly that John taught me how to tie that works pretty well for this stretch. I survey the conditions, looking at the seams and ripples, trying to imagine how a caddis hatch would naturally drift. I cast, and I can immediately hear John, “Keep your line off the water, but don’t jerk it!” 

I love tenkara because it feels like one of many gifts that a friend gave me. Each cast feels like a memory. Each fish feels like a confirmation of our friendship. 

Within ten minutes of getting in the river, I have a buttery brown in my hands. We stare into each other’s eyes, regarding the strange relationship that we have in that moment, and I gently slide him back into the water, carefully allowing him to drift out of my hands, just like John taught me.  He leaves smoothly, swimming downstream. I still miss him.

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Patrick Allred lives in Utah. He is good at setting his hooks too hard, startling fish by walking over them, but his daughter thinks he’s pretty funny, so he’s okay.

This article originally appeared in the 2025 print issue of Tenkara Angler magazine.

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