The One That Got Away: Reflections on Life, Love, and Letting Go

A Minnesota angler’s quiet day on the river unveils a heartfelt journey through love, loss, and the fish that changed everything. 🌐 #News #StPaulMN #Minnesota #Lifestyle

ST. PAUL, MN — Gary Johnson is a retired carpenter who finds peace fishing the Mississippi’s headwaters in Northern Minnesota. He shared this story with JackAndKitty.com for our series, Feel Good Stories. Gary says the goal of his writing is to capture the quiet miracles of a life shaped by love and loss. If you have a heartfelt tale of kindness, courage, or positivity, send it our way for consideration. – Jack and Kitty

The One That Got Away

The rod jerks hard, nearly yanking me into the Mississippi’s icy flow. I’m wading the headwaters outside Bemidji, Minnesota, where the river’s a clear, chattering stream winding through snow-crusted pines. The air smells of damp moss and frost, sharp enough to bite my lungs. My boots grind against the pebbled bottom, cold seeping through, numbing my shins. The line sings, taut and trembling, and the reel screeches like a hawk as the fish pulls. It’s no ordinary catch—feels like a giant, the kind I’ve chased since I was a boy.

I’m Gary Johnson, seventy-two, with hands gnarled from years of carpentry and fishing this river. The sky’s a heavy gray, spitting snow that stings my cheeks. My breath puffs white, curling in the chill, and I taste the faint tang of ice on my tongue. The rod bends double, wood creaking in my grip, and I see a flash below—silver-green, long as my leg, twisting in the current. A muskie, no doubt, fierce and stubborn, its scales catching the dim light like a blade. My arms ache, shoulders burning as I reel, slow, steady, feeling every thrash through the line. The wind moans, rattling bare birches, and the river’s gurgle is a hymn I’ve known my whole life.

“Come on, you beauty,” I grunt, voice rough, lost in the water’s rush. I’m thinking of Pa, his stories of the “ghost muskie” no one could land, his calloused hands guiding mine on this very bank. I was ten, all freckles and dreams, casting my line while he smoked his pipe, the sweet tobacco scent mixing with mud and fish. Now, my fingers stiff with arthritis, I feel him here, urging me on. The muskie fights like it knows my story, like it’s the sum of every hope I’ve tossed into these waters.

It breaks the surface, and I gasp, chest tight. The fish is a monster—three feet, maybe more, its body a sleek curve of muscle, eyes like dark coins glaring back. Water sprays, cold as glass on my face, and I laugh, raw and loud, the sound bouncing off the trees. I wade closer, the current tugging my thighs, and slip the net under its belly. My hands shake, slick with river water, as I lift just enough to free the hook. The muskie’s heavy, its fins slapping the mesh, and I feel its strength, wild and alive, like touching lightning.

I stumble to the bank, boots crunching frost and grass, and ease the fish onto a bed of leaves. My Polaroid camera swings from my neck, scratched but trusty. I kneel, knees popping, and frame the shot—muskie gleaming, snowflakes dusting its scales, the river a silver ribbon behind. The shutter clicks, a soft whirr, and the photo spits out, a blank square I slide into my coat pocket to develop. I stroke the fish’s flank, smooth and cool as river stone, and my throat catches. This isn’t just a catch—it’s for Pa, gone twenty years, who’d clap my back and call me a legend. It’s for Ellen, my wife, taken five winters back by a sudden illness, who’d roll her eyes at my fishing tales but kiss me soft when I came home smelling of the river.

“You’re free,” I whisper, lifting the net. I wade back, the cold biting my legs, and lower it into the flow. The muskie twists, tail smacking my wrist, and darts away, a shadow melting downstream. I stand there, water lapping my boots, feeling hollow but whole, like I’ve given the river something sacred. The wind kicks up, sharp enough to cut, and I reach for the Polaroid. My fingers find nothing. The pocket’s empty.

My heart stumbles. I pat my coat, my vest, frantic, then scan the bank—wet grass, scattered leaves, the river’s endless ripple. The photo’s gone, stolen by the gusts. I lurch forward, boots slipping, and drop to my knees, hands clawing through mud and twigs. The cold soaks my gloves, smells of earth and decay, and my eyes burn, not from snow but loss. That photo was proof, not just of the fish but of me—Gary, the kid who believed, the man who never quit. I see Ellen’s smile, her hair gray but bright, packing my thermos with coffee, saying, “Catch that ghost for me.” I see Pa, his pipe glowing, nodding at the stars. It’s all in that picture, and now it’s nowhere.

I sit back, breath ragged, the river’s song louder now, like it’s trying to speak. My fingers graze something in the grass—a leaf, I think, but no, it’s the Polaroid, caught in a tangle of roots. I snatch it, hands trembling, and wipe the mud off with my sleeve. The image is faint, smudged by damp, but there’s the muskie, its curve like a crescent moon, my glove blurry beside it. I clutch it to my chest, snow melting on my knuckles, and laugh—a shaky, grateful sound. The wind didn’t win. The river gave it back.

I think of Ellen, how she’d say God hides in the small things—a fish, a photo, a moment. I think of Pa, teaching me faith is like casting a line: you don’t always see the catch, but you trust it’s there. My eyes sting, tears warm against the cold, and I know this muskie wasn’t just mine—it was theirs, too, a gift to carry me through. I stand, the photo safe in my fist, and whisper, “Thank You.” The river keeps flowing, steady as grace, and I head home, heart full, knowing some things you lose only to find what matters most. – Gary Johnson

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