Benjamin was a good friend of mine, although I knew almost nothing about him, despite being friends with him for nearly a decade. All I knew were the whispers about how he was once a very well known fly fishing guide near the Kenai River, in Alaska.
He was a man of few words, and rarely showed any inch of emotion. For all of the years I’ve known him, I’ve only heard him cuss once. But his stoic demeanor made him a reliable friend, one that I appreciated and loved to take on hunts when given the chance.
One instance brought us to Tennessee, where I got him and his son on their first turkeys ever, in this hidden gem of a spot I had found on public land, years prior. Seeing him and his son fired up as they carried the dead Toms over their shoulders was more than worth calling for them in 90 degree heat, all while getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.
Normally, it would have taken a few waterboarding sessions to divulge a secret turkey hunting honey-hole. But Ben was one of those friends I knew I could trust, so him bringing his son along for an extra bird didn't bother me in the slightest. The more the merrier as far as I was concerned.
“Man, that was one of the coolest hunts I've been on. What can I do to repay you?” Benjamin asked, gratefully, yet monotonous.
“Funny you should ask, I’ve heard countless stories about how great of a fly angler you are. Any chance you could take me to one of your hot-spots back in Illinois?”
“Done. Let’s set it up next month. I know the perfect spot to take you.”
The night before, Ben called me and gave me directions to a Family Dollar just a few minutes away from the spot. At first I thought maybe he didn’t trust me enough to give me directions to the stream, so a meet-up before might keep me from coming back without his permission. And then seconds later I was certain that was his motive.
He began to emphasize just how unknown this place was, and that even a few whispers of it could lead to its ruin from overuse. I was grateful that he invited me to such a private spot, but then again, he and his son did take two Toms off my private honey-hole.
Needless to say, this spot did not disappoint. Within minutes I had landed a 25" hybrid that fought like a steelhead. Within the next hour we had reeled in countless respectable smallies and even a few more hybrids. All in all, the action far exceeded anything I have ever found in my home state.
After about three hours of constant bites and several giants landed, we decided to pack it up and grab a beer at a local lunch spot. I finally got to hear all about Ben’s years guiding in Alaska, going after grizzlies with clients, and even helping launch an outdoor company. Nearly a decade of friendship, who he was was shrouded in mystery, all it took was a turkey hunt and some fly fishing to uncover it all.
“Best stream I have found in the area, Ben. Next time we go, is it okay if I bring my father? He’s obsessed with fly fishing and he’ll think he’s in heaven at that spot.” I asked, as I finished the last gulp of my Heineken.
“Fuck no. Secret spots are sacred, Aaron.”