It’s funny how memories stick with you like they happened yesterday.
Thirteen years ago, I came home from a long day delivering packages for UPS. I poured a glass of wine, sat down to unwind and did what I still do most nights — checked my email to see if anyone was looking to book a fishing trip.
There it was.
“Hey just wondering if by chance y’all had any time Tuesday morning/afternoon for a guide fishing trip. I am a country artist and I’ll be up there playing. Not real particular about what kind of fishing. Just wanna get out. Thank you — Tyler Farr.”
My first instinct was to Google him — and I know you would’ve done the same. At the time, his hit “Redneck Crazy” was climbing the charts. It was everywhere — on the radio, on CMT, blasting from trucks with the windows down. The guys from Duck Dynasty even appeared in the video.
Once I realized it was real, I ran upstairs and woke my boys.
“You’ll never guess who just emailed me,” I said. “Tyler Farr — the guy who sings ‘Redneck Crazy.”
Tait bolted downstairs and bought the song. Jax, my youngest, looked at me and said, “Dad, it’s fake. Someone’s messing with you.”
But it wasn’t.
I replied.
“Tyler, Just reread your email. I was literally watching a recording of the CMT Awards — funny you reached out. Do you sing “Redneck Crazy”? Great song. Are you fly fishing or spin fishing?”
He wrote back:
“Yeah, that’s my song — thank you. We’re playing at the Gracie Theatre at Husson University. I spin and fly fish both. Thanks, TFarr”
We set it for Tuesday at 9 a.m.
I called out of work at UPS. No way was I missing that opportunity. In the back of my mind, I thought if I pull this off, maybe other country artists will want to fish too. It was a long shot — not because of him, but because it was mid-November in Maine, and we were targeting smallmouth bass.
Those odds weren’t good.
I warned them. “It’s going to be slow. The fish will be deep. It’ll be cold.”
They didn’t care. They had hunting clothes.
My bigger concern was finding fish. By November, smallmouth slide into deep wintering holes and barely move. I knew of one stretch about ten minutes upriver where they should be stacked. It was our best shot.
Now I just had to make sure it wasn’t a hoax.
I showed up at Husson at 8:30, just in case they were early.
I waited.
By 9:30, doubt started creeping in. Maybe Jax was right.
Around 10 a.m., my phone buzzed. They were running late but would be there by 11.
Sure enough, a big tour bus rolled into the lot. No hoax.
We shook hands, geared up and headed to the ramp. As soon as I backed the boat in, it started snowing — not gentle flakes, but wind-driven, stinging-your-face snow.
I fired up the motor and ran upriver. Within minutes, they were tapping me on the shoulder.
“We can’t keep going — we’re freezing.”
Plan B.
The only protection from the wind was a cluster of islands, but the water there was only four feet deep — not ideal for November smallmouth. Still, it was what we had. I switched them to spin rods. Fly fishing in that wind would have been punishment.
I always tell my clients I’ve never been skunked. Don’t be the first.
The pressure was on.
To my surprise, they started getting bites, but they kept missing them. Short strikes. Cold-water nips. About an hour in, Tyler needed to call into a radio station in Nashville.
So there we were, tucked behind an island in a Maine snow squall while he went live on the radio giving away concert tickets. His manager mentioned he had recently had dinner at Garth Brooks’ house.
Meanwhile, I was staring at sideways snow and praying for one fish.
Time was running out. They were cold. The concert was that night.
Then it happened.
Tyler’s rod doubled over.
“Easy. Keep tension. Don’t lose this one.”
We needed that fish in the net.
And we got it.
It wasn’t a bronze-backed smallmouth.
It wasn’t even close.
It was one of Maine’s most native species — a wild fallfish. A chub.
We didn’t care.
We snapped a photo. High fives all around. Mission accomplished.
“Let’s get out of here,” someone said.
We loaded the boat like we’d just won a tournament.
Before leaving, Tyler told me I could bring whoever I wanted to the concert that night. I called everyone I knew. Most couldn’t go on short notice, but two young guys — Dan and Nathaniel — were in.
The concert didn’t disappoint. Tyler had the place on its feet. My boys were wide-eyed at their first real concert. Afterward, he brought us backstage, signed photos, shook hands and thanked us.
It started with an email I thought might be a prank.
It ended with snow blowing sideways, a chub in the net and my boys standing backstage at a country concert.
Over the years, guiding has introduced me to people and places I never would have experienced otherwise. Celebrities, CEOs, everyday working folks — once they step into the boat, they’re just anglers chasing a bite.
That day wasn’t about the size of the fish. It wasn’t about perfect conditions. It was about saying yes, adapting when things go sideways and making something memorable out of four feet of water and a snowstorm.
Fishing has a way of connecting worlds that don’t usually overlap — country music tours and Maine riverbanks, tour buses and aluminum boats. And it all started with checking my email before bed.
I’ve been blessed on this journey — to guide, to meet people I never expected to meet and to share those moments with my boys.
And I still check my email every night.
You never know who might be looking to just “get out.”
