A Special Place

It takes a special place to keep me coming back year after year. Memories, family, friends, and fishing can be created in many places—but the one my family holds dearest is Timothy Lake. Visiting each year, I look around the lake and see images of my daughter and friends’ children catching their first fish, the special spot where we remember our family's first four-legged child, teaching friends how to hold crawdads, and the laughter that follows falling into the lake off a boat.

With over a decade of experiences and memories here, it’s easy to assume you’ve learned all you can from a place. But this trip reminded me that even a reliable honey hole can still teach you something new.

The early mornings are mine—to venture out in the boat across the glassy surface of an empty lake. I head to my most reliable spot, armed with tried-and-true methods, ready to net some large rainbows that survived the winter and spring. Once anchored, I first heard, then spotted, the resident osprey overhead—assuring me that the fish were there. I cast out with full confidence.

But over the next few hours, despite steady casting, stripping, and floating, I caught nothing. That same osprey gave me proof that fish were, in fact, present—circling above before diving explosively into the lake's surface and grabbing its breakfast right beside me.

As I rode back to camp, pondering my failure but still enjoying the view of Mt. Hood, I was reminded that even though this lake feels like an extension of home, I am still a guest. The methods that had worked for years failed me—but I smiled, knowing I’d return tomorrow. I was given an opportunity to try new things and look more closely at the place I thought I knew so well—realizing I had been missing the smallest, most important details right in front of me.

For the rest of the day, I paid more attention—to the life around me, the temperature, the color and clarity of the water, the small creatures under rocks and flying through the air—and to the impact we all have when visiting these special places. With this new awareness, I gained a depth of experience I hadn’t even realized I was missing—until I missed the fish.

The next morning, I returned to the honey hole with new setups and a quiet curiosity about whether I had cracked the code. I was content. I knew that when I heard the surface break or felt the tug of a take, it would be earned—and all the more appreciated.

That morning, I met multiple trout and showed the osprey I had been paying attention. This experience reminded me that even the most comfortable, consistent, and treasured locations can still surprise us—and teach us. That’s what brings us back to these magical places. That’s what pushes us to expand our craft and share it with others.

When I returned to camp, the smell of breakfast wafted through the trees. My family smiled when they saw me walking up the path from the lake, eager to ask how the fishing was. It brought everything full circle.

The rest of the trip brought more encounters with finned friends, but when I reflect on this year’s visit, the most important takeaway isn’t the productive new setup or the tactics that cracked the code—it’s the reminder that missing fish might show you what you’ve truly been missing.