I want to preface my story with a warning to anyone who goes fishing regularly near the Huron Swamp in Michigan: when your instincts tell you that something is off during your fishing trip, no matter how unjustified they might seem, believe them. As you read on, I’m sure you’ll agree that there were plenty of signs of impending danger during my trip before disaster struck, all of which I dismissed. Don’t make my mistake. That nagging feeling that something is wrong is older than mankind and often a lot wiser.
To those of you who’ve ever gone river fishing: have you ever set out one day and had the conviction that you were going to bag something massive? The kind of fish you have to wrestle with to get it on dry land? I had never experienced that conviction before now. A lifetime of fishing in the swamp had taught me to temper my expectations, to anticipate little action and accept that some days are barren for no good reason. I went on every trip with all of this in mind until two days ago.
I prepared my gear according to my certainty that I’d land a monster that day, broke out my sturdiest composite fishing rod, my Daiwa spinning reel and a double-hooked shrimp lure. In combination, it’s the kind of gear that I think can reel in anything short of a whale. Overkill. I don’t know how I got it into my head that I’d be fishing out something large. Maybe it was the cover of grey clouds that promised rain. Rainfall churns the water and the silt in rivers, and large fish become more active when they have drifting sediment and a choppy surface to conceal themselves. I guess I felt it was perfect weather for it. Makes the rest of the day feel preordained somewhat.
I set out on foot in the afternoon with my rod, a length of plastic rope and a portable fridge with four bottles of Heineken. There was a section of river that I thought held promise, a secluded stretch concealed by surrounding red oak. Deep enough that i couldn’t see the bottom from the riverbank, but with gently sloping sides that would allow me to wade a good distance into the water without losing my footing. Big fish often force you to do that, you have to go in and drag them out. The rope I brought with me was meant to make the task of pulling my hypothetical giant out of the water easier.
The first half-hour of casting and reeling and casting again was completely uneventful. More than that, it felt like a single moment stretched in time. There seemed to be no current in the river. Not a single ripple on the surface, just a flat mirror to the grey sky above, like a slab of veined marble among the trees. I leaned back against a trunk and listened for the gentle rustling of leaves above me. I think there’s a specific name for that sound. Begins with a p. But the leaves were as still and mute as the water.
So I focused instead on the smell, the scent of damp earth. There’s a name for that too, one that also starts with a p. I remembered this one. Petrichor. I’ve always found it soothing.
Then the rod curved. It did so gradually, steadily, and I felt a growing strain against my right hand as the rod formed a gentle arc. Not a good sign. You know when you’ve hooked something alive when the tip of the rod quivers and trembles. This didn’t look like that at all. In fact, it gave every sign that the lure had lodged itself under a sunken branch or boulder. I decided to quickly reel the line in to confirm my suspicion.
As soon as I started spinning the reel, however, I found that I could bring the nylon back without too much trouble, and the rod wasn’t bending any further. Whatever was on the end of my line was heavy, but it was yielding to my effort. It was coming up.
The first hint of it was a dark oval resolving itself below the sky’s reflection, becoming more and more distinguishable as it rose about twelve yards away from me. I’ve always felt that one of the most thrilling parts of fishing is seeing your line zag to and fro as you watch something dashing in and out of sight underwater like a submerged comet. None of that here, just the slow upward movement of something that seemed to grow in size as it neared the surface.
It appeared over the water like a submarine, exposing its full length to the open air for me to estimate from afar. Seventy goddamned inches long. I was sure I had just pulled a gator until I noticed the dorsal fin on its brown back and the thin curved barbels on is head. A flathead catfish. Never in my life had I seen one this huge. It was easily the largest river fish I’d ever encountered, dwarfing every muskie and gar that I had successfully caught over the years.
I would have been over the moon about it if it weren’t for how lifeless the thing looked. Again, no to and fro, no thrashing, not the least bit of resistance. I began to reel it towards me and it came without a fight, cutting the water in a straight line like a canoe. Maybe the hooks had snagged its bloated carcass by the mouth or the gills, I tentatively supposed, or else it was a sickly adult that had managed to clamp down on the lure with what little effort it could muster. The thought that it was dead or dying hampered my enthusiasm, though it didn’t completely kill it.
The rain chose that moment to start, sudden as the opening of a faucet. The leaves cackled in unison with the river and the petrichor became intense in my nostrils. Heavy rainfall crashed against the fish’s hide, coating it in countless tiny splashes as it came towards me.
It was within seven yards from my position when it showed the first sign of life. It came so unexpectedly that I ducked in reflex. There was nothing sudden or violent about its movement, however. Its tail had simply swished to its left in a wide arc, almost touching the barbels on the face, slowly, deliberately. Then it repeated the motion towards its right. Left. Right again. Pushing the whole body backwards. Slow and powerful like the strokes of an oar.
So powerful, in fact, that I soon found that I was making very little progress in drawing it forward. My grip on the rod was failing to the point where I had to release the reel’s rotary handle and grab the pole with both hands. By the time it was six yards away I knew it wasn’t coming any closer. I could see the fish’s eyes at this distance. Beady black pearls with a challenge in them. I was going to have to wade in and pull it out.
I think it was around this time that I became slightly unnerved. The fish had gone from inert passivity to purposeful movement without apparent cause. Most of my excitement for catching it had waned by then. For the most part I was just puzzled. Maybe that’s what kept me going, the intrigue of my prey’s behavior, the sheer weirdness of it. I wedged the rod in a narrow fork between two branches, took my rope with a quivering hand and made my way towards the fish.
I reached the water’s edge and continued slowly. Foot-deep. Knee-deep. By the time I was waist-deep I had left the cover of the overhanging tree. Rain pelted my head and boiled the water. My eyes were fixed on the animal’s head. I can’t say whether I was trying to preempt a sudden lunge. I don’t know if the things I remember seeing beyond this point are imagined, my brain’s way of chastising me after the threat has been more than confirmed for not heeding obvious signs of peril. Could be that I’m imagining having noticed the fish’s slick skin gliding over itself, or the black eyes drooping below where their sockets should be, or the too-open mouth.
I don’t remember reaching for the mouth. I definitely don’t think I shoved my left arm down the thing’s gullet.
The shock of warmth on my skin came a split second before the pain. After that is was agony. Synapses screaming along my trapped limb, an impossible pressure forcing its way through skin and muscle, prying me open. I think I yelled. I couldn’t even tell what I was doing. Beating the thing with my free fist, maybe. Kicking. Splashing. There was definitely splashing. The fish was moving with me. Thrashing, finally. Or throbbing. Convulsing.
The exact moment when I freed myself is completely gone from my memory. I might as well have blacked out. The next thing I can recall was collapsing against the nearest tree trunk. My armed was sleeved in red. I must have been in shock, because for a mad instant I thought about cracking open one of the Heinekens, celebrating my survival. Then I pictured the catfish slithering out of the water, hunting me. I turned.
I could see it in the water through sheets of rain. Different, now. Flatter. I could see the greenish depths under the agitated surface through its body. Skin.
The animal’s skin, all in one piece, floated away from the river’s edge. A hollow ghost among the foam.
I ran home, I abandoned my equipment. Bushes whipped scars into my shins. The rain was beating a percussion into the foliage around me. Petrichor clogged my throat.
I threw the door to my house open, burst into my bathroom and ran the shower over my bloodied arm, almost throwing up from the stench of metal. Once I had washed most of the blood away, I was able to examine my wound. Three ragged holes in a line along the underside of my forearm, each smaller than a quarter. I couldn’t help a sob. The pain had been so severe that I was sure I would be staring at my bones through a wide gash. This was nothing next to what I expected. Far more bizarre, but not horrible. For a while I remained there, slumped over my arm.
I drove myself to hospital after I regained my composure. Got an antibiotic shot, a tetanus shot, a rabies shot. I told the people treating me that it had been a dog. I wasn’t about to tell them a catfish bit me. Catfish can’t bite. They have minuscule rasping teeth that do little more than keep prey inside the mouth once it’s caught. They don’t hurt, they don’t even leave a mark on you, let alone bleeding holes.
After a half-hour waiting period with no negative reactions from the shots, I went back home with my left forearm wrapped in a bandage. That night was largely sleepless. I spent much of it sat up in my bed just contemplating the arm, pressing on it lightly to test the pain. It had subsided steadily over time, leaving a dull itch in its wake. My lack of sleep combined with my fractured recollection had me questioning whether I had really felt such excruciating agony when I was grabbed. I still have doubts, even now.
The itch has mostly receded by now. Now and then I get a prickling sensation that runs up and down my arm on tiny barbed feet. I felt it right before I began writing this, actually. It reached my shoulder. Not sure what to make of it. I might ask the doctors about it when I get my next rabies shot.
I’m still having trouble sleeping. My anxiety keeps waking me up in the middle of the night. Or at least I think I’m waking up. Hard to tell when you’re sleep-deprived. Last night I found myself slouched over the washbasin in the bathroom facing the white glare of the lamp above the mirror. My guess is I had woken up after sleepwalking my way over there, because I felt the cold of the basin’s rim against my hands pretty clearly, but some of it must have been a half-dream. My bandage was gone. I could see my exposed forearm in the mirror. I looked at the scarred copper circles in my reflection and thought I could see the skin around them sliding and rippling like mercury. Can’t remember anything between that and waking up in the morning with the bandage still wrapped around my arm.
I’ve been debating with myself how I should end this post for a while now. I still have to go back to the river, get my gear back. Not the rope I lost in the water, that can go to hell. Hate the thought of going near the place again, but I might call a friend of mine over and we can bring it back together tomorrow morning. I might post an update to let you know how it went. Or to tell you how my wound has developed, or to reassure anyone who wants to know how I’m holding up. That sounds like a good idea.
But I want to reiterate my advice before I stop, my warning or whatever. If you live anywhere around the swamp like me, if you go there with some frequency, be cautious. If something doesn’t feel right, get out of there. Trust your gut, it knows best. And don’t let your curiosity get the better of you.
It smells like petrichor in here again.