Posted on May 30, 2025

St. Joe River Monsters — Fishing Gone Wild

10

Bristol, Indiana — Blake Balyeat is the kind of fisherman who doesn’t need a big catch to make waves. With a voice loud enough to startle the geese and a playlist full of Trace Adkins, he turns every fishing trip into a sold-out show. To him, a relaxing day by the water means a little peace, a little quiet, and a little herbal boost to keep things interesting—because let’s be real, even fish stories are better when you’re half-baked.

Locals are used to seeing Blake down by the river, barefoot and beaming, his rod in one hand and a puff of “inspiration” in the other. He’s the kind of guy who thinks every ripple in the water has a story to tell—some about fish, some about the mysteries of the deep, and some about how the weed he smokes could probably out-fish half the guys on the water. But last Saturday, the river didn’t just whisper to Blake; it practically screamed.

He squinted at his favorite spot—a deep pool just beyond a fallen tree, where he swore the biggest fish always liked to hide. He took a breath, shifted his weight, and let the line fly, yelling “FIRE!” like he was shooting a cannonball. The line sliced through the air and landed with a satisfying splash, settling into that perfect sweet spot.

His heart was already racing when he felt the telltale tug on his line. His rod bent double in his hands, the line buzzing with tension. Instinct took over—he yanked back hard to set the hook, his arms straining like he was trying to crack open a safe. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he was sure he’d hooked the fish of a lifetime. That’s when he saw it, just under the surface: something massive and green, coiling in the current like it had been plucked straight from a Scottish legend.

In his mind, there was no doubt—he’d hooked the Loch Ness Monster itself. His excitement spiked like the tip of his fishing rod, and without even realizing it, he started yelling, “COMING DOWN!” as he scrambled down the riverbank, eyes locked on the prize. He probably sounded like a porn star in an adult movie—loud, breathless, and way too excited about what was coming.

With each step, he was sure the monster was pulling back, testing his mettle. The world slowed around him, every ripple and glint of sunlight sharper than ever. The sound of his drag screaming out was music to his ears, fueling his excitement even more. His senses were dialed up to eleven, every smell, sound, and splash as vivid as the first time he heard a Trace Adkins song. He was in his own personal wet dream—just him, a river full of mystery, and the fight of his life.

Seconds away from reeling in a living legend, he could feel every muscle in his body straining. The rod bent so hard it looked ready to snap, and the drag was still singing like Trace Adkins belting out “You’re Gonna Miss This.” Blake had never felt so alive—or so determined to haul in his prize. If he could’ve bottled that feeling and sold it, he’d be a millionaire.

He fought that “monster” with everything he had, sweat dripping down his face, feet slipping on the muddy bank. In the heat of the fight, he lost his balance and landed right on his badonkadonk, his muddy splash echoing like a standing ovation from the geese across the river. Nothing like a hard landing to remind you that you’re not getting any younger.

But he didn’t care. Mud in his hair and water in his boots, he kept yelling, “COMING DOWN!” like a man possessed, each shout louder than the last. He was sure he was about to become a legend himself—until the “monster” finally broke the surface, revealing itself for what it really was: a waterlogged log, dressed up in weeds like it was heading to a cheap Halloween party. Talk about a buzzkill.

Blake blinked, staring at the log in disbelief. It bobbed on the surface, looking like it was just as surprised to be there as he was. The adrenaline was still pounding in his veins, his breath coming in ragged gasps. For a moment, he just sat there, soaking wet and half covered in mud, his rod still in hand like he’d been knighted by the fishing gods themselves. It wasn’t the fish of his dreams, but hey, he’d been romancing worse-looking things after a few too many beers at the bar.

The geese across the river seemed to be laughing at him, honking their approval of the greatest fishing misfire they’d seen all year. But Blake wasn’t about to let them—or anyone else—dull his shine. He looked back at the log, then up at the sky, and let out a deep, rolling laugh. “Well, shit,” he said to no one in particular. “You can’t say I didn’t give it hell. Even the river knows it’s a party when I’m here.”

He stood up, wiping mud off his shorts and flicking weeds from his hair. He took another drag from his “inspiration” and let the smoke drift out over the water. “You know what?” he thought, grinning. “That was worth every damn second. Besides, it’s not like I had a better plan today.”

Blake pulled out his phone and snapped a photo of his prize log, because if there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s turn a lost battle into a tall tale. “This one’s for the highlight reel,” he chuckled, already imagining how he’d tell the story later. No fish, no problem—he had a log, a legend, and a memory that would outlast any hangover.

He packed up his gear, still humming along to “Songs About Me” in his head, and made his way back up the bank. The river had put him through the wringer, but it had also given him a story—and in Blake Balyeat’s world, that’s worth more than the biggest fish in the water.

When asked about the mix-up by Bitch Say What, Blake simply shrugged and said, “Hey, man, art is subjective. Plus, that log had some serious sea monster vibes, dude.” The elusive Loch Ness Monster may still be out there, but for now, Bristol is left with the legend of the Stoned Fisherman.