“I’ll never go fishing with you guys again,” Jeff professed to Jon and me in northern Arkansas, on the last day of March about seven years ago as we hauled him out of the Norfolk River around 9:30 p.m.

Jeff had completed a 14-hour excursion to catch big trout on the river below the Norfolk dam. I had loaned him my pontoon, consisting of two air-filled plastic tubes connected with a seat in between. He could navigate by paddling with oars or fins while wearing fishing waders.

Having had my turn to catch a limit of fish during a six-hour trip downriver the day before, my decrepit knees were sore and I was glad to give Jeff an opportunity to float and fish the fabled river.

He and my son left the shore below Norfolk dam around 7:30 a.m. The electric power generators at the dam had been turned off, which meant the river flow would be low and the fish would congregate in deep holes and crevices along the stream.

After seeing the guys off, I drove my Jeep and trailer to the parking lot at the take-out site six miles downstream, where Jeff had picked up Jon and me yesterday at a dock overlooking the river. I could fish wherever I could wade the river there.

Jon hung fairly close to Jeff throughout the day. We kept in touch by cell phone. Jeff had to laboriously drag his pontoon over shallow riverbed sections; he lost an oar in rough rapids that were more turbulent when the water was higher.

Jon caught his limit of trout by noon and I caught my limit by 3 p.m. To pass the time I talked with other fishers who had floated the river and landed at the dock, gave a few of my personally-tied flies to a mother and her teenage son who were fishing and commiserated with other fishers leaving the river about the tornadoes weather forecasters predicted for later that evening.

I became worried when lightning appeared on the western horizon around 8 p.m. My alarm surged when the lightning flashed closer and thunder reverberated loudly off the nearby canyon walls.

Finally, I spotted head lamps as both guys approached the stairway under the dock around 9:30 p.m. Jon was holding Jeff upright and Jeff was cursing. Poor Jeff was so tired that he could barely lift one foot ahead of the other; I helped him up the stairway to my vehicle while Jon stored the gear in the trailer. That Jeff hadn’t caught any fish made matters worse.

Hardly had we seated ourselves in my Jeep when high winds, heavy rain and hailstones pounded us. I prayed that the trees surrounding the parking lot wouldn’t tumble on us.

We waited for the storm to pass before driving to our rental cabin for a belated supper. Jeff went to bed without eating or showering, but still muttering. The next morning he swore we were trying to kill him … but he might join us if we fished somewhere from a boat.

Two years later we took Jeff’s boat to Lake Thompson in South Dakota for a walleye fishing adventure in late October that I wrote about in November 2016. Our boat became half-submerged as 8-foot waves and a blizzard descended on us.

Jeff wanted to abandon ship, but we bailed out water slightly faster than it filled the boat and we survived, albeit very wet and very cold.

Despite these mishaps, Jeff, Jon and I headed to northeastern South Dakota last weekend for some ice-fishing. Jon alerted Jeff that "the pressure is on – Dad needs some more chapters for his next book.”

I had warned the guys that my wife had scheduled me to accompany others in my family to the Shen Yun Chinese dance and cultural event on Sunday afternoon at the finest auditorium in Omaha. “Join me and we could wear our ice-fishing bibs, insulated boots and crampons. It would make a grand statement.”

Jeff responded, “At my old age (41) I’m not up to shenanigans anymore. I’m making an exception to go ice-fishing with you guys, but you have to let me have my morning constitution before we go fishing.”

“Jeff, we can change any constitution if it allows us to go fishing,” I replied.

“You could light your ice-fishing bibs on fire, choke on a chunk of chislic – changes in constitutions are endless,” Jon added.

“It’s fun to live dangerously,” we all agreed.

Well, Jeff, Jon and I caught our limits of big perch and a few walleyes in South Dakota. Only I joined the non-fishing part of my family for the cultural event, smelling a little fishy but without crampons strapped to my insulated boots. Everyone, including myself, enjoyed the spectacle – but not my odor.

We’ll have to see how everyone rehabilitates. Jeff is still alive, all of us are refreshed and we have more fish stories to tell.

Dr. Mike Rosmann is a psychologist and farmer in western Iowa. The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of Farm World. Readers may contact him at mike@agbehavioralhealth.com