14 / OutdoorIllinois October 2008

There’s a reason why snapped fishing line sounds like acountry song. Meet the man responsible.

For all theHeartbroken FishermenStory and Photos ByJoe McFarland

O ne summer daywhen I was aboy my fatherwalked out intothe middle of the

front yard and placed an emptycoffee can in the grass. He thencalled me outside.

“Now listen,” began myfather’s rite-of-passage speech.“Before you can be a fisherman,first you must learn how to castproperly.”

My father handed me a fish-ing rod and reel. The coffee canwas to be my target. If I couldconsistently cast a fishing lureinto the can from across theyard, I would become, accordingto my father, a great fisherman.

“It’s simple,” my father said.He made a few graceful sweeps ofhis arm to demonstrate the technique.

Then he went back into the house.For years I had dreamed of being a great fisher-

man. It was my destiny. At last, my initiation dayhad arrived.

I stared at the target, imagining the perfectfisherman’s cast. Many times I’d rehearsed this preciseritual in my mind. Leaving nothing to chance,I bent over and picked up a few dry grass clippings and letthem fall to the ground, noting the air current. Closing one

eye, I sighted down the fish-ing rod as one might examinea pool cue for straightness: itwas perfect.

Positioning my feetsquarely, I raised my officialcasting arm and pointed therod skyward. I licked my fin-ger to test the wind oncemore. The new life I’d alwaysimagined was clearly ahead ofme—and it would be a greatlife, a famous life. I saw myselfon Saturday afternoon fishingprograms, accepting giant tro-phies following major basstournaments I’d won easily,cameras flashing, smilingwomen showering me withchampagne.

I was 7 years old. This wasmy destiny.

With pure confidence Iswung my arm and

unleashed my first cast. Theline swished, the reel spun.

History was being made. Yet,somehow, something astonish-ingly different happened. Therewas a quick motion in the tree

across the yard.A snag. My lure dangled hopelessly

like a failed parachutist suspended in a tree. Toretrieve the lure, I pulled the line tight, but it broke—

ping—and so did my heart. Defiantly, I tied a new lure.Within 10 minutes I realized I had the remarkable ability

to cast a lure perfectly into any branch on any tree, a trick

October 2008 OutdoorIllinois / 15

I could perform even with my eyesclosed.

Occasionally my father would glanceup from his newspaper and look outthe window to see a tree branch sway-ing. The high-pitched whine of fishingline being stretched filled the neighbor-hood. It reminded me of those incredi-bly sad country songs, the kind thatmake grown men cry—yet still beg tohear every note.

This was not the life I imagined. ButI was hooked. Each cast offered a freshopportunity for redemption and thechance to land a perfect cast and claimmy title. Yet all heartbreaks begin withthe promise of a happy ending, and fol-lowing each new cast I would alwayshear the tragic sound of country music.

Eventually, my father walked slowlyout into the yard, head bowed. Helooked up at the waving branch in thetree and put his hand on my shoulder.

Both of us stared at the tree as if itheld the last of something.

“Just like Hank Williams,” my fathersaid quietly.

And then he went back into thehouse.

Weeks passed. I continued practic-ing, determined to improve my skills.Yet the heartbreaking sound of fishingline stretching then snapping becamethe soundtrack of my life.

I began to listen to country music,sympathizing with every heartbreakingverse: broken hearts, broken fishingpoles—their tragedy was mine.

“So true,” I sobbed. “So true.”And then one day I managed to hit

the coffee can. The lure rattled like achain being dropped. Then I hit the canagain—twice in a row. It felt good.

Wiping away tears, I declared myselfan expert, my sadness lifted. Afterweeks of heartbreaking trials, I decidedI was finally ready to go fishing.

The Real Heartbreak BeginsBalancing my fishing rod across the

handlebars, I immediately rode my bicy-cle to Lake Makanda where I proudlystood on the shore and demonstratedperfect casts, one after another. It wasthe best day of my life: The sun wasshining. Fishermen waved at me fromtheir boats, tipping their hats. A lightbreeze carried fragrant scents acrossthe water. Everything was perfect.

Suddenly the water exploded in fury.I saw a huge mouth, and dark eyes. Onmy first day of fishing I was about toland a monster largemouth bass. It wasas if everything was finally comingtogether. The line screamed out fromthe reel, tightening, pulling harderagainst the squealing drag—the bass

As a boy, OutdoorIllinois staff

writer Joe McFarland perfected the

art of casting into trees.

16 / OutdoorIllinois October 2008

was charging for deep water. It leaped,flipping, then again, shaking wildly asthe line stretched and whined. And thenthe bass leaped again, twisting, pulling,its mouth opened wider still.

I can see it today.Of course the line broke. Ping-ing.

The sounds trailed across the water andimmediately the fishermen in boatsremoved their hats and began to cry.The birds ceased to sing. Skies darkened.

I will never forget that day. Yet I washooked for life.

The FishermanWho Started it All

I have now spent the majority of mylife making casts that ended in tearfultragedy. I’ve also spent as many yearslistening to country music, enjoying thesame results.

Last summer I drove down to Ten-nessee to find out why.

Even if you’ve never heard of a bassfisherman named Don Helms, the

sound Helms makes with his favoritemusical instrument—the steel guitar—is unmistakable. It turns out, this 81year-old bass fisherman is none otherthan the last surviving member of anoutfit called Hank Williams and theDrifting Cowboys, as in the HankWilliams, country music’s legendary,long-departed pioneer. AlthoughWilliams died back in 1953 at the age ofjust 29, the haunting sounds Helmsplayed in the studio more than 55 yearsago continue to make generations of lis-teners—including fishermen—breakinto tears.

A short distance from Nashville, Iwalked up to a pleasant-looking houseand knocked on the door.

“Can I help you?” a smiling mananswered. It was the man himself: DonHelms.

“Tell me something,” I told Helmsafter introducing myself. “Was HankWilliams a good fisherman?”

Immediately the smile disappearedfrom his face, his eyes narrowed.

He waved me in and closed the door.“Let me tell you about fishing with

Hank Williams,” Helms said, each wordincreasingly tense. “There’s somethingyou should know.”

For the next hour, Helms revealedwhat had been unspoken for decades.

Occasionally, his wife Hazel wouldset down her crochet needles and peek

through the curtains to see if anyonewas watching. The secret ingredient ofcountry music was at stake.

It turns out, the man who recorded“Your Cheating Heart” and “I’m SoLonesome I Could Cry” was a crappiefisherman—a truly annoying crappiefisherman. When Williams would ask

Helms to go fishing, he’d make Helmsdrive for hours up to Kentucky Lakewhile Williams slept. The troublewould begin the moment they hitthe water.

“Hank liked to use the biggest min-nows he could get,” Helms recalled.“The problem was, you’d have to duckevery time he cast because he was allover the place. He’d rear back, slap youin the face with a big minnow, then saysomething smart like, ‘Why don’t youwatch where I’m casting?’”

Hank Williams (center) and

his Drifting Cowboys. Steel guitar

player Don Helms (upper right)

found inspiration for his

mournful sounds while fishing

with Williams.

The fisherman who invented

the heartbreaking sound of

country music playing his

original steel guitar at a 2006

concert near Rend Lake.

“My fishingpole broke.”

—Hank Williams(P

hoto

byD

anF

urm

anik

.)

October 2008 OutdoorIllinois / 17

Helms, the bass fisherman, fumed inthe front of the boat. As each fishingtrip progressed, anxiety built.

“Hank didn’t own a boat but heowned an outboard motor,” Helms said.When the two musicians would rent aboat at Kentucky Lake, Williams wouldtake control of navigation duties,always maneuvering the boat in hisfavor, sometimes jamming Helms intobrush. Lines would tangle—then snap.

The heartbreaking sound of their ownmusic became the soundtrack of theirfishing trips.

Finally, at the end of the day, Helmswould drive the car back to Nashvillewhile Williams slept again.

“Wanna go again tomorrow?” arefreshed Williams asked after theyarrived. He was a hooked fisherman,and so was Helms, who continues tofish for bass today. Yet the man who

continues to play heartbreaking soundson his beloved Gibson steel guitar hasnever landed what all fishermen dreamabout: one monster trophy.

“The biggest bass I ever caughtweighed 5 pounds,” Helms said, dab-bing his eyes.

And then he put his hand on myshoulder.

“Fish long enough,” he said, “andeventually you’ll cry.”

So true … so true.

On A Sad Note

Don Helms died in TennesseeAugust 11, 2008 at the age of 81.

Shortly before his death, Helmsreceived a draft of this story and wasable to provide additional details of hisfishing trips with Hank Williams.

“Not every fishing trip with Hankwas that bad,” Helms told OI staffwriter Joe McFarland. “We had somegood times.”

Country music pioneer Don Helms

explains the mystery of tangled

fishing line to writer Joe McFarland.