My First Fishmas, a Legacy of Friendship, and the Spirit of the Sierra
In Dead Poets Society, Robin Williams’s character, Mr. Keating, famously urges his students to “suck the marrow out of life.” It’s a quote borrowed from Thoreau, and in the film, it becomes a rallying cry — a call to live deliberately, to chase meaning, and to never let a day slip by without purpose.
That spirit — that bold and passionate way of embracing life — came alive for me this past weekend in the Eastern Sierra. It was my first Fishmas, the opening weekend of fishing season, shared with good friends on the icy waters of Crowley Lake. But this story is much more than a tale of fishing. It’s about new traditions, old friendships, and the power of one man’s legacy to inspire a life of adventure in the mountains.
Finding the Marrow in Mammoth
My neighbor Gary and I made the trip to Mammoth to meet up with Brian, Mark, and Ray — a group of guys from Southern California who had quickly become part of a growing Sierra brotherhood. Some readers may remember them from our backpacking trip last summer into the Chocolate Lakes region of the John Muir Wilderness — a weekend of alpine lakes, wild trout, and high-elevation camaraderie.
That trip marked a new chapter in our friendship. I’d originally met Brian through Gary, who knew instinctively that we shared a similar fire for the outdoors. Brian is magnetic — someone who brings people together with energy, humility, and an open invite to experience life more fully. Our bond started on a Tahoe ski trip, grew stronger in the backcountry, and now here we were, celebrating Fishmas on the waters his family has returned to for generations.
But Brian’s story runs deeper than any single trip. His passion for the Sierra, for gathering people, and for making memories outdoors comes from someone incredibly special: his late uncle, Buster.
In Honor of Buster
Buster wasn’t just Brian’s uncle. He was his mentor, his role model, and his blueprint for a meaningful life in the mountains. For decades, Buster led family and friends on adventures through the Sierra — to hidden lakes, backcountry trails, national parks, and every Fishmas morning at Crowley Lake. He was a man of passion and presence, the kind who made his life fit around the things he loved most: the beautiful Sierra, everything trees, wild places and the people he shared them with.
I learned this weekend that Buster’s life was also shaped by a long-time friend and former boss, Roy Richter, the legendary founder of Bell Helmets, Cragar Wheels, and Cragar racing equipment. Roy had a sustained love for the Sierra, and that passion left a lasting impression. Buster embraced and mirrored that same spirit. Their friendship helped shape Buster’s approach to life: bold, creative, and centered around purpose. He didn’t just seek adventure, he built a life around it. And in doing so, he inspired generations of Sierra explorers in his family and circle of friends to do the same.
Brian took that to heart — hook, line, and sinker.
In the way he invites others to join him — whether it’s for Fishmas, a ski weekend, or a spontaneous backpacking trip — you can feel Buster’s spirit. It’s not about ego. It’s about presence. It’s about showing up, fully, and helping others experience something unforgettable. That’s the marrow.
Fishmas Morning: Day One on Crowley
Opening day came fast and cold. After a good night’s sleep in Mammoth, we scarfed down granola and yogurt, drained the coffee pot, and discussed layers like seasoned mountain warriors. Outside, winter hadn’t loosened its grip just yet — it was a frigid 38 degrees with the wind threatening to join the party.
As we drove toward the lake, the skies above Crowley looked decent, and hope rose with the morning light. But cresting the bluff past the airport, we saw a different story: the lake was already speckled with boats. Hardcore anglers had lined up before 5:30 a.m. to claim their place. We checked in at 7:00 and launched Gary’s 14-foot boat into the bay.
Brian, Mark, and Ray were already on the water in their rental, trolling ahead of us. Just minutes later, my phone pinged: a message from Brian — Mark already has one on the line.
The excitement was instant. We loaded up the rods and packed the cooler, bundled in every layer we owned, and pushed off into the lake.
Gary hooked a beautiful brown trout within the first 20 minutes. Another smaller one came quickly after. Reports from Brian’s boat matched our own — fish were hitting early and often, though the chill was starting to cut deeper.
I, a self-professed novice, was still waiting for my moment. I’d lost one lure to a strong tug that turned out to be a snag — a newly purchased “sure thing” at Crowley, now somewhere in the lake. Thankfully, Gary stepped in to help me re-rig: a clear bobber, a swivel, and a silver Thomas Buoyant with pink and blue stripes — a childhood favorite I hadn’t seen in years.
We drifted across a shallow bay, boats around us calling out with cheers and netted catches. Then it hit. My rod bent hard, the reel sang, and for a long moment I felt the thrill of a true fight. Gary coached me through tightening the drag, and slowly but surely I pulled in my first real Fishmas trout — a fat, healthy 18-inch rainbow.
I had come into the morning with no expectations. That catch shattered all of them.
Not long after, the wind picked up. Whitecaps rolled across the lake, and the bite slowed. Gary and I made the call to head in, satisfied with the morning’s success. Brian and the others stayed out a bit longer, chasing a few more fish before the cold, heavy snow and white out conditions chased them back.
Beyond the Water
Back at the condo, the warmth of the hot tub hit like heaven. Later, I wandered out for a five-mile stroll through Mammoth’s trails, soaking in the crisp air and the faint scent of pine. I stopped by the oldest cabin in Mammoth (The Hayden Cabin), stitched together a loop of quiet paths, and let the solitude bring everything into focus.
Meanwhile, Gary and Ray headed up the mountain for a few late afternoon ski runs. The group’s rhythm of skiing, fishing, hiking — it all felt like chapters of the same book. These weren’t just guys on a weekend trip. This was a crew living deliberately. Living out loud. Squeezing every drop out of the day.
As night settled in, the conversation deepened. The weather forecast for Sunday looked grim. Winds, snow, cold. We played cards, swapped stories, and let the evening carry us into the deeper meaning behind what we were doing out there. The spirit of Buster came up often. This was Brian’s first Fishmas without him. You could feel how much it meant — and how much he was doing to carry that legacy forward.
Day Two: No Expectations, Just Marrow
Sunday morning arrived with little fanfare. The wind had howled all night, and none of us jumped out of bed like eager fishermen. Breakfast was quiet, a little uncertain. It felt like the day might be short-lived.
But the Sierra had other plans.
Driving past the airport, we noticed the skies were clearer than expected. The storm had pushed south, and Crowley looked glassy and calm. Enthusiasm bloomed like a second sunrise.
By 7:00 a.m., we were back on the water — rods in hand, spirits high. The lake was showing off: blue skies, no wind, and rising trout just beneath the surface. It was the kind of day anglers dream about.
And then it happened.
The fish started hitting. Big ones. Multiple hookups. Near-misses. Tangled lines. Laughter echoing across the water. There were moments where two or three fish were on at once between the boats. Brian, Mark, and Ray were in fishing nirvana — that perfect moment when the tug is frequent, the wind is still, and the memories are being made faster than you can count them.
Gary and I trolled the lake for hours, enjoying the quiet rhythm and the electricity of it all. I landed one more beautiful trout and lost a couple right at the boat (rookie knots, no doubt). But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t measuring the day by the number of fish. I was measuring it by the richness of the experience.
By 3:00 p.m., the wind returned. Whitecaps rolled in again. Brian’s boat was still out in the far corner, pulling in fish and soaking up every last minute.
Back at the dock, I looked out across the lake and thought about what it meant to really show up. Even on a day that started with doubt, the Sierra had given us something spectacular — because we gave it a chance to.
A Second Night, A Final Reflection
That evening in Mammoth, over dinner and more laughter, I let the gratitude settle in.
I’ve spent a lot of time telling other people’s Sierra stories. But this weekend was something different. It was my first Fishmas. It was the next step in a growing friendship with Gary, Brian, Mark, and Ray — a group that has embraced the Sierra as a lifestyle, not a location.
And through Brian’s story — through his passion, his generosity, and the light of his uncle Buster shining through — I saw the deeper thread that ties all of this together.
This is how legacy works.
This is how adventure is passed down.
Not through epic monologues or planned speeches — but through invites, through presence, through showing up again and again, whether the sky is stormy or still.
The Marrow of the Sierra
I came to Crowley not knowing what Fishmas would be.
I left knowing that it’s not about the fishing — it’s about what the fishing represents.
Joy.
Tradition.
Friendship.
Legacy.
And the willingness to chase wildness with people who inspire you to live more fully.
This was Fishmas.
This was Buster.
This was Brian.
And this was exactly the kind of story I love to tell — because it’s the kind of story that reminds us all what really matters when we step into the Sierra and let it speak.
