Fishing with P.F. Worthless and Francis Bye

I was camping with my father-in-law at Flathead Lake in rural western Montana when a world-famous author invited himself to fish with us. He literally just came out of nowhere. I turned to my father-in-law, Francis Bye, and introduced the man. "This is Patrick McManus, my journalism professor."

Pat stopped me and said, "oh, Francis and I already know each other."

So here's the whole story, in intersecting slices.

Patrick F. McManus was my professor of journalism at Eastern Washington University.

He wrote 15 best-selling books, many about his outdoor adventures and escapades.

Among them, my favorite, A Fine and Pleasant Misery, was published the year after I got my bachelor's degree. You'll never fall asleep reading it, unless you laugh out loud in your dreams.

Pat practiced his stories on us during journalism school classes. He took our feedback and used it to polish his stories. Before I graduated from Eastern, I heard every word of his second book, They Shoot Canoes, Don't They?

He wrote a series of six novels called The Bo Tully mysteries about a sheriff in Northern Idaho. They were serious works, but Pat couldn't keep his sense of humor completely out of them.

What I most cherish about Pat McManus is this. By the time I finished journalism school I realized how subtly and gracefully I had been taught to write and organize. They are skills I still use in my career.

In his books Pat called himself P.F. Worthless, basing his character in and around his real life activities growing up in Sandpoint, Idaho.

He created some memorable and wacko friends, like Rancid Crabtree, a smelly old hermit, Crazy Eddie Muldoon, who played practical jokes, and his best friend, Retch Sweeney.

In his books, his sister Patricia was called "the troll." Later he co-authored with her a continuation of his stories combined with a cookbook of camping recipes called Whatchagot Stew.

All my life I've remembered him fondly as P.F. Worthless—a man who was anything but worthless. Pat was a good friend, excellent mentor, gifted teacher, and an amazing storyteller.

Adolf Francis Bye dropped his first name during WWII because of its negative connotation.

He was born in Potlatch, Idaho, east of the Palouse. He raised his family in a house in Newport, Washington, with a garage across the border in Oldtown, Idaho.

Francis was a lineman for the Pend Oreille County Public Utility District. His professional history included being burned badly in a powerline accident, which he recovered from by hand-tightening every screw in a home-built camping trailer.

His family emigrated from Norway in the late 1890s—five young men named Bjornby who came to America to become farmers. The family believes U.S. immigration officials gave them all new last names, which scattered them across the country. Francis' father became (Be) or Bye.

He had four sisters and three brothers, all characters. The brothers formed a band "the Bye Brothers" during the depression; Francis played drums.

His brothers became mill workers. Francis worked for the Rural Electrification Authority, where he learned to string power lines, build substations and transmission grids, and understand how hydroelectric dams generate power that can be sent enormous distances.

When Idaho and Washington jointly built a new U.S. 2 bridge across the Pend Oreille River, half a mile from his house, Francis spent his days mingling with the construction crew. After the concrete cured, they gave him some of the heavy plywood used in the forms, which he hand-carried home. His wife and older daughters wanted to strangle him for such a foolhardy stunt.

Along the way, he collected a wonderful inventory of tall tales and funny anecdotes. Many of them were so ludicrous you just had to laugh. There was the one about losing the brakes when he returned an empty flatcar to the railroad—but no... you'll just have to imagine the mayhem when he was forced to bail.

I should have written down his stories while he was alive—but when we visited, he was just grampa to my kids and they adored him. He taught my son to wire a small motor and put it into a wooden car. He taught my daughter to cook fish.

After I graduated from college, I lived with Francis and his wife Mary for a short time while I searched for a job. I worked temporarily at the local town weekly newspaper, the Newport Miner.

Both Francis and Pat made lasting impressions on me. Both were masters of their professions, something I strive to be.

Both shared generously around their communities. Both loved kids. Both were consummate outdoorsmen. Both were deeply involved in Northern Idaho environmental concerns.

Both were avid fishermen. Pat talked about his fishing adventures at every chance he had. He even slipped a few quotes from A Fine and Pleasant Misery into his graduation address to my senior class.

Frances took us camping at the places he most loved to fish, spots on Flathead Lake and along the Pend Oreille and Kootenai Rivers.

And one more thing about them runs parallel in my life.

Pat McManus had four daughters. I dated his youngest, Kelly, for a couple months when I first started at Eastern.

Francis Bye had three daughters. I dated his youngest, Terri, for a couple years. Then I married her. This year we're celebrating our 49th wedding anniversary. We have two children and two grandchildren.

I got my first daily newspaper job with Pat's help. Well... he... kind of helped. When I interviewed, the publisher told me, "that's the worst letter of recommendation I've ever received. I guess that means I need to hire you."

© 2026 Michael Heavener