Every summer, when the Montana sun decides to show up for more than five minutes, Fox News host Tucker Carlson allegedly trades his tie and teleprompter for a fishing rod and a pair of suspiciously pristine waders. The destination? A remote lake nestled in the wilds of Montana, where the Carlson clan gathers for what they call their “Family Fishing Club.” It’s a tradition that’s less about landing trophy trout and more about, well, family bonding, fish-whispering, and a whole lot of laughter. Here’s the scoop on this quirky retreat, where the fish are free, the questions are relentless, and the Carlson kids are just trying to enjoy their vacation without Dad turning it into a live broadcast.
The Setup: A Lake, a Legend, and a Lot of Lures
A serene Montana lake, surrounded by pine trees so tall they’d make a New York skyscraper jealous. The water is so clear you can see the fish rolling their eyes at the approaching Carlson family. Tucker, the patriarch of this angling adventure, arrives with a tackle box the size of a small SUV, packed with lures that look like they were designed by a toddler with a glitter obsession. His wife, Susan, is the calm in the storm, armed with a thermos of coffee and a knack for untangling fishing lines—and family squabbles. Their four kids—Hopie, Buckley, Dorothy, and Lillie—are there for the fish, the fresh air, and the chance to remind Dad that he’s not on air 24/7.
The Family Fishing Club, as the Carlsons call it, is an annual pilgrimage to this unnamed lake, which locals swear is so remote it doesn’t even show up on Google Maps. His goals are to catch fish, make memories, and maybe—just maybe—avoid any political debates with the local wildlife. But as anyone who’s ever watched Tucker Carlson Tonight knows, Tucker has a hard time turning off his journalistic instincts, even when his only audience is a trout.
The Rules of the Club: Fish, Laugh, Don’t Fact-Check Dad
The Family Fishing Club operates under a set of unwritten rules, scrawled in the margins of an old fishing guidebook that Tucker insists is “vintage.” Rule number one: Everyone catches at least one fish, or they’re stuck doing dishes for the rest of the trip. Rule number two: No one mentions the words “cable news” or “ratings,” or Tucker will launch into a 20-minute monologue about the state of journalism. Rule number three, and this one’s critical: If you catch a fish, you have to endure Tucker’s attempt to “interview” it before releasing it back into the lake.
This last rule is where things get, shall we say, fishy. According to family lore—passed down through campfire stories and exaggerated eye-rolls—Tucker can’t resist treating every fish like a guest on his show. Rod in one hand, imaginary microphone in the other, he’ll lean over the wriggling creature and fire off questions like, “So, Mr. Trout, what’s your stance on the algae bloom crisis?” or “Care to comment on the ecological impact of invasive species?” The fish, unsurprisingly, have little to say, but that doesn’t stop Tucker from filling the silence with a dramatic pause and a squinting stare, as if he’s waiting for a bombshell revelation.
The kids, bless their hearts, have learned to live with it. “It’s Dad,” Hopie says with a shrug, tossing a pebble into the lake. “Last year, he asked a bass if it supported term limits. The bass just flopped there, probably thinking, ‘I just wanted a worm, man.’” Buckley, the resident comedian, once tried to one-up his dad by “translating” for a particularly uncooperative perch: “Dad, he says he’s voting libertarian.” The whole family lost it, and even Tucker had to admit defeat, chuckling as he released the fish back into the water.
The Great Fish-terview Debacle of ’24
The 2024 Family Fishing Club outing was, by all accounts, peak Carlson chaos. It started innocently enough: a sunny morning, a cooler full of sandwiches, and Tucker proudly showing off a new fly rod he claimed was “recommended by a guy who knows a guy who fished with Hemingway.” (The kids, skeptical, pointed out that it looked suspiciously like something from the clearance bin at Dan Bailey’s Outdoor Company—no relation to the infamous Montana man who once called Tucker “the worst human being” in a viral fishing shop confrontation.)
Things took a turn when Tucker landed a particularly feisty rainbow trout. The fish was a beauty—shimmering scales, a fighter’s spirit, and absolutely zero interest in being part of Tucker’s on-the-fly segment. As Susan and the kids watched from the shore, Tucker hoisted the trout like a trophy, cleared his throat, and launched into his interview. “So, tell me,” he began, squinting at the fish, “what’s it like living in a lake with no Wi-Fi? Are you part of the unplugged movement?” The trout, unimpressed, thrashed wildly, smacking Tucker in the face with its tail. The kids erupted into laughter, with Dorothy yelling, “Dad, it’s not a podcast guest!”
Undeterred, Tucker pressed on, asking the fish about its “thoughts on the Federal Reserve’s impact on aquatic ecosystems.” At this point, Lillie, the youngest, couldn’t take it anymore. She grabbed the fish from her dad’s hands, gave it a quick pat, and tossed it back into the lake, declaring, “You’re free, buddy! No more gotcha questions!” The family cheered, and even Tucker, wiping fish slime off his cheek, had to laugh. “I guess that one pleaded the Fifth,” he quipped, earning a round of groans and giggles.
Why the Fish Interviews? A Family’s Theory
So why does Tucker insist on interrogating his catches? The kids have a few theories. Buckley thinks it’s just Dad’s way of staying in practice, like a batter taking swings in the off-season. “He’s gotta keep those journalistic muscles sharp,” Buckley says, miming a dramatic squint. Hopie, ever the pragmatist, suspects it’s because Tucker secretly hopes one of the fish will spill some lake gossip—maybe a scandal about a rogue minnow or a carp with a shady past. Dorothy, the family’s philosopher, has a different take: “I think Dad just likes the sound of his own voice, and the fish are too polite to swim away mid-sentence.”
Susan, the unsung hero of the Family Fishing Club, offers the most likely explanation: “It’s Tucker being Tucker. He’s curious about everything—even the fish. Plus, it makes the kids laugh, and that’s worth more than any trout.” She’s not wrong. The fish interviews have become the stuff of legend, a running joke that binds the family together. Each year, they add new stories to the repertoire, like the time Tucker asked a catfish if it identified as a bottom-feeder, or when he tried to get a pike to “go on the record” about its territorial disputes.
The Montana Magic: More Than Just Fish
Beyond the fish interviews, the Family Fishing Club is a chance for the Carlsons to unplug—well, as much as Tucker can unplug without trying to fact-check a heron. The lake is their sanctuary, a place where the kids can roast marshmallows, skip rocks, and tease their dad about his questionable casting technique. (“It’s like he’s trying to lasso the fish,” Lillie says, dodging a wayward fly.) Susan keeps everyone grounded, reminding them to savor the quiet moments—like the time they all sat on the shore at dusk, watching a bald eagle swoop down for its own catch, no interview required.
The locals, for their part, have embraced the Carlsons’ quirky tradition. Sure, there was that one awkward moment in 2021 when a passerby mistook Tucker for a villain and went viral for it (), but most Montanans seem charmed by the family’s antics. The owner of the nearest bait shop even started stocking “Tucker’s Trout Interrogator” lures—brightly colored flies with tiny microphone decals, a nod to the Fox News host’s lakeside shenanigans.
The Reel Takeaway
At its core, the Carlson Family Fishing Club is about more than catching fish or dodging tail slaps. It’s about a family finding joy in the absurd, laughing through the chaos, and making memories that’ll outlast any news cycle. Tucker may never get a fish to spill its secrets, but he’s got something better: a family that loves him, fish slime and all. So here’s to the Carlsons, their remote Montana lake, and the fish who’ve learned to swim away when they hear the words, “So, tell me, what’s your take on…”
As Buckley puts it, “The fish don’t talk, but they’ve got the best stories.” And in Montana, where the summers are short and the laughter is long, that’s more than enough.
