Gone Fishing

When I was a kid, I learned how to fish. My family had a lakefront campground in Canada on the Rideau Canal system. We had an old, 27-foot trailer from the 1970’s that was less than 20 feet from the shoreline. My dad was the person who taught me to fish, and everything I know about fishing, which admittedly isn’t much, I learned from him. I learned that one doesn’t need any fancy lures or poles or reels. A normal fishing pole with a hair-covered hook called a jig was just fine. The jig may or may not have had a small piece of fish on it, depending on what had been caught that day. I learned that you should hold the line between your thumb and index finger, so you could more easily tell when a fish was biting your lure. I learned that because fish are cold blooded, in the early season, spring and early summer, you should stick to shallow waters. Later, the fish move to the deeper, cooler waters. I learned that when reeling in, you couldn’t go too fast, because if you don’t have a fish yet, it will know that your lure isn’t food, and if you do have a fish, the line will snap.

I can still remember my first fishing pole. It was about three feet long, cream colored, with a brown reel. I didn’t really catch much with it; just some small, spotted rock bass and some sunfish, neither of which were kept. Whenever I did catch something worth eating, it was always thrown back because it was too small. I was always afraid that someday a fish so big would bite my line that it would just rip my tiny, little pole out of my tiny, little hands.

My dad owned a 14-foot long light green fishing boat with an 18 horsepower motor. We would use that to go to the good fishing spots on the lake. There was the spot across the lake, about 200 yards out from the boathouse S decal on the face that was good for bass fishing. There was the spot about 300 yards south of that, near a tiny peninsula with a brown house with a big satellite dish; which was good for catching perch. There was a weed bed south of our campsite in the middle of the lake. My dad would stop the boat at the edge of the weed bed. “Keep your jig outside of the weed bed,” he would tell me. “The fish will see it and come out and bite it.” There was another bed to the north, along the shore. These were good places for catching calicos, or strawberry bass. There were other kinds of fish in the lake, like northern pike and walleye, but pike were too bony to eat, and my dad didn’t feel like going through the trouble of trying to catch walleye. I was too young to know if they actually were good fishing spots or not, and even today, not knowing enough about fishing, I don’t know how good they are. We never seemed to have much trouble catching anything, so I think there were probably worse places to fish on that lake.

I’ve got many fishing stories, but most of them would probably sound like the stereotypical variety. The fish in the story would be twice and long and weigh three times as much as the fish that was actually there. Usually, my mother takes great delight in telling this story, but one has to make do with me this time.

I live about a quarter mile from the Seneca River. When crossing over the bridge, I would look down and see people standing in the water fly-fishing. “That looks fun,” I thought. So one morning, I decided to do it. I woke up and put on a pair of faded blue jeans. It was damp and chilly, so I put on a gray, hooded sweatshirt. I put on my old, dirty sneakers (I was considerate at that age). I went outside the trailer and found my tiny, faded blue life jacket (I was safe, too). Now, if one knows anything about fly-fishing, I am missing a very important piece of clothing at this point. I’m not wearing hip waders. I was six, I didn’t know any better. I walk to the shore and begin to work my way into the cold water of the lake. I get to the point where I’m waist deep in water and cast the line. My first try? Nothing. I try again. Nothing. At this point, my mother comes out. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“I’m fishing,” I reply.

“Why are you standing waist deep in water?”

“I’m fishing like they do back home.”

“You’re not in a river. And if you were, you’re not wearing hip waders.”

“What’re those?”

I was called out of the water at this point. Needless to say, I didn’t catch anything.

I haven’t been fishing in a few years, for a variety of reasons. Simply put, I’ve outgrown it. Regardless, I’ll always remember what I’ve learned and the time that I spent enjoying it.