Fishing

 My son's affinity for fishing is somehow always surprising to me.  I grew up fishing, but never really liking it all that much.  I like catching fish, and I love being on the river....but it's not a passion the way it is for some.  For my son, it is a passion.  And he seems to be really skilled.  He goes slow and pays attention.  He watches for spots where he thinks the fish will be and he pays attention to the bugs and other critters around that he thinks the fish might be eating.  

Within minutes he's landed yet another modest sized rainbow trout.  As it would happen, despite the fact that I would also fish all weekend, he would be the only one to catch fish.  

The lake is a bowl of crystal clear water held in the palm of a rising rock face rising up on the far bank.  The shore where we're standing is not easy to access...there's a slim muddy berm on the lake shore, backed by marsh and mud and reeds and logs.  There are signs that beavers have been busy here.  My son stands on the berm and fishes while I explore a bit and try to figure out where we might camp for the night.

The lake is about a half a mile across, and is roughly circular.  To move clockwise around the lake is almost impossible.  The huckleberry bushes and undergrowth are impassable.  To move counter clockwise would bring us to a high rock outcropping that I know (since I've been there before) has a fire-ring and would make a perfect place to camp for the evening.  While my son fishes, I push around to the right to try and access this rock outcropping.  Moving without my heavy pack I can move pretty quickly, but the undergrowth is thick and makes going rough.  I push through a large swampy bog and see definitive signs that beavers are present...there are stumps of trees gnawed off to a cartoonish point with wood chips lying all around.  There are trails through the reeds and water that, when viewed from above look like an urban subway map; the routes that the beavers make to get from one place to another.

With persistence and some serious damage to my shins from the bushes (I wore shorts??) I finally make it to the rock outcropping which sits at about 3 o'clock on the clock face of the lake.  As I climb out onto it the lake opens up before me and fish rise all across the calm surface.  The air is hot and dry- the lake cool and inviting.  I know I'll swim later.

I hear my son; "Dad?"

He's not raising his voice, just speaking at his natural volume.  Despite the fact that I'm about 1/4 mile away across the water I can hear him as though he's sitting right next to me.

"Dad?"

"Yeah buddy."

"I caught a frog."

"Sweet!  Is it big?"

"No.  Perfect for bass fishing."

"No bass here I think.  Just trout."

"Yeah.  Rainbow?"

"Probably."

The conversation continues.  It's surreal to have a voice level conversation with him across the lake.  The cliffs that rise to my right cradle the lake so carefully that even sound cant escape...it's all funneled back down to the surface so all can hear.

Eventually I push my way back through the brush to get to my son.  He's put his two fish on a stringer and placed them back in the water so we can clean them later.  He needs to learn how to do it.

We gear back up so that we can push through the brush together to get back to the rock outcropping where we'll sleep for the night.  He holds the fish on the stringer...a prize that he's rightfully proud of.  He's fed us today.  My little boy is a young man now.