Day Twenty-Three

It's probably been 30 years or more that I've held a fishing pole in my hands. My brothers are avid fishermen and have been doing so for many years along the East Carson River in Markleeville, CA. I'm not sure what possessed me, but, when asked to go along, I decided to see if I still had it. Don't get me wrong, I was once a fishing princess (after reawakening that old title with this recent experience I may become a fishing goddess). My brothers and I grew up fishing with my Dad and Mom along the East Fork of the Carson River. We always had a good time and I've walked away with many wonderful memories. Fishing is such a good sport and one that I think all children should be exposed to at least once in their lives. It teaches you organization, preparedness, independence, and most importantly, learning to think in ways that people don't usually attempt (how many times have you been asked, "What would the fish do?"). It also teaches you that it's ok to be alone, quiet and to appreciate nature and the outdoors and to preserve and protect it.

We didn't get off to a real early start, but early enough for a couple of old farts. It was rough going at first and I was a bit intimidated by my lack of skills, but after a few synapses in the fishing center of the brain, I remembered everything like it had never vanished. I had to borrow John's equipment and was woefully unprepared by my selection of footwear, but I did have my hat and sunscreen. My fisherman son, Eric, had sent his tackle box and a few odds and ends along with Jay one day to give to me in case I did actually go. Still, using someone else's tackle is like cooking in someone else's kitchen - it's just not the stuff you're familiar with. I knew I needed hooks as I was sure I would be losing a few at first. I had a little backpack to bring my water, bait and hooks in, but that was about all I could think of (I dug up a couple dozen nightcrawlers out of the garden before we took off). I quickly discovered I needed weights along with the hooks and after snagging the first line I threw in, had to walk back to where John was and grab some weights. Of course, he opened his fishing vest and had several sizes to choose from along with a nice pair of clamps, bait, several sizes of hooks, etc., etc., etc. I was once again, an amateur. Anyway, I set off in the opposite direction from John (maybe I didn't want him to get a good laugh at my expense) and quickly started wondering if I did the right thing in coming along. I felt like the fish out of water! For one thing, walking around on good sized rocks was a challenge, not to mention once I decided to actually walk in the stream. Then the real test came when it came time to cast the line. I had to get a quick lesson on how to operate the reel but it still seemed foreign and awkward. After a few rough casts, I realized that I needed to dig deep in the recesses of my memories. Could I remember the proper way to hold the pole, bait the hook with it tucked under my arm, get the line right where I wanted it - could I remember how to think like a fish? So, I stepped into the water - ah yes, this is right, I think I'm feeling it now. The rocks were slippery and after almost falling a couple of times, I did quickly step out thinking I better put my backpack on dry land since my iPhone was in it - something I didn't have to worry about 30 years ago. Stepping back into the water and almost slipping again, I finally got my footing. By the end of the day I was in water over my knees most of the time. But after casting into a few select spots along the river, the real challenge came - the part where you have to start thinking like a fish. If I were a fish, where would I want to hang out? John had said that since the water was low and it was mid morning, the fish like the faster water in cool areas where the water flows into and over the rocks and then pools on the underside. This is usually where the fish can get a lot of swift moving, cool water over its gills and where the food tends to flow by. By this time, I was casting pretty well, and after several snags and having to put new hooks and weights on, my hands were beginning to remember the techniques they had learned so well as a child.

My father and mother taught me to fish. We lived in the Bay Area and both of them lived to camp and fish on the weekends. They'd load us up early Saturday mornings and we would head to Grover's Hot Springs for a weekend of camping and fishing. By the time I was six years old, I was a totally self-contained fishing princess. I could bait my own hook, change the hook if necessary, add weights, get out of a snag, pull in the big one, and yes, I had my own vest! I would leave our campground after breakfast, fish by myself on the Markleeville Creek, (possible before the highly publicized child abductions of recent times), and bring my catch back to camp by lunch time. Sometimes we'd take the car and fish along the East Carson, but in the early days, you could pull some big ones out of the Markleeville Creek (my mom caught a 4 or 5 pound German Brown out of the same Creek). The good old days.

I was getting the hang of it again. It felt good. It felt familiar. And then it happened. I'd cast into some shallow running water and let my line fall into the current around some larger rocks just before the swift water slowed into a large pool. There were two currents running into this group of rocks and my line just naturally followed the current right into them. I felt the tug, saw the silver flash and the fight was on. Everything came rushing back to me. I let it bite, and pulled the line a little as if to tease it. It bit again and I kept the line taught. As soon as I felt the big tug, I jerked the line just enough to set the hook and began to reel him in. He put up a good fight and I just eased him into the shore and gently pulled him onto dry land. The hook had just caught his top lip but it was in there snug - there was no way he could have got away. After taking out the hook, I let him swim with my finger through his mouth and gill and I almost let him go. I felt sad that my fun had to come to the realization that I was about to kill something but my accomplishment felt like some sort of reaffirmation and I just had to show off my skill that I was sure I had lost. My brother had caught one as well, almost identical in size and I knew if we caught more, we'd be eating them for dinner. No such luck. Only two and I let him take mine home with him as I knew he'd have a nice meal off of it. I'm already thinking about "next time."