Flipped Script

 

Flipped Script

I remember how it was with Nathan.  We were living in Nevada at the time.  A friend and I had discovered a little reservoir while quail hunting about two and a half hours north of our home in Henderson.  There were signs posted about the fishing regulations.  Evidently the little impoundment was stocked with trout. 

We drove back up there in the spring.  It was not a secret spot by any imagination as a couple dozen people were already lined along the dam trying their luck.  I noticed that a few of them chuckled a bit when they saw me rigging my fly rod.  Even my companion, who had a more traditional spinning rod and some live bait, looked skeptical.  I tied on a little streamer fly that I had tied and began casting.  The line laid out well as the fly settled about twenty yards out.  I smiled to myself because it was the first cast that I had made with my flyrod in the year and a half that we had been in Nevada, having relocated by the company I was working for.  The rod’s cork handle felt good in my hand again.

I started to bring the fly back in short jerks.  A fish engulfed the fly at the first movement.  The fish was a nice footlong rainbow trout.  I slid him on the stringer.  The second cast was equally productive.  The fish was the same size as the first, a product of fishing for hatchery-raised trout.  But they fought bravely.  It took just a few more casts to hook a third trout.  One of the guys who had snickered at me earlier came over to see exactly what I was using.  He was amazed that a trout would hit on some deer hair and a bit of silver tinsel.  Even with the brief conversation I had with him, it took me less than thirty minutes to fill my stringer with a five fish limit.

Several weekends later I was back with my family along.  I wanted my two oldest boys, four and three at the time, to catch some trout, so we packed a picnic and all the kids.  We stopped on the drive in where there were some picnic tables along the reservoir’s outlet stream to have lunch first.  After a sandwich I decided to check out the stream more closely.  A little path led down an embankment to the water.  I smiled.  A nice rainbow trout was finning lazily just upstream.

I went back to the picnic.  “Who wants to catch a trout?” I asked Jacob and Nathan.  Jake’s attention was fixed on the bag of potato chips, but Nathan jumped up and followed me to the car.  I got my flyrod ready.  He put on my flyfishing vest so he looked the part of a skilled fly caster.  We snuck up on that trout’s haven; he was still there.  I helped Nathan make a little cast with a dry fly.  It was all too easy really, but just the way a father hoped it would go for his son.  The trout rose up and without hesitation swallowed the fly.  I netted it for Nathan and snapped the picture with him and his first trout.  Nate was almost smiling and as proud as his dad.

Earlier this week Nathan, now a grown man with a daughter in college and one entering high school had asked me if I wanted to join him and his friend since middle school, Drew, for some salmon fishing out of Bailey’s Harbor.  I have never had the opportunity to fish the big lake, so I didn’t hesitate.

Drew lives in Door County, works for a nature conservancy organization, and most-importantly for this trip, has his own boat and all the necessary gear for chasing salmon.  We met at the dock at 4:30 AM.  As we headed a couple of miles out Drew did his best to dampen expectations because of the weather and the phase of the moon and recent heavy pressure from a recent fishing tournament.  I knew what he was doing – he didn’t want me to be too disappointed if we didn’t catch much.  I did my best to assure him that I was just happy for the chance to get out. 

I found out that this was not exactly a secret spot.  The running lights from more than a dozen other boats already fishing shone brightly in the last of the night that still owned the sky.   

Drew was patient in explaining how all of the gear worked as he lowered the first line with a downrigger.  He was still getting the second line ready when the first rod started bouncing erratically.  “Fish on,” Drew barked.  He nodded at me to grab the rod.  I felt the big fish.  It was good.  It was especially good when he was in the net. 

About fifteen minutes later another rod jerked from a strike.  Drew pointed at me again.  It should have been he or Nate as I already had one in the live well.  They both smiled and praised my skill and the size of that fish.  It turned out to be the biggest of the day.  Drew estimated it at 15 pounds; it seemed a little less than that to me, but I saw no sense in arguing the point.

I had three onboard when one of the reels screamed from a strike.  I told Nate to take this one.  I enjoyed watching him struggle to reel it in.  We saw it as it jumped completely out of the water about twenty-five yards behind the boat.  Just seconds later the big fish managed to shake the lure.  It is fitting, when everyone on a fishing trip is old enough to not cry about it, that the biggest fish of the day avoids the net.  That is how it gets bigger and bigger as the story is told in the years to come.

The next time there was a strike, Drew who was standing right next to it grabbed the pole.  He handed it to me.  “You deserve one Drew,” I said, but he just shook his head and pushed the rod into my hands.  I had suspected all along, but now I knew for sure.  The script has been flipped in my life.  It was more important for these two ‘young guys’ that the old man on the trip caught the fish.  And if there was any doubt, before we put that fish on ice, Drew told Nate to take a picture of me with my catch.  I didn’t argue.  I just posed for the picture.

His Peace <><

Deacon Dan