Dad - A Father's Day Memory

“Masculinity is bestowed. A boy learns who he is and what he’s got from a man, or the company of men.  He cannot learn it from any other place.  He cannot learn it from other boys, and he cannot learn it from the world of women.  The plan from the beginning of time was that his father would lay the foundation for a young boy’s heart, and pass on to him that essential knowledge and confidence in his strength.”

(John Eldredge – Wild at Heart) 

This article comes from a fishing trip I had with my Dad about eight years ago, on the morning of Wednesday, July 8th, 2009.  I hand wrote it that afternoon into a journal I used at the time.  About a year later I typed it up and submitted it to my friend Don Miller, who printed it in the Severson Dells Newsletter entitled “Notes From The Dells.”  I had that article framed, and presented it to my Dad on Father’s Day of 2010.  The pictures that accompany this blog entry come from a trip that he and I took together last summer on June 1^st, 2016.  It was a day trip into Wisconsin at one of his favorite creeks (mine too).  We each caught a handful of trout and enjoyed both the beautiful scenery and companionship.  Enjoy!

See you along The Way…

Dad

Me

Dad

Me

    I consider myself fairly patient on most accounts; better than I used to be at any rate.  I suppose age and experience evoke that trait.  It’s time in training well spent.

            When I first began fishing for trout it was hard to wait and be patient.  It’s hard to wait for any kind of fishing for that matter; especially when you are a kid.  As a kid I captured grasshoppers and crickets in an old wire mesh box once used to ship us honey bees for our hives.  I waited eagerly for dad to get home to take me to Bass Lake.  In those days I watched the red and white bobber from the bow of the canoe.  Sometimes I would be surprised by a sudden and quick hit that would immediately tug the bobber under, leaving only a trail of bubbles.  Sometimes it was the slow turning of the bobber as the colors changed from red to white and began to dance lightly up and down on the surface of the water; the fish below playing with the bait.  During days when I fished a lot, I dreamed about red and white bobbers.  I still remember the placement of the bed under the window, in the room on the back of the cabin that we rented for a week during the month of June on South Manistique Lake.  I remember waking up in that room to dreams of patriotic colored spheres of plastic bobbing on my line while standing on the end of a long wooden dock.

            Almost to the day, a dozen years ago, I caught my first trout.  As an adult at that time, I had begun to grow in patience.  I had to in order to keep my head in the thick, bug infested swamp called the “Headwaters” that my dad used to take me to.  Since then I’ve fished many a mile of creek, stream and river.  I’ve been able to experience many things as a result; things such as deep water, shallow water, and sacred water.  I’ve seen big fish scoot out from under a bank while catching nothing but minnow sized chubs.  I’ve experienced tangled line, lost lures and flies, broken reels, leaky waders, busted poles and scenery worth dying in.  Each outing builds a layer of experiences, and as a result develops patience.  Time in training is time well spent.

            When I approach a good hole or pool or run where it’s obvious trout habitat I take my time, appreciate it for what it’s worth and pick my casts selectively.  I marvel at the fish or marvel at the excellent cast served on a silver platter and only occasionally curse the lost opportunity of nothing.  For I know deep down that even nothing is something.

            Today I fished with dad on the “Creek who must not be named.”  Whatever I think I have; whatever I think I’ve gained, whether in pompous attitude or honest humility, I’ve got nothing to his patience.  I don’t mind leaving a fine bend in a creek after a yeomen’s attempt at catching a trout.  In the beginning years I didn’t mind because I thought I’d have better luck at the next bend.  Now I don’t mind moving on because I figure the trout are there in hiding, and after “X” amount of casts they can stay there to proliferate or be caught the next time.

            My dad, however, works the crowd like a good comedian.  I’d say he works the crowd like a politician but his efforts are more than “Good enough for government work,” and if you don’t approach the tangled mess where wild trout live with at least a partial grin, you’ll never make it out alive or with an ounce of wit.  With that old blue pole he’ll flip his spinner to land with an announcing plop.  I’ll hear the familiar click of his bail as he begins to reel.  Those sounds are about as comforting as an old flannel shirt on a cool fall day.  With patience he systematically breaks the whole into parts; casting at different angles according to the current and branches and underwater structure.  Not perfect.  Not without frustrations.  It’s simply more patience or at least different patience, because the results are often the same as mine.

            I fished today but I watched today too.  I realized in the end that this experience, like many others, was both a continuation of my training in patience and time that was well spent.