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Stuart Revercomb

Stuart Revercomb is a marketing consultant and joyously married father of four children. He seems to remember someone once telling him he ought to be a writer. "The Unseen Here and Now" -- Thursdays.

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"Thursday's Fare"

Big Rainbow trout fish.

The kind you eat.

As I have remarked in a previous column (True Albacore), I once stalked such creatures as a gentlemen with reel and creel and fly.

No longer.

I have 4 children 6 and under. We fish with Zebcos. We fish with bobber and worm. We fish loud and we fish fast. As far as George, Gussie and Jane are concerned, the more often you slap the water with that bobber, the more fish you're liable to catch. Only this time it wasn't working, and I was having a hard time convincing Jane, the youngest child of fishing age, that a quiet approach might better yield our quarry. She was having none of it.

"Cast, dad -- I wanna cast."

Alas, the day was beautiful and the land was resplendent in its spring apparel.

"Good day to get skunked if you have to..." I thought. I laid back on the dock and soaked in the sun as every fish in the pond cowered on the bottom. The kids were having fun slinging those poor worms all over the place so priority No. 1 was being accomplished.

We were at the Virginia Country Mountain Center, owned by my friend Al Hammond, who is certainly a column in and of himself. Al used to coach me in 90-pound City League Football. If you irritated him with sub-par play he would paste your helmet with tobacco spit. It was a very effective deterrent to poor tackling. I don't guess coaches do that much these days, but maybe they should. I don't think Al ever lost a title.

The VCMC is what used to be his sheep farm and I suppose I'll always think of it as such. But Al doesn't. He's on a mission. He wants folks to know that this part of Virginia is unlike any other place in the world. So he's taken his 340 acres that lie just north of the Explore Park and created a place where others "can get an education" in everything outdoors -- from hiking and canoeing to fly tying and sporting clays.

The center boasts more than 10 miles of hiking and biking trails, a mile of river frontage, three stocked ponds, endless open fields and meadows and a view of the Roanoke Valley from the northeast that is as extraordinary as it is unique. Al has built a banquet hall and conference center with connected professional kitchen as well as a double decker open air pavilion capable of holding more than 250 people. It is surrounded by an expansive green lawn with more than enough room for all kinds of activities including horseshoes, volleyball and croquet.

There is also a "pig pit" for roasting hogs and large sides of beef.

Before we began tormenting these fish we had stopped by the conference center. Al and a friend were setting up for a youth program sponsored by the National Wild Turkey Federation. There was a Virginia State Fish and Wildlife Trailer parked outside that had hauled a large video simulator used in gun safety training.

"Help me with this table, Rever-burger," he said. "I've got work to do."

And he does. Corporations as well as church groups, school outings and wedding parties have Al and his wife far busier than he ever expected. He hardly has time to manage his 40-year-old form printing business. The VCMC has turned into the proverbial tiger -- and Al is the one hanging on tight to the tail. He plans on building several lodges for overnighters in the fall.

"You can keep the fish if you catch them today Rever-dawg," he told me. "Need to thin 'em out for the summer ... Water gets too warm ... but hey, leave a few for me, will ya !"

The kids all yelled that they were going to catch every single fish on the property as they took off towards a new playground near the pavilion.

"I'll try Al," I responded. "But those are some pretty determined fisherman."

As you already know, there was little danger of depleting the pond during our first 40 minutes, but the casting frenzy finally calmed down and even Jane eventually decided to sit quietly in hopes of landing a "fishy."

Lucky for us these trout were either brave or hungry -- or both. After about five minutes of relative quiet, son George's bobber "ploonked" beneath the surface and we all jumped up to see what he had.

The question should have been, "What had him?"

George's rod bent in a U shape and his eyes grew wide with surprise and excitement. Whatever it was, it was indeed big. He had to spread his feet apart to steady himself on the dock.

I am convinced that the biggest challenge in all of sport fishing is only experienced by those who fish with small children, and it comes with the maddening realization that Junior has a really, really big one on the line. The first instinct is to grab the rod and make sure that you get that "sure to be a state record" back to dry land. You then quickly remember that if you are any real dad at all you will stay back, cheer him on and let him succeed or fail on his own -- even if that does mean losing the only chance you'll ever have at a citation with the family name on it.

"It is not about the fish," you remind yourself.

Sounds easy. But when that 18 inch , 3 pound sparkling Rainbow trout goes dancing across the water, it's not. In fact, it seems to be very much about the fish. But all you can do is coach as if the adrenaline charged ears of your son can actually hear you.

"Keep the tension on him, George!" I hollered. "Rod tip up high -- Rod tip up! Reel baby reel !!!"

My two daughters, ages 5 and 3, were yelling and screaming and jumping and repeating after me:

"Keep tens on high, George! Rob-erts Up! Rob-erts Up! Reel the baby George - -Reel the baby!"

Excitement was high. Confusion reigned, and lucky for us cheerleaders, so did George. He brought that fish in like a pro.

You already know the size.

Not long thereafter Gussie and Jane hooked up with some respectable catches, and dad once again managed to keep his hands together in prayer in lieu of helping them reel. It's painful to watch a 3-year-old slowly crank away at a beautiful Rainbow, but I suppose from the fish's perspective, it's even worse. By the time Jane got hers to the dock, the fish had long since given up the struggle and was more than willing to be placed in the cooler.

We steamed them in butter that night on the grill.

Thanks, Al. It was a great education.