The Weekly Fare . . . May 20, 2004

To Catch The Big Ones, Follow Your Heart . . .

When it comes to fishing, Dads are always right . . . OK, Most of the time . . . Well, maybe just some of the time . . .

On occasion?

Hey, it happens! But such was decidedly not the case a couple of weeks ago when son George and I were asked to help with a fish stocking in Randolph County, West Virginia . . .

First of all, this was new territory for both of us. I had never actually slung multitudes of fish INTO a river. But I must say the idea intrigued me, and I was especially excited about the opportunity for 10-year-old George to be involved in such a learning experience. Besides, this might just give ol' Dad a chance to demonstrate his bottomless pit of biological knowledge concerning fish ecology and habitat. (My wife might tell you that "pit" is the operative word in that sentence.)

When the fish truck arrived laden down with a glorious assortment of Brook, Brown and Rainbow Trout, I was at least wise enough to ask the driver about how and where we might best stock them along the mile plus length of river that runs through our small community. His answer was both short and vague, so I asked him again.

"So, what we need to do then is begin right here and hit about two or three spots as we head up river until we arrive at the last house on the road?"

"Uh, huh . . ." came the reply.

"Or would it be better to start at the end of the road and put the fish in at several good locations we know of coming down . . ."

"Uh, huh." His expression hadn't changed in the slightest.

My cousin Pat and a couple of his friends who were part of our crew turned slightly to hide their smiles. It didn't appear that "Marvin" was going to be much help. After a quick discussion among four men and a boy with not so much as a thimble's full of experience in the task at hand, we headed up river with five large buckets, a yard wagon, a "four wheeler" and the fish truck in tow.

Four hours and several hundred flapping tails later we had the fish in their new home. We were soaked and muddy, and not every trout entered the water with the grace one normally associates with such a fish, but they seemed none the worse for it. As we poured out our teeming kettles of roiling aquatic life into the river, the fish would hesitate for a few moments, and then dash off to the safety of a nearby rock or deep water hole. Some of the "Brookies" were over 16 inches in length - and the Rainbows were even bigger. Son George couldn't wait to get a line in the water.

"We'll give them the rest of the day to acclimate," I advised him, "and then you'll have all day Saturday and Sunday to win back a couple of these guys." George had seen all those fish go in the river and he was extremely confident he could "win back" more than just a couple. He eyed the river like a Jaguar about to be let into a small pen of sheep.

We woke the morning just before the sun rose - skipping breakfast to get out to the fish. Patrick and his pals soon joined us and we all began to rig up our rods by the river. Since George isn't quite ready to handle a fly rod we would be "spin-casting" together. He had always relied on me to select the best lure for the conditions, so I reached in the tackle box and gave him a barb-less yellow spinner I thought would work just fine.

He took it in his hand and stared at it a moment. Finally he looked back up.

"Dad, I don't want to use a spinner. I was thinking maybe that little shiny spoon lure . . . What do you call it? A Little Clowey?"

"A Little Clowey??" I replied with enough sarcasm to let him know I didn't necessarily appreciate his questioning my call. "That's a "Little Cleo" and it's not what you really need here. What you need is that yellow spinner there. Go on and use that and you're sure to catch some fish." I smiled real big to assure him of my wisdom and remind him that the old man really does know what he's talking about when it comes to lure selection, how to pack a car for the beach and other like matters.

George paused a moment. In hindsight, he must have been trying to figure out a nice way to say it. "Dad, I think I would just like to fish with that Little Clowey there . . . maybe I'll try that yellow spinner later . . ." I was irritated. He had always dutifully accepted my selection before.

"It's a LITTLE CLEO!" I said, hoping my emphasis on his inability to say it correctly would somehow prove that I was right and he was wrong. "Really George, just try the spinner for a while and if you don't catch anything we'll switch up later . . ."

George looked at me and then back down at the tackle box with its wacky assortment of weights, leaders, lures and other odds and ends that have collected over the last twenty years. "Dad, I'd really just like to fish with that Little Cleo if it's OK with you . . ." He had made up his mind. I was exasperated. I was sure the spoon wouldn't work nearly as well as a spinner.

"Fine then," I replied tersely. "Fish with your 'little clowey' and when you don't catch anything come back and find me and I'll just have to fix you up then . . ." George slowly took the small silver lure from the tackle box and tied it to his line.

"You watch," he said, confidently, "I'm going to catch more fish than anyone today."

"We'll see about that," I responded.

We all headed up river towards a good collection of deep holes and fast running slews. George tentatively approached the riverbank and made his first cast . . . Crank, crank . . . "Boom!" A large rainbow hit the "Little Cleo" within five seconds. It caught George by surprise and he had to struggle just to hang on to his rod as it bent wildly toward the river. By the time he got the 15-inch fish to shore his smile was almost as wide the trout was long. "I told you!" he yelled, beaming with pride.

"Way to go George - that's a fabulous fish!" I said. His joy and excitement easily overcame my desire to be right. And it didn't take long for him to prove the rest of his point. By noon he had caught nine fish to my two. By the afternoon I had jettisoned the yellow spinner and tied on my own "Little Cleo." It was admitting full and final defeat, but it was worth it. When he ribbed me about it a little later on in the day, I replied with a few fatherly words to live by.

"George - there's something to be learned in this you know . . . There will be times when people, myself included, are going to tell you how to do something and your heart is going to be telling you something entirely different. Discerning which is the right thing to do can be difficult. But one thing's for certain, there will be many a time when you'll need to stick to your guns as you did today and follow your own heart - even when someone else makes a pretty good argument to do otherwise."

George pondered the words a moment and nodded in agreement. Then in an apparent attempt to let me know that he didn't think I was a complete idiot said, "You really are usually right though Dad . . ."

"Yeah, and don't you forget it!" I said smiling.

By the time we left Sunday George had caught and released no less than thirty-one fish. But not a one - or all of them together - mattered as much as his choosing that lure himself.

I was proud of him. I was glad I had been wrong. We caught fish.

Ain't life great?