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Peninsula Daily News Port Angeles, Washington Copyright 2000 Eric Rush www.ericrush.com |
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It wasn’t truly his first fish because he and his dad caught the last two salmon taken aboard my sailboat before we sold it. But he was too small to land the salmon by himself at age 4, so he got some help from Uncle Eric. But his first trout was all his own. Cassidy is a quiet, thoughtful young man at 14. He spends a lot of time at the computer, not just playing games but writing them. My brother’s family and mine were camping together southwest of Lake Tahoe. Near the campground we stayed in, the Stanislaus River is hardly more than a creek, but with long stretches of slow, deep pools. I asked Cassidy if he’d like to try trout fishing. We walked the few yards to a slow stretch of river and I set him up with my compact spinning rod and a shiny lure. He caught on quickly and was soon casting into deep water next to the far bank and retrieving at the proper speed to make the lure wiggle yet swim deep. Within a few minutes, a trout zoomed out of the depths and hit the spinner at the boy’s feet. After a couple of splashing gyrations, the fish spit out the hook and retreated into deep water. I’d half-expected my nephew to tire quickly of the repetition of cast and retrieve, cast and retrieve, but the boy was hooked, even if the fish was not. The next morning, a truck from Fish and Game rumbled through the campground and stopped at the river. Campers gathered and watched as the men dumped, not fingerlings, but large, fat fish, into the long, deep pool. Nearly 200 pounds of fish, they said. About 70 fish in all. And they said they wouldn’t be interested in taking bait for a day or so, though they might hit a lure sooner. I had no more interest in catching one of the monsters than I have in shooting a beef cow, but I thought Cassidy might have some fun the next morning before we hit the road. I took my fly rod and went upstream, away from the deep pool with its just-released fish and soon had a limit of pan-sized rainbow trout. Back at the campground, several people were catching the big fish that had been dumped into the river only hours before. When I got to camp, I told Cassidy that I had five fish, but, as there were six of us to eat them, it would be nice if he could catch at least one more before supper. We took the spinning rod to the river and Cassidy began casting as before. We could see a trout follow the lure, but it wouldn’t take it. I had a few bare hooks, but no bait. Hatchery fish wouldn’t be choosy, so I rigged a hook and went back to camp for a chunk of raw pork chop. Other bait casters were simply casting into the pool and slowly retrieving. Good thing, because I didn’t have any bobbers or corks. Cassidy’s mother and his sister and my wife sat on the bank watching. My brother was in camp reading and missed the show. A huge trout grabbed the pork chop and bent the light rod into a teardrop. I could hear the drag singing as the fish pulled one way and the wide-eyed boy reeled the other, and I was glad I’d not set it tighter. Cassidy held the rod high as he backed onto the sand. I scooped the fat fish into my landing net and handed it to him. “Here’s the secret to fish pictures,” I said as I pulled my camera from my shirt pocket. “Hold the fish out toward the camera. It’ll make it look even bigger.” Cassidy laughed and held the heavy net toward me and I snapped the picture. He went out the next morning alone and caught another large trout. Now I’ve got a date with my nephew and a sporting goods store. There’s a pond near his house in Colorado full of bluegills and perch. By summer’s end, he may be the only computer programmer in his neighborhood with a permanent grin and a tan.
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