Fishing Journal: 6/15/06

 Sometimes it all comes together.  Sometimes it all falls apart.  I thought I was in the depths of one of these latter times.  I was guiding Ned Carter and his recently eight-year old son, Garretson, on the Potomac.  The temperature was around 95 degrees; the sun was beating; and after three straight days of guiding my hands were cramping so bad I could hold the paddles, never mind paddle us up stream to the islands above Riley’s Lock.  It had been three hours, one 30-knot windstorm that pushed us off the water, and one reel that fell, and I mean fell to the bottom of the river—all with no bite.

Now when you take a kid fishing, the first rule of thumb is CATCH FISH.  Well we hadn’t.  A few nibbles and some half-hearted takes was all we had. 

It was one of those times when the whole question of whether you are actually a half way decent fishing guide comes into your mind.  Especially when the kid asks, “How much longer do we have to do this?”  You know you are on thin ice—but this doesn’t make it any cooler or your hands hurt less.

“They’ll be biting soon.”  When you say it, you are not sure you believe it yourself, but by God you said it and it should happen.  After all, just yesterday you had clients catching fish in the same spot with no problems.

And I have to add, this is not the kid’s fault.  This is not your typical eight-year old.  He casts well.  He knows what structure is.  He knows that below the tree means downstream of it (something I had to explain repeatedly the day before), and I mean no disrespect to Ned on this one, he fishes better than his dad.  Hell for that matter he fishes better than me.  To top it all off, he can do an unbelievable turkey call with just his hands.  Garretson is destined for outdoor greatness.  You heard it here first.

Well this is Saturday, not Friday.  And the jet skis are tearing up the river, so we are staying as close to the edge as well can without being blown onto the shore. 

About four-thirty, I decide to change our tactics and head for the middle of the river.  Maybe if I can row erratically enough the jet skis will give us some space and the fish will cooperate.  Well, you guessed it; here is where it all comes together.

Garretson casts 45 degrees downstream to quarter the lure and I make one paddle stroke upstream.

“Fish on, Garretson.”

A bluegill over hand sized, but at least a fish.  Smiles are all around.  Dad snaps some birthday gift photos.   And I feel the pressure slowly drifting away.

The next cast, boom, a smallmouth busts out of the water.  It is a good fish and sends the whole boat into a scramble.

Garretson wants to pull him from the water; I’m coaching him to keep it in while I get the net from under the seat.  The fish comes off at the boat and Garretson gives me that look.

“Paul, maybe you should keep the net up and ready.”

Maybe I should.

The pattern continues and even Ned gets into the mix catching a nice 18-inch smallmouth that takes a three-foot leap just an arm’s length from the boat.  Where is the digital when you need it?

After many good fish and a double at 7 P.M. (you can imagine the scramble then), we call it a day.

“Are we done already?”