It’s my run now and I’m no longer chasing trout. We’re all after that which had possessed the little girl. In this new paradigm I see each fish. I know without knowing where to cast, and unencumbered by thought put the fly there. Our fishing is like breathing, and the inhales and exhales carry us to the head of the pool, where we pause. Here lies a tangled knot of willow wisps and driftwood, below which, as sure as Sunday, lurks the bully of the block. I haven’t seen her form, flight, shadow, or rise, but she’s there.
And so, without consideration for geometry, wind, current, or the consequence of a likely snag, I drag my line taut, and with a backhand switch send it rolling past one greedy bush and under the next to unfurl directly into a seam of current that drives its payload into the lair of a predator. Which, God save me, detaches itself from the depths and grows and grows and grows, an ever-looming shadow that—smack—devours my bug like it had spoken ill of all troutkind.
The hook set, I forget for a moment the life at the end of my line and look instead over my shoulder to seek its reflection in Ayden’s face. Then, before I can gather my wits, the fight barely a squabble, a gill-hooked rainbow is dying on the bank, its brushstroke of rose crosshatched by crimson.
“Iwannasee. Lemseeee,” whines Ayden.
I cast a pleading look of shame over my shoulder, but am returned an unapologetic “get used to it” shrug from Steven.
“We’re fishing,” says his body language. ”All three of us. We’ll deal.”
“Okay, Sweetheart. This one will look different, though,” says Steven aloud. There is no somber tone, no foreboding. He’s simply sharing the facts.
Brow knit and lips pursed, the tot crouches with an outstretched finger to consider our situation, then hands down her verdict.
“Putmbaaack.”
“No, Bug. This one’s going to die. We’re going to eat him.”
Turning away with the fish, I slide my thumb along the roof of its mouth, guess at the back of its skull with a crooked index finger and, with a firm grip, bend its head backwards fast and hard until I feel a snap.
With eyes on the mountain I think, so that’s it. That’s “the talk.” For a two-year-old there is no reasoning that we were born with canine teeth and other things must die for us to live. There is no moral and no metaphor. She’ll adopt her own obfuscations later. For now it’s just the facts. Meanwhile, I keep my back turned and wait for the death spasms to pass. They take an eternity.
We nearly passed it by. Fast water, little structure, it just didn’t quite seem worth it. But time was on our side and Matt decided to wade into position for a quick cast. Before I knew what happened he was tied fast into a good fish…and losing ground.
I tossed the Echo Gecko aside. Wading with a four year old on my back, I worked across the heavy current to assist. Moving steadily down stream, Matt was was trying to find the balance between applying just enough pressure while not breaking off. Grabbing the net from his pack I moved into position to land the fish (since the last net handling cluster we devised a releasable system).
After several strong runs the fish was ready to give me a shot. I’d like to say I scooped him up on the first attempt, but I’d be lieing. The fish had strength to spare, but we were soon fortunate to land an incredible cutthroat caught in his native range.
Sometimes it all works out
Two feet tall, pigtailed, and wearing a furrow of concentration, Ayden is here not just as a hall pass for her father. She’s here for the action. And though she is innocent in matters of predator and prey, she has expectations.
“More fish Daddy. New fie.”
“My daughter humbly suggests you consider a different fly pattern,” translates Steven.
He’s amused, and with good reason. We’ve worked together upstream, alternating holes, and Steven has consistently plucked the alpha trout from his lot. He’s even had the temerity to glean fish left otherwise unmolested in mine. As Steven is a much better fisherman than me, the tally isn’t especially noteworthy. But that he’s doing it while doubling as sedan bearer for a squirming, kicking, Croakies tugging, snack-cup wielding, zerbert-blowing peanut gallery has my ego a bit frayed.
“Thank you, Ayden. You’re such a good helper. I think I’ll dance with the one who brung me, though.”
The babytalk for her, and the declaration for her father, are met by a half squint of focus by the younger and a bemused grin by the elder. Thus disabused by a tot of the self-deception required for successful fly-fishing, I send a clumsy cast long and slap line, leader, and fly onto the surface like a winning domino. The resulting trout exodus could be seen from space. When Steven—ever the diplomat—suggests we rest the hole with a round of refreshments, I’m in no position to argue.
This stretch of river wends across a Nature Conservancy owned ranch where best practices riparian zone management and fishing access limited to one party per day have turned a once struggling cow-calf operation into a win-win for sportsmen and cattlemen alike. The work done by TNC and its ranch managers is easy to admire in concept, but in-the-stream experience of the parcel drives home one’s appreciation. It’s a bucolic marvel of river, pasture, sandstone, and wheeling swallows so self-evident that Steven and I talk instead of topics less diminished by words—work, honey-do lists, politics—and finally not at all. Mostly we just sip our beers and watch Ayden chase grasshoppers.
I can only guess what runs with Steven’s imagination while his daughter bushwacks through tall grass and tumbles over river stones. For myself, I’m grateful to witness the unchoreographed interplay of dad and kiddo. New to fatherhood, I’ve only begun to understand just how ill prepared I am. These simple moments of daddyhood done right are a serendipitous catch, and I don’t dare spook them with question or comment. In silence we feel the valley begin to yield its afternoon heat to the reservoir of cool air pouring off the mountain—a long gentle exhalation at day’s end—and rise to our cue.
Back on our feet, or kid carriers as the case may be, we’re once again a team taut with anticipation of the unknown. Steven is casting across the river to what appears little more than damp sandstone. His first cast is unapologetic despite my snicker. With his second nearly identical effort I’m ready with a snide barb, but think better of it. With the third attempt I take note of the focused brow Steven passed to his daughter and, eyes darting from angler to his imitation grasshopper, I catch the faintest flash of golden darkness before the hopper vanishes into a miniature Charybdis. A rod tip comes up, a reel screams to life, and Ayden shrieks like she’s the one who’s been hooked. The rod is doubled forward and she’s arched backward, jaw clenched below saucer-wide eyes, tiny fists squeezed tight at the end of trembling arms. Three, four, five eternal heartbeats before she regains relative control of herself and begins to bounce up and down, threatening her father’s balance.
“Big fish, big fish, big fish Daddy!”
“That’s right, sweetheart,” says Steven in a failed stab at nonchalance. Quick sidelong glances betray his excitement, eyes that ask both the familiar “Did you see that rise?” and something new: “Did you see my daughter?”
I had seen Ayden. I’d seen something that at 35 I could no longer produce, but nonetheless felt a kinship to. Her miniature body had spoken in a lost language I could understand so long as I didn’t try to translate.
Good luck finding that on the Disney Channel.
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* Excerpted from Of Tot’s and Trout, which originally appeared in the March / April 2013 Issue of Gray’s Sporting Journal.
The events described above are 3 years gone. Our focus in the years since has been the perpetuation of similar opportunities for our kids, ourselves and sporting families everywhere. That drive has led, in part, to the creation of Stalking the Seam. Stay tuned for the second half of Of Tot’s and Trout, coming to STS next week.
My kids have reached a point where they are no longer content just to be along for the ride. They want in on the action. They want a rod in their hands. However, handing your toddler your heirloom bamboo or latest fast action wonder might be a bit risky. Fortunately, there is a great alternative.
My buddy Garrett Munson, co-owner of Montana Fishing Outfitters, introduced me to the Echo Gecko, a rod built for kids that is actually worth its salt. In addition to a bunch of kid friendly features, Garrett warned me that while my kids won’t necessarily appreciate it I would really enjoy casting it. He wasn’t wrong.
Shortly after our initial conversation I had to order one. At $99 it’s not the cheapest rod you could get, but it is one of the few fly rods specifically designed for kids. In the name of making fishing more accessible to our kids, and compared to other rods in my garage, it seemed like a bargain. In fact, my wife liked the idea so much that she motivated to place the order as soon as I told her about the rod.
At 7’9″, with a slender grip and a small fighting butt, it is sized nicely for children. Equally important, the rod is virtually indestructible. The tip can be shoved straight into the dirt with little worry of snapping it – although I don’t recommend testing this purposely. The rod is light enough for youngsters to cast with ease. With a yellow blank and cool camo grip it also looks cool.
Finding another run Photo by Steven Brutger
My kids love their Echo Gecko, so much that my son and I got into an argument in the drift boat recently where he kept repeating “me fish self”. At two years old he still needs a little help with his cast but he preferred to go it alone smacking the water repeatedly with his Echo Gecko. Desperately, I wanted to work together and cast to a pod of rising fish that was slurping PMD’s on the near bank.
Our friends at Deneki were quicker to pick up on the virtues of the Echo Gecko, here’s what they think:
Releasing her catch
A sad truth lies hidden between the columns of the typical USOB ledger*… The system is rigged, and – as a responsible, gainfully employed, parent and spouse with obligations and expectations – not in your favor. Thrift and a disciplined deposit schedule are, as we’ve discussed, fundamental aspects of any successful USOB wealth building strategy, but alone they can’t deliver the sporting opportunity fortune that you fantasized about as a kid. That type of time afield requires risk and real hustle. To get ahead, you have to change the arithmetic. Recent outings have reintroduced me to two accessible tactics for doing just that.
Tactic 1: Embrace Your Darkside
Steven and I had spent the day wade-fishing with the kids, and the next was slated for a family float trip, but why not, we asked ourselves, carve out a couple more hours of opportunity. You gotta make hay while the sun shines, we decided around the campfire, even if it’s only reflected off the moon.
Talking about it over camp-cups of boxed wine is one thing. Execution is another matter. Unfamiliar at noon, the river was distilled mystery come midnight. Each shuffling step against the current was an 8-inch adventure into the unknown. Fixated on new feedback, my mind wrought havoc with cast after cast. But then the big, round moon rose from the opposite bank’s bluffs. Gulps and splashes joined the river’s burbling melody, and there I stood grinning into the darkness, wondering why I usually waste these hours on a 0% yield activity like sleep.
Tactic 2: Dawn Patrol
***Text Message Transcript***
Lat: Matthew, what do you say about meet 7 pm fish til after dark followed by sipper of whiskey. Matt: Sounds great but I forgot I’m booked tonight. How about tomorrow. Lat: Lets make it happen. Lat: Sick wife. No Evenings. Can you pull off dawn patrol? Matt: I’m game. What’s the plan? Lat: Meet 4:30ish fish (location censored) hard till 7:30 – 8 back in time for breakfast? Matt: Uh… Lat: Best big fish close Matt: Uh… Lat:??? Matt: What time’s sunrise? Lat: What time are you sprouting a pair?
Did the 4 a.m. alarm sting a little? Of course. Was it a worthwhile investment?
Early risers Photo by Matthew Copeland
Yeah, we saw a healthy return.
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* USOB = Universal Sporting Opportunity Balance. A unit of measure, used to evaluate the strength of a sportsman’s claim to the time and resources required to get out and do cool stuff. This tool is particularly useful as life increases in complexity and competing claims become more numerous.
USOB Accounting = the method by which USOB is calculated.
It’s summer time and many are turning to gin & tonics or a hefeweizen. Not my dad. He’s a scotch drinker, and not to be dissuaded by hot weather. Recently he came for a visit and he stuck a bottle of Laproaig Quarter Cask in the freezer. To some this would be considered blasphemy, but for him it’s how you turn a winter peat monster into the perfect summer libation.
Many are familiar with Laphroaig and they have probably had the 10 year old. The 10 remains one of my all time favorites, but the Quarter Cask is worth the few extra bucks if you haven’t tried it before. You might even prefer it. This Islay malt is double cask matured, 48% abv, and non-chill filtered. It starts sweet and buttery and finishes with a distinct, almost medicinal, peatiness that can only be attributed to Laphroaig.
Out of the freezer it nearly turns to syrup and might be the dram of choice as the sun drops below the horizon on a summer evening.
Character Notes
ANGLER: finds himself in foreign territory in search of unfamiliar prey. Though neither blind to the natural splendor surrounding him, nor unappreciative of the opportunity before him, he is after years of anticipation and preparation, perhaps a bit over-eager to consummate his experience.
GUIDE: is a practiced hand, comfortable with the tools of his craft, including the cushioning of egos.
Setting
The curtain rises on a white,17-foot, Maverick Master Angler anchored against a stiff tidal current in shallow turquoise water. A blood orange sun is low in the western sky. Two men, ANGLER and CHORUS, stand on the deck holding rods. A third man, GUIDE,stands between them, eyes on the water, hands busy with some unseen task.
Act 1, Scene 1
ANGLER:(retrieving his line) Damn! What did I do wrong? That was totally an eat.
GUIDE: Yep.
ANGLER: What do you mean?
GUIDE: He totally ate it.
ANGLER: Right. That wasn’t my question. How did I miss the set? Too slow? Too fast? I didn’t try and trout set him did I?
GUIDE: Oh… Who’s to say? You been livin’ right?
ANGLER: Right enough I guess. But seriously though… I’ve heard that one before. You’re not going to hurt my feelings with some feedback.
GUIDE: (pointing aft) Nervous water.
ANGLER: What?
GUIDE: Still here. Be ready.
ANGLER: OK. But ready…
A six foot long, silver and green, scaly torpedo porpoises from the water in the vicinity of ANGLER’s last cast.
ANGLER: Oh man!…
Reflected light flash’s just below the surface as ANGLER’s line unfurls above the sea.
CHORUS: Matt!
ANGLER: I see him, I see him!
A fish erupts from the water, 9 feet behind ANGLER’s floating line, launching all of it’s 6-foot length into the air before a splashy reentry.
ALL: Ohhhhhhhh!
ANGLER Strips like a man possessed. His line is slack. Silence
ANGLER: What happened?
GUIDE: He missed it. Leave it tight in the current. He missed.
ANGLER: Missed?
GUIDE: Missed it. Must have bad eyes.
3 minutes of silence while ANGLER, GUIDE and CHORUS stare aft at lifeless water.
ANGLER: How big do you think that tarpon was. I don’t know tarpon from Adam, but he looked real big to me.
GUIDE: That was a 150 pound tarpon at least. Maybe bigger. He was a hog. Big, big tarpon.
CHORUS: Big.
ANGLER: And this 150 pound apex predator, who’s made a very nice living catching and eating perfectly healthy wild critters – all while evading hammerheads and the like – is occasionally unable to accurately line-up a fake fish on a string?
GUIDE: Hey man, this is the tropics. The livin’ is easy.
***Curtain***
The house is spotless. We’ve hardly been home. The pickup is a disaster, so is the boat bag. Clothes shoved into the corners, smelling of bug spray. Plastic bags, food wrappers, and empty soda bottles litter the floor mats. The girls went back East to visit family and my son and I are flying solo. Adding to the mix my brother is in town.
We have been fishing four days straight now. The routine is simple. My brother packs dinner while I pick up my son from day care after work. We head out until sundown. Bouncing down dirt roads, checking out places we’ve always meant to go and visiting familiar haunts. We eat on the run, sit on the tailgate, fish until it’s dark.
Slinking into the house at dark, I give my son a quick bath and tuck him into bed. Then I pre-rig the coffee maker, make lunches for the next day, and get ready to do it all again.
Last Light
On a recent fishing trip to Florida, my son caught himself dinner for the first time. He’s into picking and eating veggies from the garden back home but let’s be honest, broccoli’s got nothing on mangrove snapper. I used to believe that the backcountry was the world’s best seasoning. Turns out it’s only a distant second to the excitement of a kid who just harvested his own food.
What You’ll Need…
1 Freshly Caught Mangrove Snapper – a.k.a. gray or mango snapper.
Butter
Olive Oil
Bread Crumbs – My son and I are gluten free, so I toasted and crumbled some Udi’s. If I could, I’d use Panko.
Salt and Pepper
Step 1: Fillet and skin the snapper. These are meaty little guys for their size, with tasty cuts nearly to the eye along the spine and all the way aft to the tail fin. They’re small enough to make the inclusion of some pin bones inevitable though. After rinsing the fillets, I find these little needles by running my thumb along the lateral line of the fillet while gently bending the meat. Once located, I pluck each one out with a pair of tweezers. It’s faster and easier than it sounds, saves a bunch of meat and saves you from a perforated mouth.
Step 2: Pat fillets dry and rub lightly with olive oil. Season lightly with salt and finely ground black pepper, then coat in bread crumbs. (Frankly, the fish doesn’t need the crumbs. But kids love crunch, and with so many USOB points on the line you might as well pull out all the stops.)
Step 3: Meanwhile heat a big ole hunk of butter in your favorite saute pan until it starts to brown, then swirl in an equal amount of olive oil. Bring blended oil back to shimmering heat over high flame.
Step 4: Saute fish over high heat. 3 minutes on the first side and 1 to 1 and 1/2 after the flip should do the trick, but with all of the variables of stove, pan, fillet, altitude, air pressure, humidity and astrological station it’s best to trust your eye, nose and gut instead of the clock. You’re going for golden brown crust and a nearly ,but not quite opaque, center that flakes easily. Snapper is pretty forgiving of heavy-handed cooking, but like all fish it’s best not overdone.
Step 5: Serve with Cuban black beans, rice and whatever obligatory green thing you have. It’s simple, savory and unforgettable, just like the good life.
STS Snapper ala Squirt
1 Freshly Caught Mangrove Snapper
Butter
Olive Oil
Bread Crumbs
Salt and Pepper
1. Fillet and skin fish.
2. Season fillets and coat with crumbs
3. Heat oil and butter in pan.
4. Saute over high heat.
5. Plate and serve.
Recently I was on the phone with my brother. He told me he had been reading the blog and enjoying it. Pleasantly surprised I asked if he had any feedback. He said something to the effect of “You know that living in New Jersey I don’t get to hunt and fish much these days, so while I like some of the introspective stuff at the end of a story I want you to catch or kill something”.
With that in mind, while it is nice to wax poetic about the pretty country native fish live in here’s a few photos of the fish themselves. For the record, these fish fell into the catch category and they were released not killed. Catching trout in their native range is about as cool as it gets. For me that means various cutthroat subspecies.
