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I thought I'd shift gears a bit this weekend and take
my six year old daughter out on a small local river. I
figured to make a fun outing from it and throw in a little
fishing for her as well. What I got was a wonderful reminder
that children grow very quickly, a glimpse of the joys yet
to come as well as another day in my ongoing education of
living with more love than I knew was possible.
The day started with her getting up an hour earlier than
usual, barely calm enough to eat breakfast, soon we found
our way to the banks of the Snoqualimie River, WA, just below
the pass. The fish were small but plentiful and the action
was fast enough to keep her entertained. Then the young
girl who wouldn't touch a fish for the last five years
suddenly wanted to hold, examine and release these bright
mountain fish. I showed her how to slowly reduce her grip
on the fish and have it calmly swim away. It's very hard
to explain but there was something in her reaction to this
small experience that connected us on a DNA level. She
seemed to revel in the feeling of having the creature
firmly in hand and then calmly having it swim out of
her grip and then hold a few inches away. Something in
her demeanor was well beyond her years and in that moment
I knew she knew, and another connection was made leading
to our future together. A cycle of fishing that goes back
four generations to the waters of Colorado and a small
cottage on the N. Fork of the S. Platte.
The main addition to my usual cache of equipment was a
small cooler stocked with lots of snacks and drinks. This
was obviously critical as she needed a lot of fuel to keep
going but couldn't sit and eat for any sustained period,
continually pushing me on to the next hole.
I learned a few years ago to always give her way more
information than I think she can understand because she
understands way more than I think possible. So I gave
her a quick lesson on reading 'fishy water' and seined
the water for what few bugs were present. Almost
immediately she was directing our casts to various
pockets and seams with the utmost confidence. The
fish were often small enough that hookups were hard
to secure but to my amazement she didn't miss seeing
a single rise, even the one lazy slurping rise we had.
Her focus startled me.
There was a fairly good trail along most of the river but
if you have fished in Western Washington then you know that
just 10 ft of brush between you and the river can constitute
impassable; bush-wacking can be a nightmare. She got to
experience it all, climbing over log jams, crossing the
river piggy back, having to punch on through all kinds
of sticker bushes and walking through the dark silent
spongy forest floor under 400 year old cedars. She hung
right in there and demanded more; I couldn't have been
more proud of her.
I've been waiting these past few years not wanting to push
her too hard but continually offering her opportunities to
experience some fishing. It started in a backpack along the
banks of the Metolius and has been received with various
results. The first fish she caught herself (an 'U fish' pond)
were cooked and eaten with grand ceremony, another time was cut
short by deer flies (you can't expect a 3 year old to put up
with being bitten by giant flies) but all of them have been
watched carefully by a father barely able to contain himself
at the prospect of having his daughter become his 'go to' fishing
partner.
This evolution of a fisher (both of us) is still in its
early stages but it seems we have progressed to a new
plateau with many more opportunities than the previous
stage. Looks like it's time for a 'Fly-O' and an excursion
with our ancestors along the banks of the Platte. I don't
think she will be able to help but be a fly fisher; it's
in her blood. ~ Paul Dieter
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