Growing up in a family that loved to fish and lauded with praise those who caught fish, I was eager to join the ranks of the small male fraternity within our circle considered the best by the rest of us. So, when we’d make our annual family trip to Bob’s Lake, Canada, I was always on the water, tirelessly honing my skills alongside every weed bed, in every cove, and along every drop-off. My mother’s father, known affectionately as “Papoo” to me and the other grandchildren, was the patriarch of this fraternity. I loved to fish with Papoo, and I learned from him many piscatorial crafts as such tracing a weedline’s irregular edge with a trolled flatfish or dancing a bucktail jig along a submerged rocky shoal. Despite the hours we all put in, big fish were hard to come by. When it happened, it was a big deal. I first saw a big deal made of a big fish in July of 1982 when my Uncle Tim came in to camp with a gorgeous monster of a walleye. Wow, what a fish! And the “oohs” and “aahs”, the photos, and the cheers. Twas truly a cause for celebration! To a twelve-year-old in this family, there seemed few more virtuous or commendable accomplishments. I wanted so badly to catch a big fish, only I’d have to wait two more years…
The events immediately leading up to the “big one” started one morning when I was out trolling alone, commencing promptly when a rather large pike decided to make a meal of my crankbait. The beast didn’t put up much of a fight, but I nevertheless struggled to pry it from the lake's bottom. From a tangled jungle of weeds not twenty feet below, I could see its sleek form slowly taking shape as it emerged begrudgingly from darkness into the light. I tensed every muscle in anticipation of the sudden burst that would erupt at any moment, but the fish didn’t take off upon sight of the boat; it simply slowly undulated from side to side as I heaved on the line to haul it up. The fish allowed me to bring it alongside the boat, almost as if to grant me a good look at my presumed captive before breaking away, perhaps all in accordance with its plan. Only then did I realize that the landing net was at the bow of the boat while I was back at the stern. I stood up, wobbly-kneed, and leaned forward to reach for the net. The line quickly grew heavy and my rod bent into an unsettlingly deep arc. Glancing over, I saw that I had tilted the giant northern’s head out of the water. With a single, violent thrash of its head, it snapped the 12 pound test line, and sunk to the bottom as slowly as it had risen to the surface. I could only watch helplessly as the fish disappeared into its mysterious aqueous hideaway, known to me only as an ever-shifting, shapeless tapestry of infinite shades of green and blue below. I had raised a monster, only to lose it and watch it dissolve back into the watery depths. Distraught, I sobbed and headed back to camp with teary eyes stinging in the wind blowing against my face. To say that I was stricken with angst beyond which I’d previously known in my twelve years is without a shred of hyperbole.
In an effort to assuage my sorrows, my aunt took me, my brother and my cousin swimming off of their ski boat. We all had brought our fishing rods along, and before too long, I was at it again. The bright sun and cool water had lifted my spirits, and although I had never seen in all of my life a pike any larger than two-feet long taken from our lake, I fished with a three-foot,30-pound steel leader, just in case another behemoth whose dentition should consist of dozens of tiny daggers would unwittingly take my offering. Having just been swimming, I had little expectation that we’d find any un-startled fish in the immediate vicinity of our boat, but nevertheless I was into a good fish within minutes of casting. This time not a northern, but a relentless leaper of a smallmouth, the likes of which I had never seen. I was having difficulty subduing the fish, but to my good fortune, this fish wanted to fly rather than seek the refuge of the thick watermilfoil beds below. Eventually, I brought it boat side. And this time, I had plenty of help onboard, but we had no net! How could this be? For the second time in a single day, a trophy fish was going to slip off my line and out of my life. The high gunwales on my Uncle’s ski boat rendered reaching over to grab the fish a near impossibility, to me anyway. This time, however,
serendipity sidestepped misfortune, when my aunt caught sight of and grabbed
onto the long steel leader that I had tied on for the first time only minutes earlier. In one swift, sweeping motion, she lifted the fish on board. I had done it; we had done it. My first trophy fish, a four-pound smallmouth bass, and I had not been as proud of a fish before or since, but more importantly to me, neither had my Papoo.
Returning to camp, I held the fish high for all of my family to see. I was profusely praised and congratulated, and the fish was amply (and appropriately!) admired. Later that fall, I received the fish back from the taxidermist. As a token of my love for my grandfather, and for the appreciation of the many hours he spent teaching me to fish our lake in Canada, I presented to him my trophy fish as a Christmas gift. Shortly thereafter, he reciprocated the loving gesture with the following poem:
The arithmetic of angling
by a young disciple of Isaak Walton’s
It being a treatise on the big one
that didn’t get away
And at the same time, being an answer
to the questions that are elicited
by the beautiful trophy
on the wall of Papoo’s study.
It’s like this:
A baby was born to a certain
Glen and Gretchen on a November day
fifteen years ago;
this boy became an avid fisherman,
catching the fever from his grand daddy Baer
and dad and mom Cole.
It all got started on the many-a-year spent on vacation trips
to the back country of Canada
Plus a boat on a lake
Plus a motor on a boat
Plus Minutes and hours and days
of patient fishing;
Plus experimenting with all kinds of lures:
Spoons and flatfish (gold preferred)
Plus the lucky choice of a new and tempting lure
known as Wiggle Wart,
Plus a bass that got too curious
Plus the skill of a certain Mike;
Plus a brother and a cousin
and an uncle and an aunt and a Mama
who o-o-o-od and a-a-a-ad
when the catch was brought back to camp.
All divided by the generous 1984 Christmas gift
of the “stuffed one” by Mike to Papoo;
The proof of the gift is on the wall of
Papoo’s study; whose heart is full of love and
gratitude for so grand a gift.
Our mutual love for fishing forged a special bond between my Papoo and me, the type that needed no speaking of, but was understood and felt deeply by both. This exchange of truly heart-felt gifts symbolized that bond between us. My grandfather passed away many years ago, and with his passing, my gift to him was returned to me. Today it is on my wall as a reminder of those summer days in the wooden john boat with Papoo under a clear blue Canadian sky, of that bond we had, and of the source of the fisherman in me.
The events immediately leading up to the “big one” started one morning when I was out trolling alone, commencing promptly when a rather large pike decided to make a meal of my crankbait. The beast didn’t put up much of a fight, but I nevertheless struggled to pry it from the lake's bottom. From a tangled jungle of weeds not twenty feet below, I could see its sleek form slowly taking shape as it emerged begrudgingly from darkness into the light. I tensed every muscle in anticipation of the sudden burst that would erupt at any moment, but the fish didn’t take off upon sight of the boat; it simply slowly undulated from side to side as I heaved on the line to haul it up. The fish allowed me to bring it alongside the boat, almost as if to grant me a good look at my presumed captive before breaking away, perhaps all in accordance with its plan. Only then did I realize that the landing net was at the bow of the boat while I was back at the stern. I stood up, wobbly-kneed, and leaned forward to reach for the net. The line quickly grew heavy and my rod bent into an unsettlingly deep arc. Glancing over, I saw that I had tilted the giant northern’s head out of the water. With a single, violent thrash of its head, it snapped the 12 pound test line, and sunk to the bottom as slowly as it had risen to the surface. I could only watch helplessly as the fish disappeared into its mysterious aqueous hideaway, known to me only as an ever-shifting, shapeless tapestry of infinite shades of green and blue below. I had raised a monster, only to lose it and watch it dissolve back into the watery depths. Distraught, I sobbed and headed back to camp with teary eyes stinging in the wind blowing against my face. To say that I was stricken with angst beyond which I’d previously known in my twelve years is without a shred of hyperbole.
In an effort to assuage my sorrows, my aunt took me, my brother and my cousin swimming off of their ski boat. We all had brought our fishing rods along, and before too long, I was at it again. The bright sun and cool water had lifted my spirits, and although I had never seen in all of my life a pike any larger than two-feet long taken from our lake, I fished with a three-foot,30-pound steel leader, just in case another behemoth whose dentition should consist of dozens of tiny daggers would unwittingly take my offering. Having just been swimming, I had little expectation that we’d find any un-startled fish in the immediate vicinity of our boat, but nevertheless I was into a good fish within minutes of casting. This time not a northern, but a relentless leaper of a smallmouth, the likes of which I had never seen. I was having difficulty subduing the fish, but to my good fortune, this fish wanted to fly rather than seek the refuge of the thick watermilfoil beds below. Eventually, I brought it boat side. And this time, I had plenty of help onboard, but we had no net! How could this be? For the second time in a single day, a trophy fish was going to slip off my line and out of my life. The high gunwales on my Uncle’s ski boat rendered reaching over to grab the fish a near impossibility, to me anyway. This time, however,
serendipity sidestepped misfortune, when my aunt caught sight of and grabbed
onto the long steel leader that I had tied on for the first time only minutes earlier. In one swift, sweeping motion, she lifted the fish on board. I had done it; we had done it. My first trophy fish, a four-pound smallmouth bass, and I had not been as proud of a fish before or since, but more importantly to me, neither had my Papoo.
Returning to camp, I held the fish high for all of my family to see. I was profusely praised and congratulated, and the fish was amply (and appropriately!) admired. Later that fall, I received the fish back from the taxidermist. As a token of my love for my grandfather, and for the appreciation of the many hours he spent teaching me to fish our lake in Canada, I presented to him my trophy fish as a Christmas gift. Shortly thereafter, he reciprocated the loving gesture with the following poem:
The arithmetic of angling
by a young disciple of Isaak Walton’s
It being a treatise on the big one
that didn’t get away
And at the same time, being an answer
to the questions that are elicited
by the beautiful trophy
on the wall of Papoo’s study.
It’s like this:
A baby was born to a certain
Glen and Gretchen on a November day
fifteen years ago;
this boy became an avid fisherman,
catching the fever from his grand daddy Baer
and dad and mom Cole.
It all got started on the many-a-year spent on vacation trips
to the back country of Canada
Plus a boat on a lake
Plus a motor on a boat
Plus Minutes and hours and days
of patient fishing;
Plus experimenting with all kinds of lures:
Spoons and flatfish (gold preferred)
Plus the lucky choice of a new and tempting lure
known as Wiggle Wart,
Plus a bass that got too curious
Plus the skill of a certain Mike;
Plus a brother and a cousin
and an uncle and an aunt and a Mama
who o-o-o-od and a-a-a-ad
when the catch was brought back to camp.
All divided by the generous 1984 Christmas gift
of the “stuffed one” by Mike to Papoo;
The proof of the gift is on the wall of
Papoo’s study; whose heart is full of love and
gratitude for so grand a gift.
Our mutual love for fishing forged a special bond between my Papoo and me, the type that needed no speaking of, but was understood and felt deeply by both. This exchange of truly heart-felt gifts symbolized that bond between us. My grandfather passed away many years ago, and with his passing, my gift to him was returned to me. Today it is on my wall as a reminder of those summer days in the wooden john boat with Papoo under a clear blue Canadian sky, of that bond we had, and of the source of the fisherman in me.
Mike and Papoo bring in a catch
circa 1975
circa 1975