Since moving into our house about a year ago Ty has tried repeatedly to catch a fish in the lake. His first attempts were made with a reel he received as a favor at a birthday party a few years ago. He would jab a worm on the end of the hook, cast it out, and wait a few seconds before deciding to reel it back in and start over. As much as he wanted to patiently wait for a fish he couldn't quite resist the urge to cast over and again.
Sometimes he would create his own fishing poles from sticks he collected in the woods. He would dig out lengths of my rope from the garage and tie them to the end. While these poles never worked they certainly weren't any less successful than the nice store-bought one he'd been using. Also, the creativity and perseverance he demonstrated in carefully putting them together could easily be considered reward enough.
Still, he really wanted to catch a fish. Last winter a friend of mine came over with his fishing gear and, although he didn't get any bites, assured Ty that there were plenty of fish in that lake just waiting to be caught. He suggested we keep at it. I wondered if this would be enough since I knew literally nothing about fishing other than where to put the hook and the worm.
A few weeks later I went to the sporting goods store and bought some new tackle, hoping this might help. The salesman filled my ears with lots of advice as well as a rundown of his greatest catches. I stood there trying my best to look adequately impressed. Much to the consternation of the salesman, I grabbed a few glow-in-the-dark bobbers and headed home. That evening I took the boys night fishing. Though we still didn't catch anything we did enjoy watching the tiny lights bobbing around on top of the black water. After twenty frigid minutes we headed back down the trail toward home with the understanding that we were just as bad at fishing in the dark as we were in the light of day.
Finally, this past June someone saved the day. Tricia's sister and her family dropped by on their way home from Florida to spend a few days with us. While they were here, the boys' Uncle Dan shared his knowledge, and love, of fishing. He patiently sat for hours sorting out mangled knots, replacing gear, and teaching everyone what lures to use (not to mention how to put them on the hook correctly). Soon everyone was trying their luck.
In just two days time we all "worked" together to pull eighteen fish out of the lake.
Despite a bit of initial hesitation the boys even learned how to take
the hook out of the fishes' mouth and throw it back in.
Now successful fisherman, there was just one thing left to do.
Eat the fish.
We all sat around the computer and watched a YouTube video explaining how to fillet a bass. The guy in the tutorial did a beautiful job in just under two minutes. He made it look so incredibly easy. After a heatwave and multiple summer trips the boys and I headed back to the lake to catch a few fish we would eat. We weren't nearly so successful as we had been when Uncle Dan was here but Muluken did manage to catch two large mouth bass for us. We dropped them into the bucket and listened to them flip around in the small bit of water we had put into the bottom. I found this sound to be unsettling. Ty, on the other hand, really wanted to watch them die. (I'm going to hope this is a natural eight year old reaction)
We brought the two fish back to the house and I
taught the boys to clean them. I decided to put off something so sophisticated as filleting and stick with just the crude act of
pulling the guts out. They slit open the fish along their bellies, pulled out the organs, and rinsed them off under the hose. We then wrapped them in foil, built a small campfire, and put them over the flames using the top grate from the barbeque grill. After about ten minutes we pulled the fish off the fire and spread them out on the table beside the fire ring. Though Muluken looked a bit unsure as to whether this was safe to eat, Ty dug right in. Within a few seconds all three of us were pulling the fish apart and eating its flesh with our grubby fingers. Ainsley came out with a friend to see how it was going and wrinkled her nose at the sight. She wasn't interested in joining in.
After we finished, we threw the skeletal remains into the woods and our dog Tess ran out to ensure there was nothing left. As we were cleaning up Ty remarked "That was SO cool. Can we eat the fish again?"
"Not today. Or tomorrow. Or probably next week," I said. "But sometime. Maybe next time we'll try to fillet it like in the video."
I can only imagine this might not go so good. But it'll be part of the process of learning. We learn one little simple thing, like casting a lure, and then after some success begin to wonder what we could improve or learn more about to be even more successful. Thus, the layers of learning begin. This should say something about schooling, don't you think.
Somewhere along the timeline of this story Ty said to me, "You're the best dad ever. NO OTHER dad would let their kids eat the fish!!!" Of course, lots of dads would. And almost all of them would know a lot more about fishing, gutting, and cooking. Yet my lack of knowledge and experience didn't stand in the way of a good time. It was enough just to be learning together. And laughing.
I'm going to end with the final passage from the book I've been reading this summer,
Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder. This book spent a good bit of effort making the point that we don't have to know everything about nature to instill a sense of wonder and appreciation in our children. We need only enjoy ourselves alongside them.
As a side note: The following passage is so peaceful yet I'm using it alongside my own nature story that ends with the blunt killing and gutting of fish. I'm just sayin'...the contrast is not lost on me.
***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****
It seems like just the other day...
The boys are small. We're staying in a three-room cabin beside the Owens River on the east slope of the Sierras. We can hear the October wind move down from the mountains. Jason and Matthew are in their beds, and I read to them from the 1955 juvenile novel
Lion Hound, by Jim Kjelgaard. I have read this book since junior high. I read: "When Johnny Torrington awoke, the autumn dawn was still two hours away...
The next evening, after Matthew goes into town with his mother, Jason and I walk a stretch of the Owens to fish with barbless flies. As we fish, we watch a great blue heron lift effortlessly, and I recall another heron rising above a pond in woods long ago, and I feel the awe that I felt then. I watch my son lift the line in a long loop above his head. Under the cottonwoods, he tells me with firmness that he wants to tie his own leader. And I understand it is time for me to put some distance between us on the river.
When it is too dark to see into the water, we walk toward home in the cold. We hear a noise in the bushes and look up to see seven mule deer watching us. Their heads and long ears are silhouetted against the dark lavender sky. We hear other sounds in the bushes. We reach the gravel road, and an Oldsmobile rolls up behind us and an old man cranks down his window and asks, "Do you need a ride or are you almost there?"
"We're almost there," I say.
We can see the light in our cabin. Matthew and his mother are waiting, and tonight I'll read a few more pages of
Lion Hound before they sleep.
Jason is a man now, and on his own. Matthew is in college. I feel a sense of pride and relief that they have grown well, and a deep grief that my years as a parent of young children is over, except in memory. And I am thankful. The times I spent with my children in nature are among my most meaningful memories - and I hope theirs.
We have such a brief opportunity to pass on to our children our love for this Earth, and to tell our stories. These are the moments when the world is made whole. In my children's memories, the adventures we've had together in nature will always exist. These will be their tales.
