How to Train Your Child to Be Your Favorite Fishing Buddy

How to Train your Child t Be Your Favorite Fishing Buddy
Here lately I have had several folks asks me how I was able to get my boys so involved and interested in fishing and the outdoors. The questions have been asked so many times that I decided to write out some tips that I believe has helped me and my boys have more fun outside as well as helping to create little monsters who love to fish. Granted, this isn't an exact science. Every child is different, has different interest and feelings on what they have fun but maybe this can, atleast at the very minimum, help you figure out what will work for you.
First, I have loved fishing my whole life and so has my dad. So it is possible that we have fish DNA in our systems that allows us to focus better on fishing. You may feel that this is an unfair advantage we have, and you may be right. But you can overcome this with a little education. If you have small children that you are wanting to get more involved with fishing or just the outdoors in gerneral, have some knowledge before you start. Kids ask, on average, between one million and 5 Brazilian questions a minute. There is a good chance some of those questions are going to be about fishing or fish habits so do a little research on your own so you look like the Rainman of fishing. Or, do what I do. Make it up as you go. It is not lying, it's creating an adventure. If my son asks me if fish have names for each other, I reply with, "Yep. That one we just caught was Captain Poopy Pants and the one before that was Old Man Whisker Face. He's 85, caught him when I was a kid about your age." Does he believe me? When he was younger, yes. Now, he laughs and we make up names for every fish we catch. I grab a copy of the Missouri Conservation handouts every year and hand them to he boys because they have pictures of fish and animals they can identify while we are out. Works kind of like a scavenger hunt while educating them at the same time. It also teaches them the real names so I don't have to spend all day coming up with ridiculous names.
Secondly, you will need two very important pieces of equipment; patience and needle nose pliers. If you want your future Bassmaster champion to enjoy fishing, it needs to be fun. Casting out a hunk of worm and letting it sit on the bottom is boring for even me. And I love fishing. Find you a hole of water full of perch. (If you do not know what a perch is, here's where the educate yourself portion comes into play) Put on a cork and small hook, a piece of nightcrawler, and watch that bobber dance. The fun thing about this is the action is fast, the fish are small for the child to handle, and you really do not use a lot of bait or tackle. I started my boys out with small artificial lures like a 3 inch Berkeley Powerbait Swim Shad  or Rapala floating minnows. These baits are easy to use and catch A BOAT LOAD of fish of all shapes and sizes. It also kept them interested because they can constantly cast and reel. This also helps to improve their basic abilities in casting. This is also where a good pair of needle nose pliers become handy. Be prepared to dig many of hooks out of clothing (both theirs and yours), animals (other than fish), trees, arms, legs, the back of heads, and even the inside of noses. But, if the great Tuna Gods are smiling down upon you and the young KVD, you can also use those needle nose to remove hooks from their trophy fish's mouth. Take a massive amount of pictures and if you can, videos. I downloaded a very neat app called Quik that allows you to put pictures and videos together with music to create an impressive looking memory of your trip. The kids love it.
Lastly, simply let them be kids. Forcing your child to fish when they really aren't feeling it isn't going to get either of you anywhere. I have spent many of hours throw sticks and rocks, chasing zombies and frogs, or just watching the water with my boys. It makes them happy. And really, that's all we should want. In reality, having them have the same passion for the sport we love only comes second to their little smiles fron just spending time with us. So pack a lunch of Twinkies and ice cold sodas and find your adventure. You may just catch a few small perch but that adventure will be one of their greatest memories.

Fishing With the Boys

Fishing with My Boys

Even at his young age, this boy has the perfect form down!

 Last weekend Gunner turned three and Dylan turned the big eleven. Both boys wanted to go fishing for their birthday so we loaded up in my boat and hit the Fredericktown City Lake with my dad. This was the first time that Gunner would be able to ride in my boat and he was beyond excited. On the way out to the lake he had shouted, “I hope we fish for hours!”

The day was warm and there was very little wind so the weather was looking perfect for some fishing. Gunner stood next to me by the trolling motor and smiled at the lake then hugged my leg. “Dad, this is awesome.”

“I know, Son. I love it.”

“Me too.” He said as he made a beautiful cast into the lake. He was using a pole I had given him that was given to me when I was about his age. My dad had gave me the five foot white Zebco rod and reel combo that I had used for many years until I had finally upgraded to heavier gear. Now it was his. Though the original reel had long since worn out, the rod still held a great deal of ‘luck’ that we continually reminded Gunner of. Every time we would say that he would surely catch a fish because of his lucky fishing pole, he would smile ear to ear and cast even farther.

After making a few casts of my own I noticed that Dylan had yet to get a lure in the water. I turned to find him in a position that I had been in many times before but would never admit to anyone. His crank bait, both hooks, was securely buried in his flannel shirt while he worked feverishly to relieve himself from his trap.

“You okay back there?” I asked as I smiled at Dad.

“Yeah. Just got hung up.” Dylan muttered as he pulled his pocket knife from his tackle box.

                      After an epic battle with his flannel shirt, Dylan finally was able to fish!

I had fished a few minutes longer when I had heard Dylan shout a victory cry, letting us know that he had been freed from his bonds, and then I heard, “Crap! Are you kidding me?” I turned back around to find that he had in fact freed the crank bait from the flannel shirt but in his cheering his victory he had snagged the opposite side of his flannel. We all laughed and continued to fish as he dug out the treble hooks again. Eventually Dylan was able to fish and we trolled around the lake.

At one point Dylan tried to cast but ended up snagging me in the back with his crank bait. While I tried to untangle that mess, Gunner hooked me in the belly with his worm. “Sorry, Dad.” They both said. I had to laugh. It reminded me of my brother and I when we were kids hooking our dad in the boat. At least I didn’t have a hook in my head like we had done Dad so many times. I looked up just in time to see a dark shadow falling from the sky. I ducked just in time to dodge  another falling crank bait that my dad had just flipped off of a tree limb. Dad began laughing and said, “It’s like having three kids in the boat ain’t it?” We fished for a couple of hours and we got several bites but we never hooked into a fish.

Gunner, however, did catch several types of dinosaurs while we fished. He sloshed his pole around the side of the boat and would pull his pink worm up and shout, “Dad, look! I caught a dinosaur.”

“Good job, Son! See, your pole is lucky.” He would smile and slosh his pole in the water again and repeat the process. I turned my attention towards the lake so I could steer the boat along the bank when I heard an odd noise from Gunner. I believe it was the word, “Opps.”

I turned back to find the little monkey holding on to the side of the boat with his feet sticking straight up in the air, his right arm deep in the water up to his shoulder as he started shouting, “Noooooooo!” I quickly grabbed his ankle and lifted him up from the water while he dangled upside down and said, “Stinkbug? What are you doing?”

“My fishing pole, Dad! It fell in.” The hurt that spread across that little boy's eyes about broke my heart. He just stood there and stared at the ripples in the water while my dad and me tried to use our crank baits to snag the pole off the bottom about 8 feet down. We were not able to retrieve the pole and decided that we had had enough fun for one day and headed back to the truck. Dylan was excited that he had gotten to fish and had bragged that he did not get stuck in trees as much as me or my dad. Which was true; he had spent a good hour trying to get a crank bait out of his flannel so we had more time on the water! He was also happy that he actually had plenty of bass fishing gear to shuffle through like a pro angler that he had received for his birthday but Gunner was still down. It was not the way I wanted our fishing trip to end.

“You okay Stinkbug?”

“Yes, Dad. I miss my fishing pole.”

“It’s okay buddy. We will get you another one.”

“I really liked that one though.”

The whole ride home he patted my dad’s leg and just stared at the dashboard of the truck, every once in a while saying, “I really liked that fishing pole.”

The next day I took Gunner to Wal-Mart and we went straight to the fishing department. I pulled down each fishing pole and let him hold it until he finally held the one that was perfect for him. He held it in his hands like a knight finding a sword that was the perfect fit for him. It was a blue Shakespeare rod and reel and he immediately fell in love with it.

“Oh, Dad. Look at this one. Can I get it?”

“You like it?”

“I love it.”

“I guess we can get it then.”

He then started scanning the rest of the fishing poles and I said, “Son, you only get one pole.”

“No, you need a fishing pole, Dad.”

“Why do I need a pole, Son?” I asked.

“I lost your favorite pole that Paw Paw gave you. I need to get you a fishing pole.” I realized real quick that what was bothering my son wasn’t just that he had lost his favorite fishing pole but that he felt a pain that he had lost something of mine. It was true that I had had that little pole since I was his age; Dylan had used the pole until Gunner was born, and now it was gone. But it was just a fishing pole. What mattered was that my little boy was happy.

“Son that was your pole. I gave it to you. I have plenty of fishing poles, so don’t you worry about me, okay?”

“Okay, Dad.”

“You know what?”

“What?”

“Now that you have a ‘big boy’ fishing pole, you need a ‘big boy’ tackle box to go with it.”

Gunner smiled and ran to where the tackle boxes were. He picked out a small tackle box and then we found a Rebel grasshopper for him to put in it. He was in Heaven.

     He would not let me carry any of his fishing gear. He said he was a big boy and could carry it all.

After paying for our purchase Gunner informed me that we had to go to my mom and dad’s house (E and Paw Paw) to show off his new fishing gear. Paw Paw and E have a pond at their house and he was ready to try out his new lure and pole on their fish.

Standing on the bank of the pond, I hooked a small bass on my fishing pole and handed the rod and reel to Gunner for him to reel in. He cheered and jumped up and down as the fish flopped from the water to the bank. As I had Gunner ‘help’ me get my line untangled, Paw Paw put the bass on Gunner’s fishing pole while he wasn’t looking and pitch the fish in the water. When my pole was squared away, Paw Paw handed Gunner his new fishing pole and told him to reel it in.

           Gunner has learned the art of holding the fish close to the camera so it appears much larger!

“I got a fish!”

“Another one!” I shouted. “Man you are tearing them up buddy!”

“It is huge Dad!”

The bass broke the surface and Gunner cheered again. As Paw Paw took the bass off the line, Gunner ‘helped’ me catch a frog, then Paw Paw put the bass back on Gunner’s fishing pole. Once again, Gunner reeled in his pole and shouted, “I got another fish!” By now the bass was wore out and just let himself get drug in by the excited little boy and hung nicely for some pictures while Gunner bragged up the ‘three’ bass that he caught on his new lucky pole.

 

 Since that day, he does not go anywhere without his fishing pole and tackle box. My wife made a trip to Virginia with my oldest daughter and Gunner went along. He refused to get in the car until they figured out a way to get his fishing pole and tackle box in a VW bug! The little boy is so hooked on fishing, my wife bought him a toy fishing pole with plastic fish so he can fish in the bathtub while he takes a bath. Now that is a love for fishing and I may have created a monster!

The Things That We Learn Fishing

The Things That We Learn Fishing

 

            To those out there that do not do much bass fishing, you may have an idea in your head that fishing is easy. You cast out, you reel in, and BAM! You catch a fish. You may even hold a notion that you just need to squish an old wiggling worm on your hook and wait for your cork to go under. Well, bass fishing does not work that way. Everything is done with artificial lures ranging from plastic worms to jigs, spinner baits, and crank baits that represent bait fish fleeing the hungry bass you are trying to catch. You need to have knowledge of the structure your prey likes to stalk around, their tendencies at different water temperatures as well as their movements during different times of year. Of course, a blind hog can find an acorn every once in a while just as an amateur angler can find a straggling bass on a large lake wondering the open water looking for a free meal but having the knowledge of the species really helps to keep you from spending hours of casting blindly.

This past weekend I fished a bass tournament with the Kentucky Pro Bass Warrior’s and had a blast! After spending several hours in the boat with our partner Donnie and a buddy of mine Chris, I started thinking about all of the things I had learned about bass fishing. A great majority of it was through what dad had learned from his experiences and others were through publications like Bassmasters and In-Fisherman. I remember when I was about ten, my dad and I was watching Bassmasters on TV one cold December morning and there was a pro angler talking about how the heat of wood and rock attracts bass because that water will be warmer than the rest of the water in the area you are fishing. He then went on to use a rubber worm with very light weight and let it sink very slowly along large rocks and stumps to where these fish were hiding. It seemed like every cast he was catching another bass and by the end of the show we were itching with fishing fever.

“Think we should go fishing?” Dad asked.

“Yep.” I said as I ran outside to grab my fishing gear and stash it in our boat.

Like I said, it was December and when we arrived at our destination nearly two hours later there was a very thin sheet of ice around the boat ramp.

“Doesn’t look like anyone else is dumb enough to fish today.”

“We are!” I said excitedly.

We trolled our boat out past the ice and found a spot where the water was roughly ten to twelve foot deep with a wooden wall going all the way down to the lake bottom. The wall was built to keep some rich people’s back yards from washing into the lake but it fit the description we needed to practice what we had just learned from watching Bassmasters. We began casting just as we had seen on the show and before long we began to haul in bass after bass from that wooden sea wall. Though we were freezing and every so often we had to knock the ice out of the eyelets of our reels and poles, we were catching a large number of fish. After catching our limit and having our limit of the cold weather as well, we trolled back to the boat ramp and I stepped out onto the boat dock and held on to our tow rope as dad went to retrieve the Jeep. After backing the trailer into the icy water he stepped out onto the trailer and said, “Ok, bring me the rope so I can pull the boat onto the trailer.”

Those were simple instructions but I felt it was easier to toss the rope to him. Like the lessons we had learned that day in fishing, I was about to learn one in physics. The distance between my dad and I was farther than the length of the rope that I had in my hand. The rope snapped tight in midair and then fell into the icy water while the boat slowly began to drift away from us. Dad started at me disbelieving.

“I said BRING me the rope. Not THROW me the rope.”

“Yeah. That was stupid.”

“You think. Well you better go get it.”

I looked at the water. “Me?”

“Yea you. I didn’t throw the rope in there. Better hurry to because that boat is getting farther away.”

I dove into the water and instantly had the air sucked from my lungs but I was a trooper and swam to the tow rope and this time brought it to my dad. After getting it loaded on the trailer and ourselves in the Jeep I noticed that my pants were frozen solid. Lesson learned. A good day fishing can be ruined by a lesson in physics and a two hour ride home in a soft topped Jeep without a properly working heater.

Another lesson in physics I was taught through fishing was the act of “every action has an equal and opposite reaction.” This lesson took place on the same body of water, in the same boat, on the same boat ramp, but I had learned my lesson about tossing the rope to my dad. I was a bit older so I was allowed to use our outboard to push the boat up on the trailer. I did this like a pro and dad hooked the boat onto the trailer with the safety strap and asked, “You wanna hop out before I pull up the ramp?”

“No, I am good. Go ahead.”

What I didn’t realize was that the boat ramp was washed out just past where the trailer was sitting. I also didn’t realize that dad knew this and he planned on driving a little faster than normal to insure that he could pull the trailer through the deep wash out. When the trailer tire, located under me, hit the lip of the drop off it shot up like a rocket. This caused me to then shoot out of my seat like a ragdoll that had been seated on top of the rocket, throwing me roughly 700 feet in the air (Ok, that is an exaggeration) and then splashed down into the water along with my tackle box and several fishing poles. Luckily this time when I fell into the water it was not winter but midsummer so the water was somewhat refreshing, though shocking at the same time. I sputtered to the surface to the voice of my dad hollering, “Grab my poles! Grab my poles!” I began swimming around the small cove collecting what gear that was floating, including lures that had escaped my open tackle box. By the time I exited the water I looked like a walking Rapala advertisement with crank baits dangling from every bit of my clothing. Dad was laughing so hard that he was bent over trying to catch his breath.

“That was not funny.” I said as I tried to pull hooks from my shirt.

“Yes it was! I looked in the rear view mirror and you shot out of that seat like you was being abducted by aliens! You went right up in the air!” He howled with laughter again and this time I had to laugh.

“It was pretty neat to fly.” I said sheepishly.

“Maybe next time you will get out of the boat, huh?”

“Only when you are driving, Dad.”

We learn so much each time we hit the water and it is not always on ways we catch the fish. This past weekend the fishing was tough. There were a few tournaments going on besides our own and we were in the mix of all those boats, bad weather, and low water conditions. Most people would just give up and quit fishing but that just isn’t how we work. We were in it for the long haul. I spent the large majority of the day without a fish (but loving the fact I was fishing) until Donnie, our volunteer who took us fishing, suggested I use a jig. He showed me how to rig it and how to work it and on my second cast I reeled in a spotted bass. That is all I needed. It wasn’t a monster but it was enough for me to realize that as a fisherman, I am always that child learning something new.

As we weighed in our fish we watched as other soldiers brought their catches in, patted each other on the back and shared their fishing stories and my heart felt good. I felt like a whole person again. I had spent the whole week with the mindset that I wanted to win, I wanted to walk away with the biggest fish, and strut around to the song, “We are the Champion’s” but instead I learned something. Winning isn’t just the person who walks away with the most or biggest fish. It is the person who walks away with the greatest amount of joy in his heart. Donnie Davis, Buster Meador, and Kaoru O’Bryan (and many other volunteers that I do not remember their names) took the time out of their weekend to take some of us fishing so that we could have this experience and bring that joy to us and we appreciate it. They not only shared their time but their boat, equipment, their own money, and their vast knowledge of bass fishing to insure that we walked away with a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day. I thank them for that, for teaching us things we didn’t know, and not throwing me from the boat.

The Memories We Make

The Memories We Make

 

            This time of year gets me itching to hit the water and catch bucket loads of fish. The bipolar mood swings of Mother Nature begin to start fading away and those warm rays of a new spring sun melt the ice in my veins and open up the rusty old memory box in my brain. This weekend I will be fishing a bass tournament with the Kentucky Pro Bass Warriors and I am so excited I can hardly stand myself. I feel like a kid again, when dad would slip into my room on them cool mornings, before the sun had even peeked over the horizon, to lightly kick the side of my bed and say, “Hey, you up?” Rarely did he really have to wake me. Most nights before I knew we were heading out bass fishing I could hardly sleep so I would wait into those early morning hours for my bedroom door to open and hear the floor creak as dad quietly tiptoed into the room. “Yep!” I would always whisper loudly and begin slipping on my clothes.

            It didn’t matter how old I got, the scenario was always played out the same. It was like Christmas in spring, just a boy waiting for his dad to take him on their next big fishing adventure. I relived this somewhat this past weekend with my boys. As some of you know, Dylan is my stepson but I claim the little turd as my own. He and Gunner, who will be three at the end of this month, met me at Lake Barkley here in Kentucky. The weather was perfect and the boys were excited to get out to the Lake.

“Dad?” Gunner shouted from the backseat of the truck.

“Yeah buddy.”
“Hey, you and bubby are going to catch big fish and I am going to catch a little one okay?” I looked in the mirror and smiled at the dirty faced little boy and just shook my head. His eyes were wild with excitement as he got his first glimpse of the lake. The same look I get when I look at the water, thinking of where all the fish could be hiding. Every cast that I make, no matter how tired I am, no matter how long I have gone without a bite, I always have a vision that there is a big ‘ol bass waiting in the exact spot I just casted and it keeps my heart young. Gunner has the same look and excitement for fishing as I do. It must be hereditary.

“I bet we catch a ten pounder!” Dylan said as his eyes grew wild too.

“I will be happy with one.” I said as I laughed at my two fishermen.

            Before I had kids of my own, I would watch dads along the banks of the lakes and rivers that I fished letting their kids throw rocks in the water or letting their kids play around the best parts of the water to fish and I would get so angry.

They claimed to call themselves fishermen and they allowed this?-Was usually a thought that raced through the red that floated in my head. After I grew older, wiser, and had children of my own I learned something about fishing that I had always overlooked. It wasn’t about the fish you were catching but the memories we were creating that always made my fishing trips the best. You cannot create memories if you restrict your children to fishing like adults. They are not adults. They are children with big dreams and wild imaginations and we have to fuel that with great fishing trips that involve more than just catching fish. I thought about this as I watched Gunner chuck rocks at a brush pile that I would normally be pitching a spinner bait through. My imaginary 20 pound bass that was waiting for my bait became spooked and shot out into deeper water where it would be safe from the projectiles hurled by this deranged toddler.

“Hey dad? Did you see that? I almost skipped it!” Gunner shouted.

“Yep. Good job buddy. You want to catch a fish now?” He placed his pointer finger on his chin as if he was in deep thought and finally said, “We need to tell Uncle Steve to come fishing with us.”

“We do? Why is that?”

“You don’t catch any fish dad. Uncle Steve catches fish.”

I had to laugh. You cannot argue with the honesty of a little boy. Growing up, there was little that my younger brother could beat me at. It wasn’t really because I was better than him; it was more that I was bigger and faster than he was. The one place where we always had an even playing field though was in the woods and on the lakes. He was always better at hunting than me and still is, but normally the lakes and rivers were my place to shine. It did not stop us from competing every time we hit the water or woods and it still continues today.

      Gunner's first bass that he caught all by himself a year ago. He was barely two  years old!
 

 

The boys spent a total of about 15 minutes with their lines in the water and the rest of our time we walked the banks and found shells and rocks. The boys asked a million questions about fish, alligators, UFO’s, and zombies. We watched geese and other birds that flew along the lake as we slowly made our way along on our little adventure. As we walked Gunner grabbed my pants leg and hugged my leg almost causing me to fall onto the gravel bank.

“What are you doing crazy?” I said laughing.

The little boy looked up at me with his shiny blue eyes and said, “This is fun. I love you dad.”

In those words, that look that my little boy gave me, I realized that I may not have ever told my dad how much it meant to me for him to take us fishing. As soon as I was old enough to not crap my pants dad was taking me fishing. And even in my failing memory, I can remember every trip that we ever took. Every fish that we caught, all the tips and tricks that he taught me on how to catch bass and catfish, but most of all, how to love the outdoors and share that experience with others. I can’t leave mom out of these memories either. While dad was at work, my brother and I would spend our time in the yard practicing our casting and more than once mom would have to help pull a hook out of one of us or untangle line from a tree limb. I always wondered how dad handled having two little boys in a boat with him, hooking each other and him, getting stuck in trees, and spending more time trying to catch the little perch rather than fish for the big catfish and bass he was going for, but I know now. It was for the memories. It was the love of a fisherman to share his love with his sons. It was that one time that a little boy smiles and says, “This is fun. I love you dad.”

It makes it all worth it.

It is always fun dad. I love you.
 (Hey dad! Look I made you famous and put you on the internet with a bass! Hahaha)
Picture used with permission of Uncle Steve.

The Flower

   

The sun was high over our heads as I stood in the turret of the RG-31 Mine Resistant Vehicle. Our platoon had been tasked with conducting route clearance, or clearing the improvised explosive devices, from the roadways of Sadr City, Iraq. The route was named ‘Bravo’ and we had stopped at its entrance to await further instructions from our higher command. My vehicle was the lead gun truck so I had an unobstructed view of this once grand city. The streets were flooded with water from a ruptured water line creating an image that we were about to drive ourselves into the Euphrates River. Several buildings lining the streets were burning and shattered lending me a feeling that Satan had only half constructed his hellish domain before we arrived. I noticed that there was not a soul walking the sidewalks for the rough mile to the next intersection and voiced my concern to my vehicle commander.

“Yeah? So?” He said annoyingly.

“So, if they ain’t walking the streets then there is probably an I.E.D. or two out there. Or maybe under the water.” I shouted over the sound of our running vehicle.

“Reed, there are I.E.D.’s all over this city. That is why we are here. Just make sure you find them before they get you. And watch them roof tops and windows for snipers. Second platoon said there is an ol’ boy out here with a .50 cal sniper rifle popping off gunners so keep your head low.”

I shook my head and lightly kicked the back of his seat to show that I acknowledged his orders. I stood silently scanning the empty streets and watched the billowing clouds of smoke climb from the market buildings towards the heavens. Months of trash was piled along the curbing and in some places five feet high providing a perfect hiding place for the enemy to hide their I.E.D.’s. My nose was saved from this horrid smell only by the slight breaks of diesel that wafted from my vehicle. For the first time I noticed the emptiness in the pit of my stomach; a place that normally would harbor a family of butterflies to dance and let me know that I was not comfortable with my situation. This situation somehow seemed different; more deadly, more life threatening than any of the other I had experienced in combat. My hands had begun to shake, the sweat poured from my body, tickling little trails across my torso and down my legs. The city had gone from being just another mission to a tomb of certain death that I could not escape. The anticipation was eating me alive.

            Frantically, I turned my head from side to side, expecting to find an IED or more correctly an EFP (explosion formed projectile) nestled like a viper next to my vehicle poised ready to strike and kill me, yet I found the opposite. There, among the ruins of a building, stood a small yellow flower; much in shape and color of a sunflower. The brightness of its pedals seemed more extreme in contrast of the grey bricks that lay as its neighbors. In that flower, I found comfort and I smiled. See, my wife’s favorite flower was the sunflower and in seeing that flower I caught a glimpse of the many smiles I had brought to her face when I would surprise her with one of those gems. The emptiness in my stomach began to ease. As I let my eyes gaze up from my wife’s flower I found that there was two white boards nailed in the shape of a cross leaning against the far wall of the rubble. I could not remove my eyes from that cross and found myself once again comforted; this time by the sweet hands of God. It wasn’t clear if I would make it out of that trip alive but at that time there was only one thing I wanted. I quietly thanked God for yesterday, today, and hopefully tomorrow, and asked him to comfort my wife while I ventured into Hell...

The Stories That Surround Us

The Stories That Surround Us

 

            I know it has been awhile since I have made any blog post for my horror or this hunting and fishing blog but that past few months have been pretty busy for me. I have been working on my first book which has been slow going but I think it is turning out to be a great story that surely at least one reader will find amazing. Today I am going to write a bit off my normal topics. Just in the twenty minutes that I was in the barber shop today I saw something today that really made me proud to be an American and a soldier.

            In the military we have to keep up our military appearance which means every week I need to get a haircut so today was my first chance to get this done. As I was walking in to the building to the barber shop I watched an elderly couple ahead of me. There was a set of automatic doors and a set of manual doors at the entrance, the man was feebly prying the manual doors open while the woman shuffled through the automatic doors quietly calling, “Herbert, this way is easier.”

“I can do it.” He said. Some people would look at this as the woman was smarter, I looked at it as the man was hard headed and stuck in his ways. I smiled at the elderly lady and she smiled back as her husband shuffled into the barber shop and found a chair. He had forgotten to grab a number before he sat down so I had pulled one from the machine for him and his wife told me thank you as the old man growled at me and said, “I could have done it.”

“I know you could buddy. I’m just helping.” I said. His wife smiled at me again and said, “It is ok. His brain ain’t right.”

            I had to laugh. I don’t know how many times my own wife has used this to describe me to others or even to our own children when something happens. “Oh his brain is just squishy, he’ll be fine.” The old man’s number was called and he fought the shakes to get to his feet the shuffled to the barber chair and then once again fought to sit in the slightly spinning chair. Though the man was confident in his movements, he was sure that he could do what he intended he could do, I caught him stealing a glance back at his wife as if to see if she was still there. Whether the man meant it or not, I had this quick thought race through my head as if he was being detached from her. It seemed as if she was his lifeline, as if she had been helping him for so long and this trip to the barber chair was going to be a long journey for him without her. As he sat in the chair the barber asked him what type of hair cut he would like he began to look very confused and started to shake. Apparently the barber had cut the man’s hair before and looked towards his wife who stood and walked to him.

“Herb? You want them to just trim it like usual right?” she said in a way that instantly made me smile. The man’s mind had to have been slipping for a while because she had already mastered her methods for dealing with daily speed bumps. By asking the question in this way she made it seem as if he was still doing things his way, he could still do it.

“Yes. The usual will be just fine, thank you.” Herb said as the confusion left his face and he sat a little straighter.

            The old woman came back over and sat next to me and said, “I worry about that old man. He used to be so strong.” I noticed that she wasn’t looking at him anymore; she was looking past him as if she was looking far into her past to different times. “He would never let another person cut his hair when he was in the army. He had his own clippers that he would shave it down every Sunday and he would look so handsome. Then he got them shakes and started loosen a bit of his mind and I wouldn’t let him use them no more so we come here every Tuesday because the line isn’t so long.”

“Yeah I like coming on Tuesdays too. The weekends are always so packed and I really don’t like being around people.” I said.

She laughed and said, “You sound like Herb. When he came back from his third tour in Vietnam he told me he just didn’t understand people anymore. He just got to where we didn’t want to be around anyone but family.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I do the same thing.”

“I don’t know how you guys do it.” She said.

“Do what?” I asked her.

“How you guys live this life. I look at Herb now, knowing the man that he used to be and what he is now and I can’t believe what all he gave for his country. It makes me sad that a man as great as Herb can live out the rest of his days like this, unknown for what he has done for freedom, for his country, for America. Does it seem fair?”

“We don’t do it for the glory. We do it because it is our job. I am sure Herb would say the same thing.” I said.

“Yes he would. You sound like my Herb. You know what else he would say?”

“What?” I said with a smile.

“It is what it is. He says that all the time. It is what it is.”

This Herb was starting to sound like my kind of guy because I have been known to say that from time to time.

“Your Herb sounds like one heck of a man, ma’am.”

She smiled and said, “He is.”

            About that time Herb was done with his haircut so I stood and helped him get down from the barber’s chair to which I was awarded a growl and witnessed some of that fire in his eyes and then he stopped and stared at my chest and pointed with a shaking finger at my combat action badge.

“Combat action badge ain’t it?”
“Yes sir.”
“What you get it for?”

“Combat.”

“Good answer.”

Herb smiled and patted me on the chest and walked out with his wife, his head held high, with a bit of a shuffle but I am pretty sure that shuffle was an airborne shuffle. I am not sure why my conversation with the elderly woman, who I never learned her name, and Herb seemed so huge to me today but it did. I think that maybe it was because it seemed like it was a glimpse into my own future if I am granted a chance to live that long. Maybe it was just my connection with a warrior from another generation, I don’t know but I figured I would share this with you all. Thank you for reading and hopefully here this week there will be another fishing story up for you all to read!

Lucky Baits, Jeremy Wade, and Rituals

Lucky bait’s, Jeremy Wade, and rituals

 

            Just about every outdoors man has a lucky bait, rifle, hunting or fishing area, or any other ritual that they believe is what brings them game on any given day. Along with those rituals, there are those that believe there are things that bring bad hunts and fishing trips. My grandpa Reed for one always believed that if there was fog on the water or if there were gar in the area you will never catch a fish. For him that may have been true but my opinion was if I wasn’t on the water then I wasn’t going to catch fish anyway so I might as well try. More times than not, I caught fish. They may have been small and they may have been gar but it was a blast!

            Several years ago my dad found his lucky lure. A small, shallow diving crank bait he found dangling from a tree limb while we were wadding a small river in Missouri. I look at found lures two ways. One, the person who lost it didn’t like the lure much anyway because they made no attempt to retrieve it, or two, they used it so much they were bound to eventually lose their favorite lure.  This small crank bait however became dads go to bait and I am not kidding when I say he has caught hundreds of small mouth with a lucky lure he found forgotten at the edge of that river. But, what is good luck without the fishing God’s throwing bad luck in our direction!

            While home on leave from my first deployment to Iraq, my dad and I went on a short fishing trip, wadding the same area he found his magical bait. My dad, brother, and I are competitive when it comes to fishing. We keep track of our catches of the day, size, numbers, species, and the stories grow as we tell them throughout the day. This day, needless to say, dad was dominating me on the water. Normally, the 10 bass that I had caught in the hour and a half of fishing would have been enough to keep me in the game but dad had already landed 50 small mouth and other species of fish on his evil little lure. Two rules that we have when fishing are, you talk trash to the other anglers that are not catching fish and for the fish to count as a catch, you have to touch it.

            Every fish that dad caught, he would lightly touch it on the head while it dangled from the hook while he danced in the water singing what number he was on.

 “Nuuumber fifty-ooone!”

“Nuuumber fifty-twwwo!”

I was getting frustrated. Lord, please stop his gloating. I get the point, he is the superior fisherman.

Dad began to laugh as a two pound small mouth slammed into the magic bait, fighting hard back and forth and jumping from the water. Triumphantly dad raised the fish from the water holding the line rather than the fish and using his index finger pointed at the beautiful green fish.

“Nuuuumber fifty-thre..”

SNAP!

Dads’ line snapped and the small mouth splashed back into the river and swam off with his lucky crank bait firmly stuck in the corner of its mouth with dad running through the water behind it screaming, “No! No! No! Give it back!”

“That one don’t count. You didn’t touch it.” I said as I laughed while dad stared disbelieving at the calm water.

When I returned to Iraq dad searched online and was able to find the exact lure at a bait store up north. He sent an email to the owner, along with his order of three more lures, and told him about our fishing trip. The man sent an extra lure with dad’s order that said, “Give this extra lure to your son so that he may be able to keep up with you the next time you guys hit the water!”

            Another good luck charm, I found out recently, was talking to my folks on the phone while I am fishing. I have long had the feeling that large fish use small fish as spotters. Much like a big brother will tell his little brother to watch for mom when he is doing something wrong, I could always picture a little fish swimming next to the bank, keeping an eye on an angler, and as he turned his head or walked away from his fishing pole, yelling to the big fish that tugs the pole into the water. This always happens to me. I could be extremely focused on my pole and line for an hour straight and nothing will bite. I turn my head to take a swig of Mountain Dew and BAM! The beast strikes and I miss them because I have a mouth full of mountain goodness.

            Friday evening was warm here so I hit the lake for a little catfishing. Armed with two poles, a tub of chicken livers, and a bag of super magic stink bait I went in search of my River Monster. Every time I head out on the lake or river I feel like a little kid. There is a spark that dances in me that just knows that this day will be the day that I catch a 500 pound catfish. After sitting on the bank for an hour without a bite I decided to call my mom and see what she was doing.

“Hey mom. What ya doing?”

“Ironing. What are you doing?”

“Fishing. Oh man, getting a bite! Call you right back.”

            I set the hook and reeled in a three pound channel cat. Sweet. I rebait the hook and cast it back out, and wait. And wait. And wait. A half an hour later, without a bite, I called my mom back.

“Hey mom. What ya doing?”

“Ironing. You get that fish?”

“Yep, three pounder it looked like.”

“Good job.”

“Yeah I know. Oh man, getting another bite! Will call you back.”

            These are the times that I am sure the small catfish are watching. They see me distracted and tell their big brothers,

“Hey Fishburt! That dude is on the phone! You can pull the bait off the hook now!”         

I missed him. This fish was crafty and worked fast. So I rebaited my hook and casted back out and again did not get a bite so I called mom again, and starting to believe that mom was my good luck charm. This time dad answered the phone and I was half tempted to tell him to put mom on the phone so that I could catch another fish. Before I could act on this impulse my line jerked and my pole bent, I set the hook and the river monster of the Lower Douglas (the lake I was fishing) exploded with energy and about pulled the pole from my hand. I threw my cell phone down and began my epic fight. I was using a rebuilt reel that I had worked on last month and was instantly terrified that this old reel may not have the power to fight in this behemoth. The fish fought back and forth and once came to the surface flashing its white belly skin at me. I immediately assumed it was the 500 pound catfish I had been after! Though I was by myself, I began yelling, “Fish on! Fish on!” in a British accent like my fishing hero Jeremy Wade from the show River Monsters.

            In my head I could hear his cool voice becoming the narrator of my fishing trip, “After many hours of frustration, the calls to my folks finally paid off. With this dangerous river monster on the end of my line, I could only wonder if this was the beast that was responsible for killing so many villagers?” The beast broke the surface next to the bank and I finally seen what I had been fighting.

Though only 400 pounds, this River Monster was the biggest I had caught.

(Note: This fish was not really 400 pounds, was around 350)

 

A carp.

A nasty ol’ sucker fish.

Not a catfish.

            But I didn’t care; the instant disappointment for it not being a 500 pound catfish was quickly replaced by the joy of catching the largest fish I have hooked as well as knowing that the reel I had worked on had stood up to the task of fighting in this large beast. I picked my phone up from the mud and told dad the story of me catching the beast on chicken liver and the fight on an old reel. As I released the carp back into the lake Jeremy Wade began speaking as the credits rolled, “I had spent long grueling hours searching for the Kentucky Toe Sucker and I had found him. It was not a river monster but a misjudged gentle giant of the deep, a beautiful beast. But, I could not shake the thought that this plant eating Goliath now had a taste for chicken flesh. Is this a change in their biological make up? Did the introduction of bull sharks, piranhas, and killer whales have something to do with their change in eating habits? Would little kids eating chicken nuggets to close to the bank become meals for these carp?” I would never know. But I did know that if I was going to catch any more fish, I was going to have to keep my mom and dad on the phone and they were going to have to sleep in shifts to keep me and Jeremy Wade fishing.