The card reader beeped angrily at me, reminding me to remove my debit card. I pulled the card out and the man behind the Walmart cash register handed me my official State of California Fishing license. It was dark orange and shiny, and it fit perfectly into my bifold wallet.
I thanked the man and turned to see my four kids and wife anxiously staring up at me. As they saw it, this license was their ticket – a ticket for fun times and a delicious trout dinner.
The next morning, after we’d spent the night in the foothills just west of Tahoe National Forest, at a spacious Thousand Trails Campground called Lake of the Springs, I hiked my kiddos out to our minivan and drove down to the local reservoir.
The kids tried and failed to contain their excitement and enthusiasm. It honestly reminded me of Christmas morning a couple of weeks back. Their chatter was endless, and I had a hard time imagining the fish wanting to bite with four loud kids talking up a storm while they cast their lines in the water.
But that was just fine. We had time on our hands – three days’ worth.
As we stepped out of the van, the frosty air quickly reminded everyone why we had decided to wear our snow clothes. There wasn’t any snow to be seen, but man was it chilly.
On the walk down to the reservoir, also known as Lake Mildred, my thoughts went back to the numerous fishing trips I took with my father when I was a kid. I remembered being excited, the thought of hooking a trophy fish clouding my reason. My dad would always set me up with a bobber and Powerbait. Then he’d hand me my pole and have me cast it into the water. Then I’d wait until the bobber went below the surface of the water, jerk the face off the fish, and then reel the thing in.
In the mean time, my dad would take his pole and his set of lucky lures to the shoreline, usually well away from me, and he’d select one of the lures and attach it to his pole. Then he would methodically make his way around the pond we frequented.
He’d hit each spot for a few minutes, casting in all the good places, and letting his spinner bait lure in the unsuspecting fish. He would leave his spot for the next only after he stopped catching fish, or if there were ten minutes of no fish.
Eventually I’d land a bottom-feeding rainbow trout and my dad would patiently come over and help me remove the hook from the fish’s mouth and then he’d let it go. Then he’d go back to what he was doing, catching every single fish in the pond.
That’s what I expected would happen this morning, at least something like that.
However, instead of bobbers, I went straight for the rooster tails. I put Lana’s on first and set her about 15 feet away. Then I told her to make sure she looked behind her for people before casting. I also warned the three other kids to stay away from people fishing, especially when they are casting their lines.
After three minutes, we had our first, and as it turned out, our only catch of the stay. It was a male, it weighed 70 pounds, and it wasn’t even in the water. Lana hooked Ray in the back of the head.
That quickly ended the fishing excursion for the early risers. We took the hooked child back to the house and performed a quick surgery. Now he has a little tiny scar and a bald patch to boot. Then we went back out to the reservoir.
For the remainder of the day, and the day after, we fished all over the place. We used just about every lure in the box, we bought worms and fished in the kiddie pond. At the end of the second day, there was even a mad scramble to fish up and down the shoreline, casting my faithful rooster tail into all the good places.
But, no matter how much all six of us willed on fish to get caught, the fish had other plans. As I headed back to the RV, I had a new respect for fishing, and for my father as well. I found out that fishing, like life, requires patience, hard work, and a little bit of luck. And, at the end of the day, even if you don’t catch a fish, there’s always Chinese food.