Gone Fishing

My husband and I are great at going fishing, but lousy at catching fish. We love the drive to the mountains, spending the day outdoors, and experimenting with different baits. 

With camp chairs and a shade canopy, our from-the-shore fishing may not seem like roughing it. However, someone inevitably ends up with mosquito bites or sunburn, despite the liberal application of both sunscreen and insect repellent.  

In late June, we went to Eleven Mile Reservoir, even though we rarely catch fish there. It's close enough to home for a day trip, and we usually drop by our land afterward. 

We were astonished at the high level of water in the lake. It is full up. The dam regulating the lake water was overwhelmed, and Eleven Mile Canyon was closed due to flooding. 

Our fishing spot was marshy. This is not normal. Usually, the shore is dry, and there are several feet of pebbly shoreline before you reach the water. This time, we were standing in the thick grass and weeds as we cast our lines. 

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My husband's daughter, home from college for the summer, joined us. She's the kind of gal who will bait her own hook, even if the bait is a worm. We had no worms this day, and so she became inventive with Power Bait. 

My husband is a fan of the television series Deadliest Catch and Wicked Tuna. Trout fishing in the Rocky Mountains hardly compares to the dangers and drama depicted on these programs. Still, his first bite of the day put up a fight.  

I was so excited that he had actually caught a fish that I consulted the fishing rule book to verify the limit of fish we could catch. 

He had used white Power Bait, so naturally his daughter and I switched from glittering pink and orange to white. The change did us no good. The fish were only biting on my husband's line. 

And the fish were only biting when one of us left to use the restroom. My husband and his daughter took off, and instantly, a fish took his line.

I waved frantically, but they were gone. I had no choice but to reel in his fish. 

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There is no feeling to compare to having a fish on a hook. The tug on the line as the fish fights to free itself brings up primordial hunting instincts buried by our city lifestyle. 

I gratefully accepted the help of a young father fishing next to us with his family. I like to think that I could handle putting worms on hooks, and extracting hooks from fish, in a survival situation. If someone capable offers to do the dirty work, I am more than happy to play the girl card.

My husband and his daughter returned, delighted we had another fish. We were all now determined to catch our limit.

It was not to be. After a few more hours of drowsing in the summer heat, we decided to head home.

Here I am in my redneck regalia, holding our mighty string of two fish. One is a trout, and the other a kokanee salmon. 

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On the way home, we stopped by our land. The unusually frequent rain has filled our typically dry pond. As we pulled up, a doe woke from her nap, not at all pleased we had disturbed her.

One of my goals this summer was to go fishing. I hope we get to go again, but this trip certainly satisfied the fishing bug. 

The fish fed us for two meals.  

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