This is my dictionary’s definition of Fishing (most others are similar) – "the act, occupation, or sport of catching fish". With no intent on becoming a professional Dictionarian I find myself bound to protest this simplified definition of one of the most complex activities of life. To define Fishing with this much simplicity would be similar to defining   Love as ---- feelings. This definition of Fishing would imply that when I announced to my wife that our seven year old son and myself were going fishing – she should have checked the cupboards to make sure she had the fixings to prepare our feast of fish upon our return.

     My wife, being fully mature and having had experience with fishing, has an understanding of its meaning.  My seven year old son, with no experience in fishing, must have read my dictionary and actually believed, that when I said , "we’re going fishing", we were going to catch fish! Being June and the weather forecast warning of the first big heat wave of the summer, I did all the necessary research to guarantee our fist fishing trip would be a memory. I searched the Internet and found a lake high in the cool mountains of the Gila National Forest.  Using another search feature I found it was only 109 miles -- as the crow flies.  A perfect two hour trip for my son who hates riding in cars and our dog who had never been on a road trip. To make the trip even more authentic I even rented a pickup truck. To insure this was a "father/son" event of a lifetime and dad had all the answers, I spent several days researching the Internet for things like -- licensing requirements, fish limits, fishing reports, hottest baits, feeding periods, and anything else I could find that would enable me to demonstrate to my son the definition of Fishing -- catching fish!

     The pickup bed loaded with enough camping gear and food to stay for a month, we headed out -- -- Dad, Son and our dog -- Flash.  About an hour and a half into what I had established to be about a two hour drive, my son tapped me on the back from the rear seat of the pickup in which he and the dog were riding.  He announced that Flash was acting funny.  Minutes later I heard, "Dad are we almost there? -- Flash threw up!" I took account of our location and estimated we still had two hours of driving – crows don’t follow mountain roads when they fly!  From the back seat I heard, "Flash stop that! -- dad, he’s eating barf!" – the pressure was on.  After four hours, into our two hour drive, and several stops we finally arrived at the general store on the North end of the lake.  Taylor, my son, was full of excitement and was sure that we still had enough daylight to pitch camp and catch enough fish to have a fry our first night. I was still feeling some pressure, having had experience with fishing, but was beginning to believe him. I also was  getting caught up in the excitement.

     We bounced from the truck in front of the general store where we were to purchase our license and obtain some local knowledge about camping sites, best fishing spots, boat rentals, etc. We stretched, took a deep breath of the fresh cool air, gave Flash a compassionate pat on the head, and with big smiles walked into the store. I recognized the store from pictures I’d seen on the Internet advertising it "for sale".  Inside the store, while we were still smiling with excitement and stretching from the long trip, we were met by the lady who owned the store. I quickly ask, "You do sell fishing license?" and she very courteously replied, "We sure do!" and started reaching for her book. Now leaning on her counter watching her get the license book, I ask the second question, "Are the two camp grounds on the lake easy to find?" – I knew there were two because I had looked it up on the Internet. She paused with her hand on the license book and looked at me with a smile that showed some sadness as she posed a question to me – "you do know the lake is dry?".  I must have looked like one of those cartoon clips where people are immediately frozen -- I stood there speechless with the smile of excitement still on my face.  A million thoughts and emotions were spinning through my mind like someone’s life flashing before their eyes, not the least of which was I felt like crying.  But being the man I am, I could ill afford to let her see my feelings - sort of like not stopping to ask directions when lost.   Fighting back the temptation to scream, cry, kick something, or curse -- I calmly answered, "no, no I didn’t". The nice lady, sensing my calm, took the opportunity to show me a series of beautiful photos of how the lake used to look. You can imagine my joy in viewing these photos -- like painting a dying man a beautiful picture of the life he could have had!  She then showed me the clincher which brought the adventure crashing down on me -- a picture of the lake now!  It looked like the great salt flats with a tractor sitting in the middle of it. Still maintaining my calm and playing like I had an allergy to the beautiful pines which was causing me to sniffle, I inquired as to where the next closest lake would be where a father, son, and dog could go fishing.  By the long, long pause -- I knew it wasn’t close!

     With no fishing license, Taylor and I got back into the truck. We both gave Flash an even bigger and more compassionate pat on the head -- more driving!  Maybe out of disbelief or maybe because of the same reason people poke at dead things to make sure they're dead... but for what ever reason, I felt the need to see the lake for myself.  Driving around the edges and viewing the beautiful campsites which were once waterfront, I poked at the lake with a stick, kicked it gently with my foot, rolled it over, and looked at it carefully to make sure it wasn’t moving -- it was dead!

     No other fishing lakes in the mountains... only fishing streams about an hour farther up the winding mountain road where "kids have fun fishing". Being somewhat experienced in fishing, I sensed this did not fit the definition of fishing: catching fish!  Considering our options, I made the decision to head East down the mountain to a desert lake at the southern end of a small chain of lakes on the Rio Grande.  I felt reasonably assured this lake wouldn’t be dry as we had earlier crossed the Rio Grande and observed water. Taylor wanted a time estimate to our new destination -- either to set his own stamina or to know how much longer he was going to have to nurse Flash. I quickly, and mistakenly answered, "one hour". About an hour into our two and one half drive down the winding mountain road, Taylor leaned on my shoulder and in the quietest and most gentle voice which only a seven year old has -- and said, "daddy, Flash and I are not having that much fun fishing."  Now the pressure was really on -- my credibility as a father was on the line so I assured him that this is not what fishing is usually like and that if he could muster up a little more patience he would see how much fun fishing could be!  Being just a little boy, he believed daddy -- Daddies know about fishing!

     This lake was the closer to our home but had been my last choice because of the heat wave forecast.  Even with this in mind, as we topped a hill and saw the water I exclaimed, "there’s the lake! -- there’s the lake!"— I actually felt the excitement.  Taylor looked around and with a big smile established, "we’ll still have time to make camp and do some fishing before dark -- I’m hungry for those fish".  We drove around and found a campsite in a State Park below the dam of the lake.  A nice site on the river with a comforting sound of the water coming through the spillway.  As I unpacked the truck and set up our tent and cooking apparatus, Taylor took out his new rod and reel and started to put real pressure on me to get to the river and catch those fish.   I tried to explain to him that we had no license and more importantly we had no bait -- to a seven year old that didn’t seem to be any big deal.  He turned up the heat on me to get fishing!  We drove about six miles to a local store and at ten minutes until eight I bought a license and worms. The lady at the store said to use minnows but I didn’t feel they would live through the night so I opted for the worms -- Taylor heard her advice!  Taylor accepted the idea of worms mostly because he had never seen any like these and liked looking at them.

      After all the normal ado of rigging Taylor’s rod and reel we finally reached the long awaited fishing spot -- we had been waiting for this moment for more than nine hours. Time and time again Taylor mentioned to me how fish hungry he was and how good those fish were going to taste.   We kept our line and bait in the water until about 9:30.  I would say we fished until about 9:30 but by definition that would imply we caught fish.  With no fish being pulled in, Taylor came up with a new reminder - "You should have bought minnows like the lady told you!"  With darkness making it impossible to see our bobbers we retired to the camp.  Neither of us had eaten all day -- Taylor wouldn’t eat lunch because he was "saving room" for fish.   I had to come up with something and it needed to be fast because it was near 10 o’clock and we were both beat.  I fired up the grill and threw on four hot dogs - served his on plain bread with a dash of catsup - I ate mine with plain bread only.  We hit the bed!  I was laying there, hands behind my head thinking about the day, when Taylor nudged close to me and said, "thank you daddy".  I said, "your welcome but we haven’t caught any fish yet".  He replied, "Daddy, I wasn’t thanking you for fishing, I was thanking you for dinner - that’s the best dinner I have ever had!".

     The night was cool and we slept. The next morning I yielded to Taylor’s insistence and bought minnows.   We kept our lines in the water in various places throughout the morning -- not fishing by definition of the word. The heat wave hit and we mutually decided we’d had enough of keeping our lines in the water.  Taylor became concerned about the remaining minnows -- "will they live?"  "Can we take them home?" "Do they like me?"  "Do you like minnows?"  "If we throw them back will fish eat them?"  -- I assured him they were safe from the latter as the fish had not tried to eat any yet. We let the minnows go in the river -- Taylor cried as they swam away. He and Flash slept the entire two hour trip home.

     Fishing? Fishing? -- I’ve looked up hunting in my dictionary and it is defined: to pursue game. Fish are game. I’ve decided that in order to not introduce another Santa Clause type story into my son’s life I’ll not again use the term "Going Fishing". The next time I tell my wife something about Taylor and I doing something that has something to do with fish or catching fish, I’m going to say, "Babe (that’s what I call her) Taylor and I have talked about it and we’re going hunting -- hunting for fish".

 

                                                                            Barnum Taylor © 1998