No Fish

July 5, 2021

On our first real fishing trip the guys started having second thoughts as we trooped around the far side of the lake. I looked for an open area where we, that is I, could cast their baited hooks. They shrugged but kept walking.

My grandfather never took me fishing. He was a city man born and bred, an accountant, and in all my memories of him he’s wearing a suit and tie. But my dad took me fishing. Sandy gave me a rod, spinning reel, and tackle box as a wedding present. I still have them. I took my son fishing. So taking the grandsons to the lake seemed like a natural thing. Noah is seven, Patrick is four. They were enthusiastic when I gave them rods and reels a year ago. We practiced casting a bit, then dropped lines in the water, without bait, at a nearby state park.

For some, fishing is a livelihood within a huge industry. As a casual outing or hobby, though, it doesn’t come naturally. No matter how many “outdoor life” magazine articles you read or TV shows you watch, or how much you spend on tackle, clothing, and logistics—which for some folks means plane tickets and hotels—the fish still are in control. They either take your baited hook or your pricey lure or hand-tied fly, or they don’t. And if they don’t, when you’ve been out there for hours, whether you count the time as wasted or well-spent says something about who you are.

Our fishing trip started the day before, when I found a bait shop five miles up a local highway. The Old School Bait Shop is a shack, a place that looks like it sells bait and not much else. But the elderly lady at the counter showed me the sweep of the place: rods, spinning, casting, and fly reels, cheap lures, expensive lures, fishing line in varying weights, the works. All I needed was worms, the basics.

I looked around while she helped a young boy, maybe about ten, harvest a bucket of live crickets from a tub. “Where are you going?” I asked. “Down near Lake Robinson, not far from here,” he said, giving me that honey-toned local twang.  “I’ll try ‘em next time,” I answered.

I set up the boys’ rods in the garage, guessing it would be near-impossible at the fishing spot. I tied on the hooks, the smallest I had, the leaders, split-shot sinkers, and plastic floats. It took a while, after squinting at the tiny loops, I had to fetch my glasses. I left the worms outside on the porch overnight.

In the morning before we left the house I gave them a quick refresher on handling the rods. They watched but I knew their minds wandered. At the park we hiked to the far side of Lake Placid, one of the two lakes at Paris Mountain State Park, the most accessible and most popular, with a small beach used by swimmers.

We lugged the rods and tackle boxes. Sandy had made a sack of sandwiches. Patrick carried the box of worms. It took a while to find that perfect spot, they stopped a few times, pointing to the water. “How about here?” Noah asked more than once. “Just a little farther,” I said. The right spot was a clearing wide enough to cast. A wooden bench stood nearby, good for staging our gear.

I impaled the worms on the hooks—never fun, while the boys made faces. “Does that hurt the worm?” Patrick asked. “No, their job is to help us find fish,” I lied, and changed the subject. I cast their lines out 12 feet or so. The bright-red plastic floats bobbed on the surface. They stood quietly, holding their rods. Finally we were fishing.

I looked across the lake. The sun glimmered on the water, promising a warm day. A few birds chirped. It was quiet. This is how it’s supposed to be, I thought. When I was Noah’s age, maybe a little older, my dad took me fishing in a rowboat off eastern Long Island a few times. I complained when we didn’t catch anything, but he didn’t care much. He cared about the two of us being at that place, at that moment.

Ten minutes passed. The three of us watched the floats. A gentle current pushed them slowly toward shore, the lines slackened. Noah raised the tip of the rod high, yanking the line. “When are we going to get a bite?” he asked. “Be patient, fishing means waiting,” I said. “The fish are getting hungry.”

The boys fidgeted a bit with the rods. I reeled the lines in and inspected the hooks. The worms were undisturbed. No nibbles. I cast again. They stood, waiting. A few minutes later Patrick said, “I’m hungry, I want lunch.” It was about 9 AM. I took his rod and he grabbed his peanut butter sandwich.

I guessed the lake contained some bass, bream, and sunfish, maybe catfish. I thought we had a shot at landing at least a sunny. I had snipped the barbs from the hooks to avoid injuring the fish. Now we had to catch them. Again, the lines drifted towards shore, bunching up. I reeled them in and cast again, but forgot to release the lock on Patrick’s reel, the hook and float snagged in a tree branch. I climbed around the tree and extricated it. He finished his sandwich and sat on the bank. “I want to go home,” he said.

I decided that the fish, if any were out there, weren’t interested in our worms. For the heck of it I removed the hook and float from Noah’s line and attached an artificial lure. I cast and reeled it in and explained the herky-jerky motion it made as it neared the bank. No fish interest. I reattached the hook and float and sent it out again, a good 15 or 18 feet. Noah took the rod, but reeled the line in and dipped the still-baited hook in a couple of feet from the bank and yanked it. A tiny fish was hanging from the hook. He yelled, but in an instant it was gone. He dipped the hook back in. No bites. Noah handed me the rod and got his sandwich and sat down. “Can I go swimming?” he asked.

I packed the gear and we headed back up the trail, the boys ahead of me, looking forward to the ice cream I promised. It could be the heat, I thought. Fish don’t bite on hot days. But then it was only 11:00 AM. We straggled back to the parking lot and climbed in the car. We headed for ice cream. Better luck next time.