Published: September 09, 2008 01:56 pm            

The Outdoors: What we catch isn’t always the fish

Originally published in the September 5, 2008, print edition.

The figure silhouetted at the end of the dock against the setting sun represented a lot of water beneath the bridge.

I could recall a similar scene 20 years ago when the boyish figure of a 6-year-old cast into the last sunlight of the day, hoping to catch yet one more from the Minnesota lake where grandpa and grandma lived.

But now, at 26, as his uncles and dad relaxed with a few cold ones on a deck overlooking Enemy Swim Lake in northeast South Dakota, my son cuts a decidedly different figure.

As the manager of a fitness club in Olympia, Wash., his form suggested he is one who talks the talk and walks the walk of his livelihood.

He had traveled back the 1,700 miles to Minnesota from the Pacific Northwest to participate in the annual fishing trip to the glacial lakes of northeast South Dakota with a few uncles, a family friend and his old man.

Trying to wring a few last casts from a day’s fishing that frankly had not been very productive, he tossed a floating Rapala into the mirrored surface of the lake while at the same time taking care of business out west via his Blue Tooth. I was walking down to the dock to join him when there was a large swirl and a whoop as the ultralight spinning rod bowed deeply.

Against the light tackle, an unseen fish had the advantage as it created large whorls in the water.

The action soon had the rest of our party dockside offering unneeded advice to land what clearly was a significant fish.

After several minutes of give-and-take, the fish which we all suspected was a northern pike — had it been one of the smallies or largemouth bass, it probably wound have sounded in the relatively shallow water — made a strong run.

The battle reached a stalemate where an old plastic bottle tethered to a length of nylon rope to ward boaters away from a boulder that held the potential in low water conditions to eat props and lower units.

In the course of its run, the fish managed to wrap the line around the rope.

The bottle bobbed as the fish continued to struggle but Mike could gain no ground. If the battle was going to continue, the line would have to be freed.

We looked up and down the shore for a canoe, a nearby paddle boat, to briefly borrow so we could make a quick trip out to free the fouled line but found nothing.

Finally, we hitched one of our boats up to an uncle’s truck and a couple of us made the half-mile trip to the public access.

Several minutes later, we quietly motored up to the floating bottle.

Flanked by an uncle and a family friend on the dock, Mike’s rod still bowed as he kept pressure on the fish.

Edging up to the snag, I strained to see a fish.

A closer look revealed the Rapala lure, its rear treble hook deeply embedded into the yellow rope. The fish, it appeared, was gone.

“Sorry, bud, but it’s gone,” I told him, reaching down to free the lure with a pliers. The front treble had been broken off, which explained how the battle had concluded.

I tossed the lure back into the water for him to retrieve. Landing the fish would have been nice but we were especially disappointed that we had not at been able at least to see the fish he had hooked, landed or not.

As my brother and I motored back to the landing to load the boat, I glanced one more time at the dock where my son had resumed casting from the dock. And just for moment, in the last warm glow of daylight, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a 6-year-old.

        

• Click to discuss this story with other readers on our forums.