River Rattin

My younger son was squawking from the back of the boat about a snack. I was on the oars. Just as I turned my head to pull out another pack of cheese and cracker snacks, I heard a sound best described as a “Poosh!” Suddenly, my elder son, the one who could fish all day on an empty stomach, screamed, “Musky!”

- Phil Goes

Much to the dismay of the younger, the cheese and crackers would have to wait. He could survive a few more minutes without sustenance. Meanwhile in the bow, the rod doubled over, and the fish pounded away in the depths, hidden by the tea-stained water.

When the fish finally did show itself, it was not a musky. That was wishful thinking. Instead, a trophy smallmouth continued to do what smallmouth do best: fight.

“I know he’s at least 20! He has to be 20!” Huck, age 6, observed from the bow. The words coming from his mouth just didn’t sound like something a kid his age would say.

“Oh he’s 20 for sure, and a deep one too! Look at the shoulders on that thing!” The fish was far from done, and the aerial display that followed confirmed our judgements. I lipped the bass, unhooked the Tiny Torpedo, and handed the catch to the rightful owner for a picture.

Hugo, age 3 going on 90, complained about the food service. I don’t think he cared or even realized what had just transpired.

This was the world I wanted for my boys. After all, a river lifestyle was what I knew and loved, and as long as I can remember, it was all I really wanted out of life.

I was fortunate as a child. The freeflowing, rocky river of my formative years was home to just about everything. Sturgeon, steelhead, salmon, muskies and carp satisfied the big-fish itch, but smallmouth were more numerous and available throughout the summer months, a time when I was free from the confines of a classroom.