The Lake Where You Live

There’s something about dads and sons fishing, dads and daughters fishing. And Father’s Day is a time to celebrate it.

Some of my most cherished moments involve fishing with my kids, Sonya and Todd. Even more memorable was one day about two decades ago, fishing with my elderly dad.

My father deeply loved his eight kids. He also loved to fish, but didn’t have much time to do it. When you’re caring for a big family, when you’re an engineer by trade and you’re active in your church and maintaining an older house and half-acre yard, your hours on water are limited.

Through words and example, Dad taught us a great deal about many things — about fighting the urge to quit when things got tough, about the rewards of a day’s work, about getting involved in civic affairs, about honesty. Those lessons were like savings bonds, appreciated only much later. The gift of fishing was that shiny Christmas toy, loved instantly and treasured for years. 

Dad introduced us all to fishing, chiefly my three brothers and me, because back then that’s just how it was. When I think of Dad fishing, I picture him in green work pants and a flannel shirt in one of any number of colors and patterns. 

Somewhere along the line, Dad bought a used twelve-foot, red-and-white wooden rowboat; he promptly painted it the same deep green as the boats he sometimes rented for us at liveries. He never owned any other boat and never an outboard motor.

Decades on, life’s circle swung around. Dad was in his early eighties when my brothers and I took him on one of our Northwoods weekend fishing trips, along with a few of our friends. On the first morning we paired off in four boats, dad in mine. By then Dad was legally blind from macular degeneration.

That morning, we drifted on a breeze. I cast a spinner for pike; Dad dangled a worm over the boatside for bluegills — he couldn’t see well enough to watch a bobber. 

“Would you like to try a little casting?” I said. 

“No, I’m doing fine,” he replied, wearing the game-day face of a serious angler.

“Then here,” I said. “Let me help you with that.” The boat’s drifting had been keeping his bait from running near the bottom. I squeezed on an extra split shot above the hook to keep the line more vertical; his bluegill harvest increased. 

His vision being so limited, I unhooked each fish, stowed it in the live well, and replenished his bait. I avoided spoiling the moment by mentioning how, after all the years, our roles had reversed. 

On Sunday afternoon it was time to leave. A friend snapped a photo of the five of us, Dad and his four boys, standing beside my trailered boat. Warmer smiles on five sets of similar features would be hard to find in any picture. 

Before getting into the car for the trip home, Dad shook hands with each of us in turn. “This has been fun,” he said. “Thank you.” In truth, the debt of gratitude was all ours. Dad didn’t teach us a much about how to catch fish. He did teach us to love fishing. It was and is enough. 

Ted Rulseh, a writer, author and advocate for lake protection, lives on Birch Lake in Oneida County. Visit him and his blog at https://thelakeguy.net.