Roger’s Fish Remarks for July 22: Adventures early on reinforce a fishing life

As a youngster pushing 7 or 8, I enjoyed some key experiences that I still remember vividly — ones I’m sure were responsible for fueling my love of a fishing life. My hunch is that these very same things were probably the early foundations for many others as well, and they mean as much to them as they do to me.

It seems my first fascination with the water and the things that live there was discovering the nearby small ditches and ponds that we had out by our westside ranch. My favorite creatures were the paddlebugs that seemed to be everywhere there was water. Watching the cute little bugs paddle like crazy all over the place fascinated me for hours. I loved them!

I also learned that there could be a whole microcosm of life in just one little pool of water, like the little transparent undulating brine shrimp. Another time I was shocked to find a creature that looked like a prehistoric Trilobite. Capturing it in a Mason jar out of a little pond, I was sure I had found a new species. Turned out to be some sort of freshwater horseshoe crab. I realized that you never knew what you would find if you just stayed still and watched. For a young boy, getting a chance to spend time just imagining and observing this tiny underwater universe was priceless.

Another big event in my life at this point was when Dad would tell us we needed to get the bucket, two shovels and some screwdrivers and put them in the back of our old Ford pickup. That meant we were going to dig nightcrawlers for a fishing trip! We would usually drive the 2 miles down a rutted road to the back of a nearby dairy where Dad had located the perfect digging spot. Parking in the tall watergrass, we would look for an area that had firm sod, but not too wet, before sampling it. Those babies were premium stock worms: huge, thick, fast and lively. No garden variety ’crawlers here!

Once we found a good spot, Dad would turn over a spadeful of ground and the race was on to grab the worms before they disappeared quickly back into their holes. We would use the screwdrivers to break up the clods and grass roots to shake out the escaping worms. It always became a game between us to get the most. Sort of like an Easter Egg hunt, but the eggs took off pretty fast!

Filling the bucket up was the precursor of a good fishing trip, and we always got enough for our buddies, too. Drifting a big ’crawler down the Kings River produced some huge trout for Dad and his buddies. I was always disappointed back then because they told me the water was too swift for me to cross the river (though once I got bigger they said I could go). The huge trout up to 24 inches they brought back made me all the more determined to fish with them someday. Dad was smart enough to praise me for helping get the ’crawlers, so at least I felt like I was on the team.

I love fishing, but a better thing to say is that I’ve always loved the whole essence of what a fishing life has meant to me. Everytime I go, I relive digging through the dark loamy sod, making sure the escaping ’crawlers get plucked into Dad’s worm bucket, as well as the smells, emotions and excitement of that time. I also recall the wonder and feeling of discovery as I watched the little paddlebugs swim jerkily all over their water world. It was magic!

Reflecting on the past, it once again strikes me that a simple life — one of fellowship, goodness, honesty, work and integrity — in the midst of a chaotic world is the essence of what a fishing life has meant to me and always will. Never give up!

This story was originally published July 21, 2015 at 5:58 PM with the headline "Roger’s Fish Remarks for July 22: Adventures early on reinforce a fishing life."