Moultrie

A snowy day. Seed catalogs poured in. Too early to plant. A good time to clean closets — where I found my fishing pole.

Admittedly, I don’t use a graphite pole. I read that those cost a lot more than my fluorescent blue rod. My rod reflects my fishing skills.

My first fishing experience as a kid occurred on an opening day for fishing. Dad and Mom took my two brothers and I to a nearby lake, where they rented a rowboat.

Picture a lake, azure blue waters so clear the Douglas fir trees reflected a view worthy of an artist’s painting. A blue sky with trout leaping up, leaving concentric circles as they dropped back into their watery realm.

That was not the lake of our fishing expedition.

Picture an artist painting our fishing spot. First, locate a brown paint labeled “murky.” Perfect for painting the lake water. The sky — a gloomy cluster of clouds.

Rowboats lined the dock. We climbed into one sturdy as a tank. The boat rocked as the parents hollered for us to sit down. Mom rowed. Dad sat close to us kids to help land the catch for the anticipated fish fry.

By midmorning, all the rowboats rented out bobbed in the lake, which was not much bigger than a pond. The hazard: boat-bashing. Inexperienced rowers careened their vessels from one boat to the next, reminiscent of bumper car rides at a carnival with a water feature.

Fishing brought out the competitive nature of the fishermen. When someone landed a fish, the rest of the boat pack rowed over to that part of the lake. With the traffic jam, some of the boats got stuck facing the wrong way, and the fisherpersons ended up rowing their boats backwards.

The varied techniques of casting added another level of adventure.

My brothers and I came prepared. We’d practiced casting in our backyard until we could send a line from the back porch to the back fence, a useful skill to ensure we had plenty of lines tangled in tree limbs at the lake.

Previous to our fishing trip, one brother received the gift of a fly-tying kit. In preparation for our outing, we tied a selection of flies at home. Our motto: big and flashy.

“Pass me another peacock feather,” I asked a brother, “and a couple more turkey feathers.” I tied off my creation with a hunk of red yarn.

At the lake, our lines with the home-tied fishing flies didn’t “whisper” as they touched the water. More like the GLOP of a frog leaping off a lily pad. The flies soared like pigeons decked out for a party, then tumbled into the lake.

At the lake, Mom kept rowing.

“Faster! Faster!” we chanted as we raced to one spot and another.

Dad stayed busy keeping fishing lines untangled.

The haul for the day: two trout.

At the dock, the boat threatened to tip as family tried to climb out.

“Don’t drop that reel,” said Dad.

Plop. The brown, murky water swallowed the reel — never to be recovered.

“Careful with my rod,” said Dad. He laid his rod on the dock boards, boosted a brother up and helped Mom climb out.

The brother slipped and stepped on Dad’s fishing pole. “Oops,” he said.

When Dad picked up his rod, the broken tip fell off.

“I have red yarn we can use to tie it back on,” offered the brother.

At home, Mom fried the trout. We each got a taste.

“How soon before we go fishing again?” a brother asked.

“Next time, let’s try dip-netting for smelt,” said Dad. “We can fish from a riverbank.”