I wrote those 59 words 20 years ago. They wouldn’t hold water today.
A year ago, with spring finally feeling like it was going to stick around, I watched as my daughter, wading knee-deep in 65-degree weather, worked a pretty piece of water in a creek new to both of us. Between drifts, as her line navigated its way downstream at a pace slower than a walk, I waited for her to lift her rod tip and watch it dance … again.
Fish on.
After she released the trout back into the creek, I gave her a high-five but joked that a hip-check into the deep end was coming if she didn’t start sharing the love.
While she’d likely swear that she sent good vibes my way, they whistled by without connection, like the acrobatic swallows avoiding contact with the nearby wooden footbridge while dipping and diving in pursuit of airborne bugs.
Back at our vehicle where we removed wet wading boots, broke down our rods and stored gear, I was needled by Lauren about not catching any fish, but she eventually softened her mild ribbing by promising to buy me dinner.
Fair enough.
I hitched a ride with my daughter to the Black Hills because she had work to do in a real job that guides her to mostly far-flung places across the country that requires air travel and the don’t-hold-your-breath promise that you’ll make it to your destination on time. A road trip to the Black Hills, a four-wheels-on-the-ground journey through interesting looking country, sounded much more appealing when she offered, especially when the promise of a little fishing was thrown in while we waited for the weather to turn around at home.
Since I wrote those 59 words to begin this piece 20 years ago, Lauren and I have fished together many times. I can say I’ve fished with a girl, have been out-fished by a young woman on a pretty trout stream that I’d like another crack at.
I also wrote years ago that it was never a deliberate decision to make our daughter – the middle child sandwiched between two boys – into an angler to make up for what I missed with my sisters and mom. My thinking just isn’t that deep. Instead, it was simply a matter of putting a fishing rod in her hands and hoping it was something that would stick.
And it has.
For the last few years, I’ve lived vicariously through her, with more than a touch of envy, as she has texted photos of her solo fishing trips to waters I figured I’d eventually get around to fishing but have only just read about.
As her travels continue, I’m expecting another invite because, well, she knows I owe her a dinner.
