For the Labor Day weekend, I went fishing with the family in the mountains on the Carson. This would be my big skill test. I would be fishing alongside some experienced anglers.
Chad, my woodsy son-in-law, like his father and brother, is a blue-blood dedicated lifelong fisherman with all the tackle and gear. He’s got favorite baits and river waits. His youngest boy, Jack at 13, has come to love the sport as well and excels at it. He can cast to within a foot of the far bank and knows how to avoid snags. He’s often catching the biggest fish.
Then there’s me. I’m the eldest, the grandpa, and a fisherman of sorts. I’m trying to get back into the game after a brief 40-year hiatus. I’m still green and when green I like to learn alone. When I’m with the boys, they are the river alphas. They know where to park, and what sections to fish. If I want to alpha fish, take my time, explore, learn and experiment with the river, I must go it alone.
I drove up on Wednesday, a day ahead of Chad and Jack, to have some solo time camping and fishing. The peace and quiet of nature is resonating deeply within me these days. Also, I wanted to know how badly I sucked at fishing before they got there.
Susan stayed home to substitute teach for a friend. I traveled alone. I fished briefly along the road toward camp, my gear piled in the truck. Many fishermen were on the river that afternoon. The consensus from a few chats was no luck. Nor had I. I proceeded to build a home.
In a flat, free spot next to an established fire pit under tall pines along the river I pitched my eight-foot tent, popped my cot, righted my table, unfolded my chair, cracked open a cold one, and took a seat looking out at the trees, listening to the river roar. I made sure there was enough room in my flat space for three RV trailers to complete a circle with three wild noisy families of friends and kids aplenty in the coming days. It was time to enjoy the now or never.
At sunset I decided to try my luck again. As hoped the other fishermen were gone. I could park and fish where I pleased. Using a Berkely pink worm and one split-shot, hiding in the reeds where the current meets the calm, I was able to catch two fish, a 13-inch rainbow then one at 16-inches. Time to stop.
Not because of darkness, but because I can only eat two. I’m a big advocate of catch and eat, but catch only what I can eat. I drove back to camp, fried them up on the skillet, and ate them without side dishes, nothing but trout.
This time when I flopped into my easy chair under the trees with a crackling fire and another cold one looking out at the creeping shadows of deep dusk and sporting a full belly of pink trout meat, I felt extra good about everything. Bring on the Labor Day weekend.
Chad and Jack arrived early and pitched their trailer across from me. Wife Kristi, elder Tyler, and friends would arrive on Friday. Thursday was a day for three fishermen to tackle the tumbling waters together and alone.
Our first trip to the river was fruitless though we gave it two hours. We retired to camp. I told them I caught mine at sunset. We ate. We hung out. Chad and Jack went out again in the afternoon, but I chose to nap. They returned with ten fish. “Dude,” said Chad. “We had to stop. Got our limits. They’re still biting.”
Great, I was thinking to myself, I missed it. Now we have ten fat fish for 13 people. That’s full portions. Maybe we should stop fishing for the weekend? Ha. Ha. Not likely. The weekend has just begun. It was time to think ice, ice, baby. Hmm. Who can I call for trout dinners when I get home?
The next day was the greatest day of trout fishing in my life. Four of us, Chad, Jack, Chad’s friend Todd, and I were fishing side-by-side along a random stretch of the Carson. Wham, Jack caught a massive rainbow requiring a net. Wham, Jack caught another big one. “What are you using?” we all asked.
“One salmon egg, one sinker,” he said and cast again. We all switched to one salmon egg, one sinker.
Wham, Chad caught one. Wham, I caught one, then another. Wham, Todd caught a big one. We talked several times about catch and release versus eating. “Yeah, catch and release the little ones,” said Chad. “Keep only the big ones.”
We did so, but each trout was bigger than the last. Then kapow! Jack caught a 20-inch monster trout that nearly broke his pole. I caught another so big it spun my drag faster than I could crank it in. He measured at 19 inches. Four guys caught 17 trout that day. It was amazing, and resulted in a huge sack of meat. We caught a total of 27, ate ten, and split up the rest to take home.
I hosted three trout dinners in a row back home. I’m stuffed. I shall rest my fishing pole for a wee bit.

Steve Gibbs is a retired Benicia High School teacher who has written a column for The Herald since 1985.

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