The Fishing Rocks

I recalled this story over the weekend when Randy, Andrew and I went up to the Klamath River on a guys camping trip. I wrote this short story about six years ago for a new book that was coming out when they were taking submissions. The book, Chicken Soup for the Fishermen's Soul, was published sans this story. I found that there are nine levels before being chosen for the book. This story reached the eighth level before being cut.



It’s not often that a fishing trip turns into a journey down memory lane, but, sometimes life has a way of surprising you at the proper times. Being a parent of two boys has allowed me an opportunity to relive my youth. Having been adopted when my mom was 46 and my dad 53 I had the advantage of parents and grandparents all wrapped up in one neat package. They didn’t let me get away with much since they had already raised a set of kids, and they were on to pretty much all the tricks that a child tries on their parents, but they also knew the things that were important to a child.

As a child I felt I led a pretty carefree existence. What may have been normal to some children, were odd to me. I missed swimming lessons at the pool, missed Little League baseball, I even missed 4th of July until I was about 12 years old. Instead, I learned to swim underwater in a small creek that at best was about 12 inches deep. I learned to play baseball by throwing stones up in the air and batting them into the river with a broken off tree branch. And, 4th of July, I was too busy being a little boy doing the important thing that make up much of many little boys lives, fishing. I spent my growing up summers car camping on a ‘mining claim’ next to the broken down remains of a cabin along a small creek with my mom and brother. My dad would stay at home to work during the week and come to be with us on the weekends.

Immediately after school was out in June, my mother would load up the car full of blankets, food, camping gear, and canning supplies and head over to the mining claim with my brother and I. What would be an all day trip to get there, I was later to find out, could be made in 3 hours by a slightly different route. Mom did not like windy mountain roads. I guess the length of the trip added to the mystique of our yearly pilgrimage.

"So, just what exactly is normal about your childhood," you may ask?

The summers of my youth slipped by camping out of a car, picking blackberries before the sun got too hot, and fishing. Since we had a small creek on our mining claim site my brother and I felt it our duty to ‘stock’ it with fish. After we finished picking blackberries each morning our reward was being able to go fishing. The Klamath River, a river that drains the northern section of California, is a river well-known for its historic salmon runs. Hence, the draw for my brother and I to go fishing every morning. My brother is a lucky fisherman, I am a good fisherman, at least it makes me feel better thinking so. I was continually to be reminded of in fishing at least, luck beats skill about 99% of the time. My mom would walk us down to the river and watch us from the bank as my brother and I skipped, hopped, and jumped from rock to rock in search of the best stretch of river in which to catch those elusive fish. Our feelings were that if we could get just a little further out into the river we stood just a little better chance of catching more fish.

Oddly, most of the time when I would look up to see my mom I would see her with her head bowed down instead of watching us. Yet, in spite of not keeping on eye on us, she would insist on accompanying us each time we went fishing. Meanwhile, as soon as we would catch a fish we would put it into a coffee can and sprint the ½ mile back to our creek so we could ‘stock’ it.

The annual trip was one to be looked forward to each summer until we got too ‘cool’ to go with Mom, yet she continued to go every summer. The blackberries bloomed, the river ran past, the seasons came and went, yet the fishing rocks remained waiting.

As my boys got older I yearned to share a little of my youth with them and maybe live my childhood again vicariously through them. We went to the ‘cabin’ on a ‘guys trip’ and I tried to tell them of what it was like camping out all summer, listening to the bears pawing around at night, picking blackberries so we could enjoy them on our pancakes in the winter, throwing rocks at yellow jacket nests as we were leaving for the final time of the summer, and fishing. Fishing from the rocks along the bend of the river.

I took them to the rocks along the bend of the river and while my sons skipped, hopped, and jumped carefree from rock to rock searching out the best vantage point from which to fish, I relived for a short time my youth while I crawled from rock to rock. I had lost something, yet I had gained more. While it was somewhat surprising that my body not able to do what it did in my youth, I had something better,my boys. Watching them I realized then why my mother had her head down and not watching us, she was praying for our safety and future.

The rocks along the bend in the river remain a favorite place for me to go fishing with my sons. It is a place where I can view a younger image of myself as I watch my sons scampering from rock to rock and fishing from the very same rocks that I did as a child, still trying to catch those elusive fish. It is also a place where I can look into the past, and if I look really hard, I can still see my mother up on the bank with her head bowed. Now I understand why.