To Celebrate the Opening of Trout Fishing yesterday, this is a reprint of last year's opening day trout fishing story:
Jackson callahan and dad Kevin Callahan fishing on Rancocas Creek.
For this fishing story, I bought live bait while out for lunch one day.
The worm meal container said to keep refrigerated. I planned to put the worms in the fridge at the Courier-Post. Maybe, I thought, this wouldn't endear me to my new colleagues if worms got loose in their yogurts.
So the worms stayed in my truck.
Of course, I forgot to put the worms in my home refrigerator. When I went to fish in the trout-stocked waters of the Rancocas Creek, the worms were, well, not moving real fast.
Unlike the Rancocas Creek that runs through Medford and never changes, there is a change to these trout fishing columns. I have left the Sports department after 25 years and moved into the Features and Community sections.
It is time for me to see what is down river from sports.
For sports, I've been doing an annual trout fishing column. One year, I took my teenage daughter, Mary. She was just finishing up eighth grade. A change in her life, a good time for a lecture. Last year, I took my dad.
Now, my son, Jackson, is finishing up eighth grade. Another change. It's his turn to go fishing and endure my life lectures.
What didn't change is I got off to my usual start. I pulled the Shakespeare rods from my truck. One rod came in half. Soon the lines were tangled. I worked to untangle the mess while Jackson watched, half asleep.
We fished near the Main Street Bridge. Last year, I saw a guy in a Yankees baseball cap catch a half dozen trout there. This year, a guy caught a rainbow trout there.
"What do you think about when you fish?" I asked Jackson.
"Nothing," he said.
Already an expert. I'll wait with the lecture.
My first cast hooked a tree. Just like last year when my dad's first cast hooked a tree.
Last year, I didn't help my dad. It is so hard having to help your dad after a lifetime of him helping you. Maybe not helping makes it seem like he is not getting older, that he is not changing.
So, I was glad Jackson didn't try to help untangle my line. I hope he always will think I don't need any help. I want him to always think our whole lives are still ahead of us, that nothing will change.
I noticed two birds in the water near a white duck and two yellow chicks.
"They are ducks, too," Jackson said about what I thought were brown floating birds.
Although I'm writing about the great outdoors, you might have noticed I'm not Man vs. Wild. And that is the point. My hope in writing outdoor feature stories is that you, reader, realize you don't have to be Bear Grylls to enjoy the outdoors and a day with your kids or your dad.
"Isn't that a geese?" I asked Jackson.
"It is a goose, it is not plural," he said politely.
Not only am I not Bear Grylls, I'm not Shakespeare, either. The closest I am to the Bard is the Shakespeare rod I'm using. Or used. I decided to sit down and watch Jackson fish.
Twenty five years from now, Jackson will only be a few years younger than I am now. Maybe he'll take his son or daughter trout fishing.
Twenty five years from now, my dad will be 100. Where will I be? Hopefully, wandering the high Sierra Mountains finding myself. Who knows?
I do know, the Rancocas Creek here in Medford will still be flowing. That won't change. And, for this moment, I wish that, like the river, Jackson will never change from this day.
