A fish tale

This weekend, Mark and I went fishing. No, seriously, we really did.

It was originally a camping trip, too, but when the camping part got cancelled, we opted to stay at my brother's cabin. Mark was being a little pill before we left. He rebuffed all my suggestions of what to bring (pajamas, a sweatshirt, toothbrush), telling me in his huffiest voice ever, "Mom, I know how to pack."

He toned his snarky attitude down a bit when we arrived in the mountains and it was 55 degrees. I could see the wind rippling the lake, and the people all around the edge, bundled up in heavy jackets and hooded sweatshirts.

"Looks kinda cold out there," I told Mark, but he didn't care--he wanted to practice casting. He hopped out of the car, fishing pole in hand, and raced to the lake. It was at that moment he realized he forgot his sweatshirt, pants and sneakers (he later realized he also forgot his pajamas). He lasted all of three minutes out there, and I suddenly realized our fishing adventure on Sunday might not last very long.

But I didn't care. I was there to spend some quality time with Mark, to bond with my son. The son who immediately ditched me Sunday morning, pleading to ride in Uncle Scott's fancy new sports car.

"My dad's car is so awesome!" my nephew Grant bragged. "It can go zero to 60 in like three seconds!"

"Know what's cool about my car?" I asked him, pointing toward my trusty Prius. "It gets 50 miles to the gallon!"

Grant just stared at me awkwardly. He silently looked at the sports car, all muscle with a sporty red racing stripe, and finally just walked away.

And so I spent some quality time with Jimmy Buffett instead. I sang along to my radio, watching Scott and the boys speed off at a million miles an hour down the twisty mountain road, until they disappeared.

We arrived at the Boy Scout camp around 10 a.m (and 10:10, respectively). The day before was gorgeous, sunny and nice. But that day was gone, leaving in its place a cold, damp morning. A big cloud wandered into the camp, and suddenly, the lake and the people on the other side of it melted away.

"Oh my God, I'm freezing!" Mark whined. "I'm wearing three shirts and two shorts and I'm still cold!" (Um, because it was FORTY DEGREES OUT THERE!) He was cold all the way down to his socks and flip-flops. Uncle Scott finally took pity on him and lent him a spare jacket.

We walked down to the lake, where the scouts were already at work. Some were fishing, but most were running around the lake.

"A dead rat!" one cried, pointing at the edge of the lake.

"Don't touch the dead rat," his dad answered without even looking up.

The same boy held up a stringer, and asked what it was for.

"Is it a harpoon?" he asked. "Do you stab the fish with it to catch them?"

"No, it's to hold on to the fish in the water," the dad answered. The boy was not impressed.

"A harpoon is way better," he said.

We found a good fishing spot. The boys next to us had already reeled in some trout.

"I caught one with my bare hands," a scout proudly told me. "I just reached in the water and grabbed it!"

"Wow," I said. "You'll do just fine if you ever get lost in the woods."

I was immensely grateful for Scott within the first two minutes. He took Mark and Grant's poles and loaded them up with swivels, weights, small tri-tipped hooks, and bait. He jiggered things around with pliers, tied some little knots, and taught them how to cast into the middle of the lake. It was very impressive. 

"What about the bobbers?" I asked, showing off my vast fishing knowledge.

"Real fisherman don't use bobbers," Scott sniffed. I laughed that he thought of our sons as "real fishermen."

But they actually did pretty well. Within 30 minutes, Mark landed a trout! I was across the lake, and Scott yelled out to me. I rushed back as Mark was reeling it in.

I took about one bazillion pictures. Mark just watched as an older scout netted and unhooked the fish. He showed Mark how to hold the it up by its gills for a picture, but Mark just shook his head.

"I'm not touching that," he informed us.

"You have to hold it," the older scout asked. "You can hold it, or you can kiss it for the picture."

"Fine, I'll hold it," Mark relented. I yelled for him to roll up his sleeve first--he was determined NOT to touch that fish, and I'm pretty sure Uncle Scott did not want him using his jacket sleeve as a holder.

But that wasn't all Mark caught. He also managed to hook a nearby bush. I think it's an improvement on the last time he went fishing, when he caught a tree. At least he's catching smaller things than trees now.

The guys next to us found a sweet spot, seriously catching a fish about every two minutes. It was like someone flipped the on switch, or rang the dinner bell for the fish. The dads fishing there were awesome--every time they landed a fish, they'd yell, "Who wants it?" then hand it over to the boys to reel in. They made sure everyone caught a fish and went home happy. (Did I mention the lake was stocked? I can't imagine taking 45 scouts fishing in a big, unstocked lake--they would've died of boredom, and touched that damn rat for sure!)

Mark went home happy for sure, mostly because he gave his fish to Uncle Scott.

"You take it," Scott said, handing the fish back to Mark. "I have a great recipe for you."

"No way," Mark said, backing up. He wouldn't even touch the outside of the fish--there was no way he'd gut and clean the inside.

So Scott ended up with two trout. He laughed that the boys were nowhere to be found when he cleaned them--they liked the glory of catching them, not so much in eating them.

But I didn't expect anything else. I was just glad to get outside and enjoy the great outdoors, and to get those boys away from their video games. And they had a blast on the trip, even if their favorite parts were racing in Scott's sports car and eating donuts (NOT in the car).

Hey, it's a start...