Trout season opened recently in most of the Northeast, and in the spirit of the season, I thought I’d share a fishing story in this week’s blog that I wrote in 2009. Good luck to all you fishermen and women out there. — ED
It was Sunday morning, last Sunday morning, and dawn was just breaking in fishing camp. First there were birds singing in complete darkness: prophets? Cheerleaders? Either way the birds seemed to be urging the light on. Finally a pale glow began to shine in the east window. In Irish there’s a word for this: “luisne” – it means the day’s first blush of light. This luisne poured like weak milk through the eastern window of the log cabin and five sleepy fishermen turned beneath their blankets and went back to sleep.
Several hours later young Mason Crosier, 2 and 11/12ths-years-old, sat upright in his bed. Beside him, his father’s big, warm body. The cabin was full of morning noise – the coffee perking, the woodstove gulping air as it roared back to life, sausage asizzle in the trusty iron Griswold – but it was music that perked his ears, specifically, “I’m Henry the Eighth I Am!” tooted at full volume through a kazoo.
Mason rose into a crouch, his eyes a contradiction of sleepiness and fresh energy, his smile as broad as the new day. He put his ear up against the thin wooden wall that partitioned the back side of the cabin into sleeping quarters. “Who’s that?” his father asked gently. Mason let the question hang in the air – at 2 and 11/12ths already a master dramatist – then exclaimed: “Papa!” before leaping from the bed and running – actually, spinning, like a toy top – to the waiting arms of his grandfather.
We ate a leisurely breakfast: pork sausage patties seared until crusted, gwiddle cakes with fresh maple syrup, OJ with pulp in it, robust black coffee, warm blueberry pie. Later we sat around the table with bellies extended, idle chatter, Papa scratching May cadences on a slate turkey call. After dishes we broke camp and rode to Lake Shaftsbury, our first and last stop of the day.
Mason and Papa landed the day’s only fish, a trophy pumpkin seed. But we all had fun. We fished for a long time. It was a raw day – cloudy and gray, with a few stray snowflakes here and there. But Mason seemed at peace with it. Never one to be accused of being a docile child, he seems to nevertheless possess the patience of a fisherman.
Mason sat on the stone dam between his dad’s legs – sat wrapped in his dad. When the family next to us landed a huge 18-inch rainbow, Mason was first in line for a look, us in tow. Later, when two geese flew overhead, he seized the opportunity to make sure we were up on our avian identification. “Geese,” he said matter-of-factly, serious, finger extended.
The other big topic of conversation was worms. That was the morning’s magic. To Mason, these worms were 86 percent more amazing than an 18-inch rainbow trout. He’d lose himself for long stretches staring at the writhing mass in the old Styrofoam coffee cup; smile brilliantly each time a baited hook would emerge from the depths of the lake. “Look Mason! You caught a worm!” And he’d laugh and laugh. It bled into us. Eventually, we were all able to see these strange, alien creatures through eyes we haven’t used since we were 2 and 11/12ths-years-old.
“Take a Kid Fishing” the campaign demands, right? Like “Click it or Ticket.” We speak to each other directly because we’re adults. That and because there’s no room for nuance in public relations copy.
But when you do take a kid fishing it really does make you feel good. And it’s not good like: I did good. It’s good like: the world’s good. Worms are good. Being wrapped in your dad’s love is good. Papas are good.
As I shook hands at the end of the morning with three generations of Crosier men I thanked Mason for the good time. It was quite obvious then that the state’s slogan should really be: “Let a kid take you fishing.” That cuts to the heart so much better.