the fishing trip i told my dad

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Fishing With My Father

After a stroke nearly killed his dad, the author searches for memories, and meaning, that were nearly lost, too

By Colin Kearns | Published Dec 15, 2023 9:00 AM EST

TWENTY-FIVE YEARS LATER, as I strive to remember lost details from the fishing trips I took with my father, I find it’s easier to retrace my steps if I close my eyes.

A short journey comes into focus: From the parking lot of the trout stream, we cut through a patch of woods that spits us onto a gravel trail that runs along the section of river where bait is legal—water crowded with dozens of spin anglers, most with stringers of dead trout clipped to their belts. Next, we ascend the ramp to a suspended footbridge and stop midway across to gaze down at the giant trout hovering in a deep pool while they ignore the same balls of dough bait they’ve probably seen a thousand times.

At the end of the bridge, we come to the trailhead of a narrow dirt path. I lead the way, walking with my 5-weight poised like a sword, doing my best to thread it through the tangle of overhanging branches. The river runs below us to the right, paralleling the trail. One misstep would result in a painful fall down the rocky bank and into the water. Midway along the path is a spot so eroded we have to cling to a sapling as we take turns lunging over the gap, one leg at a time. Once I’ve crossed safely, I stop to watch and make sure Dad does the same.

“You good?” I ask.

Now that the hardest part of this short journey is over, the distance between my dad and me expands as my pace quickens. The access point to the river is just up ahead. I can almost see it.

On a Saturday morning in January, my younger brother, Michael, called with news that Dad had suffered a stroke. Little was known at the time—just that another tenant in the thin-walled apartment building where our father lived alone had dialed 9-1-1 after hearing his cries for help, and that EMTs had to break the jamb on Dad’s deadbolted front door before they could load him into an ambulance and rush him to the hospital.

Over the next 36 hours, Dad would undergo two operations: the first to remove a blood clot in his brain; the second to remove part of his skull, creating space so that his brain could continue to swell without killing him.

During all of this, and in the days that would follow, my father lived in darkness. Not only had the stroke paralyzed his entire left side, but he could no longer open his eyes. Worse yet, even when doctors lifted his eyelids for him, my father could no longer see.

I was the last of the four sons to come home following Dad’s stroke. Mike, the youngest, and only one who still lives in St. Louis, was naturally the first to know. Brian, the oldest, drove up from his home in Arkansas as soon as he got the news on Saturday. Patrick caught a flight from Florida on Monday. I left New York Tuesday morning.

Mike picked me up at the airport and drove directly to the hospital. We didn’t say much in the car, but he mentioned that Brian and Pat were already there with Dad in the ICU. A thought occurred to me: This would be the first time in three years that the four brothers were in the same room. All it took to bring us together was our father nearly dying.

I had seen a photo of my dad following the stroke, but it still didn’t prepare me for the moment when I approached his hospital bed. Normally tan and spry, my father looked as ashen and frail as I had ever seen him—as if he’d aged 20 years overnight. A dozen or so staples snaked across his freshly shaven head, and a maze of tubes connected him to a battery of machines that beeped, hissed, and flashed. His eyes were shut.

I took his right hand. “Hey, Dad.”

He squeezed. “Hey, bud.”

He held on until I let go. I sat down and just stared at him for a while.

I stayed in St. Louis for the rest of the week, spending as much time at the hospital as visiting hours allowed. I don’t know if I have ever been more grateful for my brothers’ company. For one, being together made it easier to keep Dad engaged—to bring him into conversations and bring out his sense of humor. Like the moment he began to grab at the top of his bedsheet.

“What are you looking for, Dad?” Mike asked.

“Goodies,” he replied. Not even a stroke could tame Dad’s sweet tooth.

My brothers’ company also nurtured small acts of compassion—pretty much the opposite of the hazing and teasing that infested our childhood. Like when Brian came back into the room, sat on the edge of Dad’s bed, and asked, “Would you like me to hold your hand, Dad?”

“Yes, please,” he replied.

In fact, I found the periods of my brothers’ absence—when I was alone with my father—the most difficult. I could never tell if Dad was awake or asleep, and, not wanting to disturb him if he were resting, I often allowed the room to remain quiet. And in that silence, I’d find myself staring at him again, sometimes crying as softly as possible—afraid of making him aware of how sad and frightened I was by the thought of losing him.

On the final night of my stay, when it was again just the two of us, I found the courage to interrupt the silence and, following Brian’s example, sat on the edge of Dad’s bed and asked if I could hold his hand. I told him how much I had enjoyed being with him all week. He squeezed my hand and said thank you.

His hospital gown was partially open, and I noticed, on the left side of his chest, a not-so-small tattoo. It was of two celestial bodies overlapping, and around the spheres were our names: Brian, Patrick, Colin, Michael.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that tattoo on your chest, Dad.”

“The sun and the moon,” he said. “And my boys.”

The next morning, I had enough time for a short visit before my afternoon flight back to New York. Brian arrived just before I did, and as we settled in, he checked on Dad with some small-talk questions: How’d you sleep? How are you feeling? Do you need anything? The tone of his final question, though, felt more direct: “Can you open your eyes for me, Dad”?

What happened next still stuns me.

Dad’s eyes shot open, as if he’d awoken from a bad dream. For the few seconds’ worth of strength he could muster to keep them from closing again, his vision, he said, was quite blurry—but he could at least make out the shapes of both Brian and me. After everything we’d been through in the past week, this felt like a miracle. There he was again—the dad I knew. Or, the dad I mostly thought I knew.

As uplifting as it was to see him open his eyes, something about the moment nonetheless troubled me. It hit me at the airport: Until that time, I’d always thought my father’s eyes were light brown or hazel. Turns out, they’re blue.

After I returned home to New York, I couldn’t shake the unnerving guilt I felt over not knowing the color of my dad’s eyes—or of once knowing and then forgetting, which somehow seemed worse. If I can’t even remember the color of my own father’s eyes, I thought, what else must I have forgotten?

The notion that any hazy memory of Dad could have been lost forever had we lost him felt like a reckoning. I found myself desperate to recall and reclaim as much of the time my father and I spent together as possible. The occasions that sprang to mind first—that seemed most precious and worth saving—were the days when Dad accompanied me to the river during my first seasons as a fly fisherman.

About a week after my trip to St. Louis, on a clear afternoon in January, I arrived early for an appointment uptown. To kill time, I decided to take a stroll in the park across the street and call my father.

I was encouraged by the strength in his voice when he answered. He still had a long way to go, but at least he was beginning to sound like his old self again. I asked how he was doing. Just OK, he said. He was eager to be transferred out of the ICU and disheartened that his vision hadn’t improved.

I tried to cheer him up with new anecdotes about his three-month-old grandson. Then, knowing how much he loves New York, I described my walk through Central Park. I told him how spectacular the weather was, that it felt like spring, which had me looking ahead to trout season. I mentioned that I’d been thinking about the fishing trips he and I took way back when.

“Do you remember those?” I asked.

“I remember them very fondly,” he said.

His answer lifted my spirits. Maybe he could recall some of what I’d forgotten and help me restore those faded memories. “What do you remember?” I asked.

“Just that they were so serene,” he said. “I would sit on the riverbank and read or watch you cast. It was so peaceful.”

His response was touching, but not what I expected. Neither serenity nor peace occupy any memory I have from that period in my life; I would’ve guessed the same would be true of my father’s own memories—or those belonging to anyone else in my family. His response wasn’t exactly what I craved, either. It was unrealistic, maybe even selfish, of me to have wanted him to remember what I could not from something that happened 25 years ago, but I had hoped he could provide more—more time-hidden details about the conversations we shared, about the aesthetics of the river, about who I was, what I was like, at the time.

My father never fished during those trips, so I asked if he remembered why he wanted to come along in the first place. “Was it because I was young, and you just wanted to make sure I’d get there and back home safely?”

“That’s probably true,” he said. “But I mostly just wanted to spend time with you.”

“We went a bunch of times, right?”

“Only a few.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “There was the one trip we took with Brian and a different trip to Bennett Springs with both Brian and Mike where we camped a couple of—”

“I’m talking about when it was just the two of us,” he said.

I checked my watch; I had to get to my appointment. Before I said goodbye, I tried once again, pleading with my father to give me more. “Is there anything else you can tell me from those trips?”

“No,” he said. “Just that I have very fond memories of them, and that they were serene and peaceful.”

Lately I’ve wondered if I ever would’ve become a fly fisherman were it not for my parents’ divorce. I was 16 the summer my father moved out. Brian and Patrick were old enough to live on their own, which left just Mike and me at home with our mother. That period was difficult for all of us, and we each coped in our own way. Speaking only for myself, I can’t say that I handled the separation well.

I didn’t resort to drugs, drinking, or delinquency. Instead, I became convinced that my purpose in life was to go unseen, to do whatever was necessary avoid creating any additional problems or drama for my family. This meant doing well enough in school to keep teachers at bay. Helping at home enough to give my parents less to worry about. Telling people I was fine when I wasn’t.

I started wearing a tight-fitting rubber band on my right wrist. Anytime I began to feel sad or upset, I’d pull it back and snap it against the inside of my wrist several times in rapid succession—enough times so the sting would distract me from those real feelings and let me get back to what I thought was normal. I had a few friends, but I never saw them outside of school—paranoid that parties could lead to trouble, and trouble would lead to more problems at home. So, I stayed home every weekend, shutting myself in my bedroom, where the only escape and enjoyment I found came from a newfound obsession: movies.

I watched them incessantly, no matter the genre: indies and foreign films; slashers and westerns; cult flicks and classics. I constantly sought out recommendations—one of which came from Brian and would go on to change my life.

The first time I watched A River Runs Through It, I had no idea that the movie had already kick-started a craze among wannabe fly anglers. In fact, given that my fishing experience up to then was limited to catching panfish with nightcrawlers at the apartment-complex pond where my grandparents lived, I didn’t even know what fly fishing was. Which, to me, makes the reaction I had to the film even more extraordinary.

Pretty much from the opening scene of an old, lone angler tying a dry fly onto his leader, I was in awe. I had been transfixed and transported by films—books and songs, too, for that matter—but never like this. The idea that you could escape everything by stepping into a river in the cool of the evening and cast suspended loops of fishing line over the water before letting that line gently fall, and then wait, hope, for a trout to rise to your fly, and then bring that trout to your hand before releasing it back into the water, alive, was beyond my comprehension. I did not know that such solitude and grace were attainable. At some point during my viewing of the film, I became aware that all the sadness and pain and problems in my life had momentarily vanished. I wondered: If I could fly fish, would they vanish more often, and for longer?

I decided then and there that I would take up fly fishing. Not knowing where to begin, though, I did the only thing I could think of: I started the movie all over again.

St. Louis, Missouri, is hardly a bastion of fly fishing, but I happened to live close to two fly shops—T. Hargrove and Feather Craft—both of which operated right down the street from one another. I must’ve passed each one a thousand times in my life, but it wasn’t until a couple days after watching the movie that I nervously walked through the door of one of them.

The young guy working behind the counter at T. Hargrove probably sensed I was out of my element the second he saw me. “Need help with something?” he asked.

“Do you guys give fly-fishing lessons?” I replied.

He looked bewildered. “‘Fly-fishing lessons?’”

“Yeah,” I said. “I want to learn.”

Once he’d had a chance to process just how green I was, he walked me over to the shop’s book section and handed me a copy of Fly Fishing for Trout in Missouri, a beginner’s manual. “Start by reading this,” he said.

I grabbed the book and flipped through the pages that, I believed, contained all the answers I needed to become a fly fisherman. Then I remembered I was broke. I returned the book to the shelf and said I would have to come back. I suspected the guy thought he’d never see me again—that his homework assignment scared me off. I was looking forward to proving him wrong.

As I worked toward saving money for the book, there was one thing I still needed to take care of if I were truly serious about getting into fly fishing: Telling my father that I was serious about getting into fly fishing.

I needed to do this for several reasons, not the least of which was the hard truth that I couldn’t take up fly fishing without it eating into the time that I devoted to soccer—which, practically since the moment I could first run, consumed nearly every second of my free time. Soccer was also at the heart of an intense bond with my dad.

My father loved me unconditionally, I knew that. But there were times when I felt as if I needed to compete for his affection. My soccer games were often played far from home—30- to 45-minute drives were the norm—and it was usually just my dad and me driving to them. If I played well, he’d dote on me, his golden child, the whole way home. But if I had an off game, his icy demeanor could make me feel shunned and ashamed, like I should apologize over and over for embarrassing him on the sidelines in front of the other parents. Prior to my parents’ separation, I thought my primary reason for being was to make my father proud by being great at soccer. He expected me to be a junior-high star, then captain of the high school team. And the fantasy didn’t end there: I could earn college-scholarship offers if I worked hard enough. But that work was exhausting, physically and mentally.

After my first high school season, I was already feeling burned out. Dad’s decision to leave home that summer didn’t exactly motivate me to reclaim my enthusiasm. When tryouts began in August, I was out of shape, a step slow. The head coach did not mince words when he cut me from the varsity team and relegated me to the sophomore squad. In the final game of that season, we won the class championship. My teammates were ecstatic. I was ambivalent. They went out to celebrate. I went home and watched movies.

Looking back, a part of me can’t help but wonder if, subconsciously, my decline as a soccer player was self-inflicted—my way of retaliating against my father, my way of saying: If I quit, will I still matter to you? Will you still be there for me when I need you?

To his credit, Dad didn’t push back when I told him, at the end of that championship season, that my soccer-playing days were over. He probably saw it coming. Also to his credit, he didn’t question me a few months later when I said I was interested in learning how to fly fish. He even offered to give me the money to purchase the book at the fly shop.

I thanked him but declined the offer. I wanted to start this discovery on my own terms.

When I returned to the fly shop a few weeks later, I walked to the book rack, grabbed a copy of Fly Fishing for Trout in Missouri, and paid for it with my own money.

I read the book cover to cover that very night—then started it all over again the next evening. Within a week, I knew the difference between a wet and dry fly; what a leader and tippet were and how they should be connected; where some of the most accessible trout streams within driving distance of home were; and what kind of rod, reel, and line I should get.

Paying for that gear was another thing; I would need help. While my parents didn’t agree on much of anything back then, I at least managed to get them to come together on one thing: Buying me my first fly-fishing rig for my 17th birthday. So, after school one Friday in March, I visited the shop and walked out with a St. Croix Imperial 5/6-weight rod, a Ross Colorado reel, and a spool of Scientific Anglers WF5F line. That evening, I rewatched A River Runs Through It while rigging, unrigging, and re-rigging my very own fly rod and reel. A rare moment of bliss.

Once I was equipped, fishing was all I could think about. I read other books. I mail-ordered Cabela’s, Bass Pro, and Orvis catalogs. I borrowed VHS cassettes of trout-fishing tutorials from the library. I practiced fly casting at the park after school and worked on tying knots at night while I watched movies. I was the happiest I’d been in years.

The final step was signing up for a casting clinic at the fly shop. Since I’d never cast in front of anyone else, this was a big deal. I was one of maybe four or five beginners who’d come. When the instructor eventually made his way to me, he observed me make a series of forward and back casts, then told me to stop.

“You haven’t been practicing at all, have you?” he said. My heart sank. I was crushed. Before I could figure out a response, though, he cracked a smile. “I’m messing with you,” he said. “You already cast better than guys who’ve been doing this for years.”

I remember how excited I was to share his words with my dad.

Finally, I was ready to go fishing. I picked out a weekend that spring and asked my folks for the OK. My mom sweetly gave me her blessing. Dad did, too—but he told me that he wanted to come along.

This was not the answer I desired. I wanted fly fishing to be my thing, which meant going alone. I pushed back—promising I’d be careful, assuring him I knew what I was doing and where I was going, and swearing I’d get home safe. But there was no changing his mind. If I wanted to fish, I’d have to go with my father.

The night before my first fishing trip, I was too excited to sleep so I stayed up late sorting through and reorganizing my fly vest. I had asked Dad to arrive early—5 a.m.—so I could be on the water, ready to go at 7 a.m. sharp, when a siren would blast throughout the trout park, alerting anglers they could begin fishing.

Dad pulled up to the house right on time. I stashed my tackle in the trunk and got in the car. Waiting for me on the seat was a sleeve of mini powdered-sugar donuts and a bottle of orange juice.

“Ready?” he asked.

It was a 90-minute drive to Maramec Spring Park. After crossing the footbridge and winding our way along the narrow dirt path, including past the eroded gap where we had to cling to the sapling, a long stretch of river came into view. I remember thinking it was just perfect.

Brush, wildflowers, and hardwoods lined the banks. In most stretches, the stream measured about 50 feet wide—big enough for several anglers to fish with ample casting room. Small stones blanketed the riverbottom, which made for easy wading. The surface of the water had a bit of everything: eddies, riffles, foam-speckled seams, and deep pools near the confluence with the Maramec River downstream. Mostly, though, the clear current flowed at a smooth, calming pace that was ideal for drifting nymphs and dry flies or swinging streamers.

The only thing that could have made the river more perfect was if I’d caught a trout. I got skunked on that first fishing trip with Dad. And the second. And the third.

As much information on fly fishing as I’d absorbed from the books I read and the instructional videos I watched, none of it truly prepared me for those first sessions on the river. Looking back, I suspect my on-the-water struggles stemmed from the fact that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Being able to cast my fly rod at a park lawn was one thing; transferring those casts to a moving body of water where I had to contend with complex currents and hook-snagging obstacles was another thing entirely.

I didn’t expect fly fishing to be easy, but I didn’t anticipate struggling as much as I did, either. What made things worse was that I always seemed to be fishing alongside another angler or two who were catching fish. Watching them was painful. I’d get jealous and competitive as I counted their catches. A voice inside would start to taunt me. You’ll never be as good as them , it’d say. You should quit this, too.

There were times when it got so bad that I fought tears on the water. I still prayed back then, and I struggled to accept and understand why the Powers That Be were making fly fishing, of all things, so damn difficult—at a time when everything in my life was already so damn difficult. The sadness felt inescapable. At home, I was reluctant to walk past my mom’s bedroom door, fearful that I’d hear her crying alone again. At school, I had to listen to classmates rave about parties that I wasn’t invited to. At my dad’s new place, I watched him settle into his surroundings with such delight that I began to wonder if I were part of the reason he wanted to leave home in the first place. At night, I was haunted by the memory of Mike, my kid brother, struggling to comprehend what our father meant in the moment when he broke the news that he was moving out—catching his breath between sobs to ask, “Will you ever come back?” And now, at the trout park, I seemed to be the only person on the entire river who couldn’t land a fish.

Long before my first fishing trip—when I was naive and confident enough to assume I would catch trout on those initial outings—I committed myself to being a catch-and-release fisherman. It was almost as if I’d attempted to make a pact with the river: If you grant me the joy of what it must feel like to land one of your trout, I promise I’ll never let one die. Maybe I put too much faith in that pact. Maybe I kidded myself into believing that such a pact could be made. But as I struck out on the river, time and again, I remember a part of me feeling as if the river had betrayed me, too.

As the trout-less days piled up, I was not the most enjoyable person to be around. I sulked and spoke very little during the drives home from the river. When I still played sports, there were occasions when my father could sense his presence was a distraction—that he was putting too much pressure on me just by being there—and mercifully he would leave. I suspect that’s what happened after the third fishing trip we took together. Dad had to have known how much fly fishing meant to me, and even though I imagine he would’ve preferred to keep coming along, to spend time with me during a period when he and I were seeing less and less of one another, he did what he must have thought was best as far as helping me succeed on the river. He said I could start fishing alone.

I dream about my father some nights. Not all the time, but I’m guessing more often than I can actually remember. The most recent example of one that I do recall took place a couple months after his stroke. In it, I found myself walking the halls of the ICU where my dad was recovering. The dream setting matched reality to a T—right down to the sliding glass door that opened into his room.

When I entered, Dad sat up and turned to look in my direction. I froze when I saw him. The scar on his head had healed, and his hair had not only grown back but was brown instead of gray. His face bore no wrinkles; he looked 30 years younger. His eyes were wide open—and brown, just like mine.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

Before I could answer, I woke up. For days afterward, I couldn’t get past this disturbing feeling that I’d seen what my father would have looked like had he suffered his stroke at my age. Or what I would look like were I to have a stroke today.

There’s another dream, from a few years ago, that I think of regularly. In this one, I’m alone in my childhood bedroom, holding a dying rainbow trout. As I begin to tremble and panic, I turn around and see my father standing just outside my door.

“I need help,” I tell him. “I can’t let it die.”

Dad tells me to follow him. We rush to the bathroom across the hall. He starts running cold water from the faucet and guides my hands into the basin. As water pours over the trout, color slowly spreads across its body—a greenish back, pink flanks. The fish regains its strength and starts to writhe in my hand. Just as if I were releasing a trout back into a stream, I sense when it’s the right moment to let go. When I finally do, the fish pulses away, alive.

What I don’t remember from that dream—and what I wish I could—is if I said anything to my dad when he was there for me when I needed him.

My solo fishing trips did not go any better than the ones I took with my father. I never even hooked a trout let alone landed one. I dreaded coming home and having to tell my parents, again and again, “No, I didn’t get anything.”

One evening when I made one of those confessions, I was at Dad’s place for dinner. After spilling my guts about another skunking, he put an offer on the table: His friend George was a serious fly angler. My dad had told George that I’d recently started fishing but was struggling, so he asked George if he’d be willing to take me to the river one day. George said he’d be happy to.

“What do you think?” Dad asked.

“That would be amazing.”

George had money. This was evident not only by the fact that he picked me up one Saturday morning in a Lexus, but that our fishing destination would not be anything like the public trout parks I was used to. Instead, he took me to a private stream called Windrush Farms—a name I recognized from my copy of Fly Fishing for Trout in Missouri , in which the coauthors raved about it being one of the best trout streams in the state. Windrush’s two miles of stream were stocked with trophy trout and limited to just a dozen or so anglers per day. The catch? A day pass cost $30—a small fortune to 17-year-old me. Fortunately, George paid my way.

George took me to one of his favorite pools and advised me on what kind of fly to tie on—probably a Pheasant Tail or a Prince. He told me where to cast. And when the strike indicator stuttered, he told me to set the hook.

Just like that, I had caught my first trout on a fly rod.

After he netted the fish, George got out his camera and took a picture. A couple of weeks later, after he’d had the film developed, he gave the photo to my dad, who gave it to me. In the image, I have on my loaded vest . The hat I’m wearing is tan with a blue bill and with a rainbow trout embroidered on the front; it was a gift from Brian. The expensive-looking polarized sunglasses I have on were George’s spare pair because I’d forgotten mine. My smile is enormous, and in my hands is a healthy rainbow trout—with a dark-green back and hot-pink flanks. It probably would’ve measured 16 inches, but it’s tough to say because I’m blocking most of it with my hands. I didn’t yet know the right way to hold a trout for a photograph.

That was the only fish I caught at Windrush Farms with George, but it was enough. It kept me going. It gave me hope.

I wish I could remember what it was like to come home with good news later that day, and to tell my parents that I had finally caught a trout. When I saw my dad, I’d like to think that I at least had the good manners to thank him for setting up what was essentially my first guided fishing trip. But even if I did, it has still taken 25 years for me to truly appreciate and understand what my father did for me that day: He helped me catch my first trout on a fly rod.

And, by doing so, he helped me keep going. He helped me find hope.

At 1:21 a.m., on October 16, 2022, my son, Leonard, was born. He weighed 8 pounds 12.7 ounces, measured 21.5 inches, and, to my surprise, had blue eyes. I don’t know why, but I had a gut feeling that he would arrive with brown eyes, like mine. I’m so glad he proved me wrong.

My son’s eyes are like the sea at its most wondrous—emerald-bright from afar, crystal clear up close. When they widen, his entire face beams, and it can seem like he’s smiling without ever moving his lips. Almost daily, I find myself wandering in those eyes of his.

One afternoon this spring, I got a call from Dad. After the usual catching up, he turned the conversation to one of his favorite topics: his grandson. For some reason, on that day, I felt the need to talk about Leo’s eyes.

“They’re so amazing,” I said. “I swear, they keep getting bluer and bluer. I guess he gets that from you.”

Then, for the second time in just a few months, my father stunned me.

“My eyes used to be hazel,” he said. “They turned blue after the stroke.”

I was speechless.

“I asked the doctor about it,” Dad continued. “He said he’s never heard of such a thing happening.” He paused, waiting for me to respond before he concluded, “Isn’t that strange?”

“Yeah,” I finally said.

In the moment, I was too bewildered to say much else; I’d never heard of such a phenomenon either. But in the days that followed—as the revelation sank in—my reaction shifted to relief. This meant that I’d known the true color of my father’s eyes all along. That I hadn’t forgotten.

It gave me hope that, maybe, there was even more I could remember—or more that I already did remember. I just had to search deeper.

I remember one more trip Dad and I took to Maramec Spring that summer, likely some Saturday in early August—after he’d already let me go fishing alone several times. I had the stream to myself at first, but two other anglers arrived later in the morning and started fishing near me. Almost immediately, they began hooking trout after trout. Every time I’d hear the sizzle of their fly lines ripping off the water, I would glance at them with awe and anger—impressed by their talent, jealous of their success. Meanwhile, I had yet to trigger a single bite.

Later in the afternoon, as the two anglers prepared to leave the river, one of them veered away from his friend and began to wade downstream toward me. His line, leader, and dry fly were still floating on the water surface and, as he got closer, it dawned on me that he was steering his fly to me. When it was within reach, he said, “Take it. Cast tight to the bank. Every few drifts, you’ll get a strike.”

I thanked him profusely as I cut the fly from his fly line. Before tying it on to my leader, I inspected the pattern. It was a foam replica of the insect whose song still reminds me of summer dinners on the porch with my mother—a cicada. I walked to the spot where the man who gave me the fly had been fishing and followed his instructions by casting close to the bank. Just as he’d told me, the strikes were almost automatic.

I remember how thrilling it was to watch trout rise to a dry fly that I had cast. I remember how tense I was while fighting those trout, and the satisfaction I felt after scooping them into my net. I remember gazing at the fish and admiring at their colors and spots. I remember how relieved I was as they swam away from my hand, alive. I remember being proud of myself. I remember feeling grateful—for the generous angler, the willing trout, and the river.

After landing four or five trout, I had the good sense to quit while I was ahead. I reeled in my line and found a secure place in my fly box for the cicada, before I turned around and began wading back across the river, over to my father.

What I can’t remember from that day—and what I wish I could—is what my father and I said to one another when I reached him on the riverbank. Maybe he told me he was proud, too. Maybe I told him I was also grateful for his presence.

I remember one more moment from that day.

When I think of all the drives my dad and I have taken—to soccer games and trout rivers; moves to Indiana for college and Montana for a summer gig and to New York for my career—I realize just how much time the two of us have spent together on the road. In all those travels, there is not one exchange I recall more vividly than one that we shared during the drive back from that successful outing at Maramec Spring.

Just before we were about to turn off Highway 44 toward home, my father broke a silence that, knowing us, had probably existed comfortably for some time.

“I keep picturing you with those fish,” he said. “I don’t know how anyone could see you casting there—with the river and the trees and the bugs on the water—and not believe in God.”

He wasn’t posing a question. He wasn’t asking me to agree with him. He was just speaking from his heart.

That was the last time I ever went fishing with my father.

I fish on my birthday every March. I turned 42 this year, which means fly fishing has been a constant in my life for 25 years now. All because I watched a movie as a teenager. The unlikeliness of it still astounds me.

I failed to catch a trout this year, bringing my birthday-skunking streak to three years. I wonder how I would’ve handled results like that in my past.

As a teenager, when I had just gotten into fishing, those skunkings would’ve filled me with self-doubt. They would have made me feel like I was never going to be good at this and that I should quit. In my 20s and 30s, after I’d become more skilled—and confident, cocky—as an angler, a trout-less birthday would’ve infuriated me. Back then, I was so competitive that I couldn’t comprehend the idea of finding value in a day on the river if I didn’t catch fish. It got so bad that I once broke two fly rods in two consecutive days for the same reason: I slammed the rod on the water in frustration after I lost a fish.

I’m at a point in my life now, though, when I really couldn’t care less about not catching fish. The older I get, the closer I come to understanding why fly fishing has remained that constant in my life for a quarter of a century—why I keep going, trout or no trout.

I go for solitude. I go because I love to stand in rivers and feel them move around me. I go to think. I go to escape. I go to heal. And more and more, this year especially, I go to remember.

There is one way in which the angler I am today resembles the one I used to be: I still prefer to go alone. Occasionally, I’ll fish with friends—and while I enjoy those trips, the experience just isn’t the same as when I’m by myself. Maybe because I don’t feel like I can be myself.

For five or six years now, virtually every trout-fishing trip I have taken has been a solo outing to the same half-mile stretch of river. How I came to adopt these as my home waters is a good question. It’s not that the fish there are very big—or even all that abundant. And I’d be lying if I said it was the prettiest water I’ve fished in New York. The place isn’t exactly obscure, either: I encounter other anglers there all the time. And yet, even though I have no proof to back this up, I refuse to believe there is another person on this planet who knows and understands this section of trout stream better than I do. It’s as if that pact I had imagined making with the river back when I was 17 has finally been realized. The reason it took so long wasn’t because such a pact was impossible. It’s just that I hadn’t found the right river yet.

I’ve fished my river a lot this fall, including a late-October day that was about as perfect as any day of fishing as I can remember. Having the river all to myself helped. So did landing two gorgeous brown trout—a smaller fish with massive black spots, and a trophy (on this river, at least), whose autumn shade matched the golden birch leaves floating on the stream.

I always fish upriver and conclude my days where the stream, a tailwater, dead-ends at a dam. When I came to this final section of the river on that October day, rather than continue fishing, I took a seat on a boulder along the bank and watched the water.

The closer you get to the dam, the more technical the stream gets. There, the water is unstable—a flowing mood swing of pockets, riffles, and seams. Before all of that, though, is a long, wide pool where the current flows at a calming pace. This is the water I found myself watching most closely from my seat on the rock. And as I gazed at it, I was reminded of Maramec Spring. An idea came to me.

I went through my fly boxes in my vest. I didn’t have anything that resembled a cicada pattern, so I chose the largest dry fly I had with me—a size 12 drake Isonychia. I tied it on, waded into the river, and began to cast.

I had no particular target at first. Then I spied a small, still pool beneath a deadfall. I made one perfect cast, tight to the bank. A trout rose the instant the fly landed. I lifted my rod for the strike, but my timing was a fraction of a second off: delayed enough to feel the hook touch the trout’s jaw; rushed enough that I yanked the fly away before it could take hold.

I felt zero disappointment by the missed strike—only delight in the trout’s rise. And so, still having the good sense to quit while I was ahead, I reeled in my line and returned to my seat on the riverbank.

I watched the river with conflicting emotions. As content as I was to be alone, I found myself wishing I could have shared the day with someone. I thought of my father.

It’s been almost a year since his stroke. He’s doing better these days. He lives in a nursing home. The use of the left side of his body hasn’t returned, but the vision in his right eye has improved. He adores being able to see pictures and videos of his grandson again. If I were forced to come up with a silver lining to what happened to him, it’s that he and I talk more often now than we did before.

I took my phone out and called him.

“Well, hello there, sir,” he said.

“Hey, Dad.”

“What’s going on?”

I told him I was fishing—about the trout I had just nearly caught, and the two from earlier that I did land. He asked if they were good fish, and as I described each trout to him, I started to become more aware of just how beautiful the day was: an emerald sky, somehow equally bright and clear; a warm sun beaming through the trees and onto the river, where it reflected like starlight; a great blue heron scouting for prey from the opposite bank; a gust that scattered more autumn leaves onto the surface to drift downstream; the sound of whitecapped water lapping over old stones.

“I wish you could be here to see this, Dad.”

“It sounds really nice,” he said.

Thinking back to the scene now, a month later, it strikes me that I could’ve been looking out onto another river, from 25 years ago, through my father’s eyes. It was so serene. It was so peaceful.

Colin Kearns is the Editor-in-Chief of Field & Stream. His media career began in 2004, when he landed the summer gig of a lifetime, as an editorial intern for Field & Stream. After college, he worked at Salt Water Sportsman magazine for three years, before joining F&S as a full-time staffer in 2008.

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The One That Got Away

A dad tries to rekindle a family’s father-son fishing tradition — but his son fails to take the bait.

As a dad, I don’t take many stupid risks anymore. For example, I won’t drive through blizzards unless I’m doing it in the name of fatherhood itself. That’s happened twice: Once to drive my wife to the hospital when she went into labor with our first son, Marcel, in February of 2015, and then two Februaries later to go ice-fishing.

I left my wife and young son at home, in upstate New York, and drove with three friends toward the Canadian border in white-out conditions, sliding through intersections and backsliding down hills all the way to North Hero, Vermont, to go fishing, like it was some kind of emergency. We dragged a sled heaped with gear over the ice through the whipping snow for half a mile, to the refuge of a plywood fishing shanty. We set our lines and tip-ups over the holes in the ice, then retreated to the shanty to watch from the warm glow of the woodstove. For most of the day, we took turns checking the holes outside, reaching our hands into the gelid ice water to re-bait the hooks as needed.

Baiting a hook with frozen fingers felt clumsy, like learning to eat with chopsticks. Except I don’t love fishing like I love eating noodles. I just wanted to learn so I could teach my son. I imagined, years into the future, being able to sit on a frozen lake with my Marcel, imparting wisdom through fishing metaphors.

Most of the other traditional father and son bonding activities were unavailable to me. I don’t play sports, I don’t fix cars, I don’t hunt, and I didn’t spend much time with my father growing up. For a model, I could only look to the old photos of my great-grandfather Leopold Arbour, holding massive northern pike by the tail or dozens of lake trout on strings.

I’d always longed to be as rugged as [my great-grandfather]. As a new father, that wish had suddenly intensified.

I’d grown up hearing tales of great-grandpa— the exemplary rugged outdoorsman in my family tree — and his fishing adventures on Lake Champlain, hunting the mythical lake beast “Champ” and the fanged northern pike known locally as the waterwolf. He was an actual lumberjack from Quebec who’d worked his way down through the Adirondacks as a teenager.

He never took me fishing, but I used to visit him in the summers at the Adirondack cabin that he’d built, swimming in the cold pond out front that he’d dug by hand. I’d always longed to be as rugged as him. As a new father, that wish had suddenly intensified.

Back in the shanty, my best impression of Leopold Arbour wasn’t good enough. Five hours passed with no movement on the tip-ups. I pulled Grandpa Arbour’s flask out of my coat — a glass one wrapped with leather and emblazoned with a Canadian maple leaf — hoping to ingest some of his hard spirit in the form of Wild Turkey. We each took ceremonious swigs followed by less ceremonious swigs until it was gone.

As the daylight faded, the guide came in to see if we’d caught anything — we’d hooked one minuscule fish (most likely re-caught bait). Eager to demonstrate Vermont’s lax weed culture, the guide packed a bowl and told us between puffs, “I think you just got here too late, man.”

The spring my son turned 5, the old idea hit the surface of my brain like a fanged northern pike charging from the depths: I should take my son fishing.

It was the final snag in a long string of fishing failures. Once, when I was a teenager, my father had taken me on a deep-sea fishing trip off the coast of Gloucester during one of his bi-monthly weekend visits. It was a good change of pace from our usual routine — bowling, a movie, and a night at the Red Roof Inn — but we didn’t know what we were doing. We watched the other father-son duos pull in coolers-full of fish while we only caught two inedible dogfish and froze. Everyone else was wearing heavy seafaring coats, and I spent most of the trip in the cabin, trying to wrap every available inch of thin cloth from my Beer City Skateboards hoodie around my trembling hands.

I’d tried to approach fishing with renewed vigor in my 20s, heading out once with a guide and once with a friend from work, only to get tossed by currents. After the ice shanty incident, I decided to hang up my pole for good.

And yet, the spring my son turned 5, the old idea hit the surface of my brain like a fanged northern pike charging from the depths: I should take my son fishing.

Fishing, especially under tough conditions, still just seemed to contain so many of the lessons a father should teach his son — self-sufficiency, patience, and grit.

I bought a new fishing pole, and Marcel and I marched down the banks of the Hudson River. We trudged over the driftwood and the water chestnuts, and I imagined that we were emulating the way Grandpa Arbour and his son used to seek out fishing spots in the Adirondacks, near Lake Tear of the Clouds, where the Hudson originates. I liked to think that despite the chasm between our skill levels, we were drawn to the water by the same forces. But I doubt it. I think Grandpa Arbour was mostly in it for sustenance. He famously kept his bathtub full of live fish during the Great Depression so that his family didn’t starve.

Marcel spent most of our time sitting on a rock behind me and asking if we could leave. On the rare occasions when I caught a fish, he cringed and looked at me sideways as I reached into its mouth with pliers to release the hook.

Being on the water, part of the network of oceans and streams that connect the world, releases the tension in your chest and lets you breathe deeper.

Three years later, despite his lack of interest, I tried again. But before I could, Marcel used all the fishing line on our only pole to construct a makeshift drone like the one he’d seen on his favorite cartoon, Craig of the Creek .

He tied helium balloons — “Happy Birthday” balloons, several SpongeBobs, and a few pink hearts — to a transparent strawberry container. We pressed the record button on my wife’s old iPhone and taped it inside. Marcel flipped the bail on the reel, and the drone hovered low, too heavy to get off the ground. We removed the phone and tried again. This time the balloons blew forward violently and tangled. Marcel turned the handle a few times, and then a powerful gust carried the whole ensemble over the tree line. The reel buzzed, and Marcel twisted and pulled like a marlin fisherman. Finally, the wind ran away with all the line and left him staring at a bare rod with his mouth hanging open. The SpongeBobs grinned their manic grins until they shrank into a cluster of specks in the blue sky. I looked down to see if Marcel was crying. He stared up blankly for a moment and then burst into a fit of joy, jumping and cackling. He bolted through an active volleyball game toward my wife, screaming, “Mama! Mama! It worked!”

The rest of the week, we followed more of Marcel’s inspirations along the Hudson and Fishkill Creek. We built a catapult for the black spiky water chestnuts that cover most of the beaches; we constructed an elaborate driftwood hut; we discovered a massive bald eagle's nest; we found a way into a disused brick hat factory and explored its ruins. After each long day, Marcel and I biked home in the evening glow. I saw in his face that he was invigorated but relaxed. He’d been deeply breathing in the river’s calm might all day long.

The Hudson is tidal — water flows upriver for six hours, and then flows back out for another six. As Marcel and I worked on our driftwood hut by the river’s edge, the water line inched up the shore until it wet our shoes and socks. The primary forces of the universe were lapping at our feet. Being on the water, part of the network of oceans and streams that connect the world, releases the tension in your chest and lets you breathe deeper. The vastness of it inspires a vastness of imagination and a smallness of self that make conversation and creation easier.

You don’t need a fishing pole for that, but it helps to have something to do. As we built our driftwood hut beside the water, I taught Marcel how to build a simple lever to hoist large pieces of driftwood into place. He was amazed by its primitive utility.

Standing there, I realized maybe I like everything about fishing but the fishing itself.

We met other river people: dog walkers, bird watchers, photographers — an elderly fisherman named Phil, who, like us, never seemed to be fishing. We first met Phil on a beach overlooking an inlet. He told us that he grew up fishing for crab by hand with his father in the freshwater pools of western Puerto Rico and that he’d been fishing the Hudson for 40 years. He saw Marcel’s binoculars and asked if we’d seen any great blue herons. We had just seen one at the base of a waterfall by the creek, standing like a statue, staring at the water. We watched it for about 20 minutes, but it never moved. Phil said, “He’s fishing for herring. The herring come up from the ocean around this time, and the stripers are right behind them. When I keep seeing that blue heron fishing for herring, I know it’s almost striper time.”

We saw Phil each of the remaining vacation days, in jogging shoes and a Kangol hat, strolling along the shoreline of the Dennings Point Peninsula and along the river beaches, with his hands clasped behind his back. I wondered why he wasn’t fishing yet. All around the riverfront, striper fishermen were already sitting patiently next to their lines in the water, but Phil was always without a fishing pole.

One afternoon, we stood next to him on a dock by the Fishkill marsh, where there is an especially serene vista. The water, perfectly still, mirrors a patch of reeds that blow gently against a panoramic backdrop of the Hudson Highlands. Osprey and bald eagles hunt there, and in early May, you can see spawning stripers writhing in the shallow water. It occurred to me that Phil might not care about fishing as much as he once did. Maybe he didn’t need to fish anymore. Maybe he just liked to be there, observing the animals, releasing his energy and absorbing the energy of the water.

Standing there, I realized maybe I like everything about fishing but the fishing itself. I like to be by the water, I like to understand the patterns of nature, I like wearing overshirts with lots of pockets, but sitting with a line in the water feels like being tethered to the river bed. I reflected on my great-grandfather and the other things we did together. He was also an avid gardener. Once he saw me pluck two juicy tomatoes off the vine and bite into one, and then brought me inside so my great-grandmother could make a tomato and mayonnaise sandwich — white toast, mayonnaise, salt and pepper, and one big tomato slice. I sat with him at the table and ate one, then two, then I asked my great-grandmother for another. Grandpa Arbour looked at me, grinning. He suggested I skip fourth grade to spend the year gardening with him. He wouldn’t have wasted our time with fishing because he could tell I wasn’t into it. He saw me for who I was.

Back at the marsh, a train cut across the vista like it was gliding on the water. Phil spotted a great blue heron and pointed it out. We watched the svelte bird transform into a dinosaur as it opened its wings, spanning 6 feet across, then fly low over the reeds. I never realized how big they were until then. It had looked so meek a few days earlier — almost invisible — standing, staring at the water with its neck crooked, waiting for a fish.

I’ll never forget the father-son fishing trip that changed my life

by Brent Frazee | Jun 18, 2017 | Fishing , Outdoors | 0 comments

On Father’s Day, I often drift back to the summer when my dad took me on my first fishing adventure.

I was just a little guy, but my dad decided I was old enough to accompany him to Canada. So off we went to Lake Despair, a secluded body of water in Ontario.

For a city boy, it was quite an eye-opening experience. Our cabin at the water’s edge was no Ritz. When I asked my dad where the bathroom was, he led me to a little shack in the back where flies were buzzing about.

“How do we flush?” I asked my dad, looking at the two-holer facilities.

Dad laughed and said, “You don’t. This is an outhouse. You just do your business, hold your breath and get out of there.”

Then there was the fishing. I had caught bluegills, bass and crappies on our first trips back in Illinois. But I had never seen fish with razor-sharp teeth that seemingly had a mean streak.

I remember how we went out on the lake for a few hours after we got unpacked. My dad had hired a guide for the next three days, but we were on our own for the first evening.

My dad rowed us around in a small aluminum boat, and we fished the weedy shallows near our cabin. He tied a red and white Dardevle spoon to my line and instructed me to cast to the edge of reeds that jutted out of the water.

On one of my first casts, I watched as a wake emerged from the weeds and ended with an explosion at the end of my line. I pulled back and watched as a northern pike burst out of the calm surface and arched as it tried to escape.

It looked like it was big as I was, and my heart raced. I can still picture it to this day.

I eventually got the fish in, and my dad proudly proclaimed, “Maybe I didn’t need to hire a guide.”

The trip only got better. The next morning, a Native American guide whose family had for generations lived in the area drove up our cabin in a loud, beatup truck.

After we exchanged greetings, we piled into that truck and headed for another lake. I remember that the door wouldn’t shut, and it would spring open every time we would round a curve. I also remember how I would almost fly out, saved only by my dad grabbing me by the scruff of my shirt.

Once we piled our fishing equipment and our cooler into the boat, Arnie, our guide, started the motor and headed into a wilderness the likes of which I had never seen.

I wondered why he cut the motor at one point, until I saw him pointing at a bear along the bank.

Once we got to a beautiful bay, Arnie told us it was time to cast. We caught several smaller northerns right off, and I was happy. When I cast to an area where logs filled the bottom, I felt my lure come to a stop and I announced, “I think I hooked a log.”

I tried to hand the rod to Arnie, but he gruffly said, “Logs don’t swim,” referring to my line that was slowly cutting through the water to my right. “You have a big fish.”

I fought that fish for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a few minutes in reality. Once Arnie slipped the net under the fish, I was in awe. I had never seen a fish that big.

We also caught walleyes that day and Arnie filleted our catch  on a boat paddle, then peeled some potatoes and threw them into a frying pan sizzling with grease. He also opened a can of beans and put it in the fire. A few minutes later, we had a shore lunch that I can still remember.

We continued to fish for hours over the next few days and I never got tired of it. There was something new to see every day—waterfalls, beautiful islands, loons and even a moose wading through the shallows.

I could tell by the look on my dad’s face that he was thrilled that I was taking to the world that he so loved.

Don’t get me wrong. My dad was by no means an expert fisherman. But he loved being outdoors.

I think a lot of that had to do with his job. He was in charge of a large accounting firm in our hometown of Rockford, Ill., and he put in long hours, sometimes even returning to work after dinner.

He was a great guy, but he was serious, often stressing about his job without voicing it. But when he was outdoors, he was a different person.

He was relaxed and we had a chance to bond. We would talk about everything – from my little-league team to the days he grew up on a farm.

That trip began a long relationship in the fishing boat. My dad and mom went in with their friends and bought a cottage on a lake in Wisconsin and we were up there almost every weekend. We would slip out to fish every morning before the girls woke up and we learned where every productive hole on that lake was located.

Every time a storm was slowly approaching, we would rush to the boat and head to the bubbler – a spot where water bubbled up from an adjacent lake. We knew the walleyes would be hitting for an hour or so before the storm hit.

My dad and I continued to fish until he became older. When he was started to get frail, we reversed roles. I took him to Canada, this time to Lake of the Woods, for one last trip.

I remember how he got excited to catch walleyes and giant crappies when our guide pulled our boat over a hump.

It wasn’t long after that that dad’s health went downhill. He and mom spent the winters in Florida and we got together a few times to do some fishing on the Gulf of Mexico. But eventually, things got worse and it was obvious that he didn’t have much more time.

I still remember our last conversation. It was a little awkward at first. Dad was a proud man, and he didn’t want to admit that he was about to die.

But suddenly his face brightened as he changed the subject.

“Hey, do you remember Arnie?” he asked.

Yes, Dad, I’ll never forget.

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7 Reasons Why Fishing with Dad is the Best

One of my first attempts at casting my Snoopy-themed fishing rod resulted in the bait, the line and the rest of the rod floating in the water. Luckily dad was there to fish it out and get it back in my hands.

Having dad teach us about fishing was awesome. He baited our first hook, tied an encyclopedia’s worth of knots and taught us that fishing often transcends catching fish.

Sport fishing wouldn’t be what it is today without dads. That’s why today, in honor of Father’s Day, we pooled some of our best fishing memories to celebrate dads. The stewards of fishing!

It’s Fun.

Fishing is some of the most fun you can have with the least amount of cost! Did you know that kids and teens under the age of 16 fish for free? That’s right, up to 15 years of age, your child can fish without a license. So grab your kiddo and hit your favorite fishin’ hole… 

But before you do! Be sure to check out the FishAngler app . It is free to use, and lets dad check up-to-date weather forecasts, tide and wind information, and solunar forecast, which uses sun and moon phases for estimating the height of fish activity! Plus, the app is easy to use and intuitive for even the least tech savvy of dads out there. 

To learn more about the multiple uses of the FishAngler app check out our blog on the best app functions for anglers of every type of fishing across the country!

It’s Funny.

Fishing with kids can be very funny. From new and foreign sensations of slimy, wiggly bait to the flipping and flopping of bringing their first live fish to hand; the whole experience is unknown and exciting. Fortunately the laughs continue into adolescence and beyond!

I took a lot of trips with dad growing up, but I remember one as a teen to a local creek. There was a great fishing spot under the bridge that we went to with my uncle a lot. We woke up before the sun came up, and got donuts and hot cocoa on the way, as we’d done for years. After a couple of hours on the beach, I made a cast and remember quite distinctly hooking up to a big one. A big goose! It was a good wrestle to get that bird loose, but provided plenty of entertainment for all of the onlookers.

It Imparts Life Lessons.

Fishing with dad provides the opportunity to impart many life lessons. As James Romm accounts in “Life Lessons from ‘Fishing With Dad'” , they don’t always come packaged quite as we expect.

In trout-fishing contests at my home-town park, where boys my son’s age—he was seven or eight at the time—were pulling dozens of stocked fish from a lazy stream, we managed to get skunked. Jonah learned then that he did not have a hero dad, but a fumble-fingered classics scholar who didn’t know the difference between trout worms and nightcrawlers. His disappointment was palpable (and hurt like hell), yet, somehow, his fishing ardor endured.

It Provides Dinner.

Fishing is a great way to provide sustenance for the family on a camping trip, or a multi-day float trip down the river. Sometimes!

It was a 5-hour drive to Sunriver and too many games of “I Spy” had us ready to stretch our legs. As soon as we jumped out of the car, my dad grabbed our fishing rods and we swiftly got our first casts in. It wasn’t long before we caught our limit of channel catfish . We built a makeshift dam in the shallow water near our campsite, and proceeded to setup camp. It swiftly came to our attention,  however, that a rock had slipped and our fish had escaped! We ate beans for dinner that night.

It Teaches Patience.

The FishAngler community fosters all types of fishing, and there are some genres of angling that are more tedious than others. While many enjoy the peace and tranquility coordinating breath with front and back casts provides, others may find managing fly line to be quite cumbersome. With plenty of objects threatening to snag your line in and out of the water, patience is key when it comes to fishing line out of nearby willows or retrieving that lucky shrimp pattern from sticky reefs. 

When it comes to fishing, the opportunities to learn patience are as limitless as fish in the sea.

Grandpa remedied more than his fair share of “birds nest” baitcaster reels for us growing up. Still, his apparent skill and competence on all types of water intimidated me and my siblings! We did our best not to “mess up”, but we inevitably did, and Gramps was there to save the day. I remember one Thanksgiving we were fishing off of the dock, and after casting I plopped down to wait for a nibble. But to my surprise, I felt a sharp pain in my bottom and jumped up quickly realizing I’d sat on my brother’s treble hook. Grandpa patiently calmed me, and removed the hook with precision. I would indeed go on to fish another day.

It Teaches.

One thing dads have in common is the respect and love they share for water and fish that live in them. But with great power comes great responsibility! And the rules and regulations of fishing are no exception. Fortunately today, state fishing regulations are getting easier to manage than ever by introducing electronic licensing systems allowing anglers to buy their licenses and tag their catches all from their smartphones. 

It Makes Memories.

Probably our favorite, fishing with dad means making memories! FishAngler ambassador Ben Jones recounts fishing with dad in his native Australia:

My favourite memories were waking up before sunrise and heading out on our local inshore reefs to target Aussie Snapper! Dad would take about 15 minutes to fire up the old two-stroke Mercury , from which I can still smell the fumes. Patience was the biggest lesson I learned from dad. I might not have that quality in much of my life, but I have a lot of it when it comes to fishing!

More Tackle Boxes, Less Xboxes

At FishAngler, we believe fishing provides a great opportunity to get our families outside. If fishing is part of your Father’s Day tradition, post a photo of dad on the FishAngler app with #DadsDay in the description! A random winner will receive a Flexfit FishAngler hat. Today only! 

From all of us at FishAngler, we wish a Happy Father’s Day to dads everywhere!

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How to Plan A Great Father and Son Fishing Trip

Over the years I’ve been on plenty of father and son fishing trips, both with my dad and with my son, Tristan. There’s nothing quite like spending quiet time out there on the water with your child, and at Fishingfather.com, that’s exactly what we’re here to help you do. Here’s some tips for how to plan a great father and son fishing trip, and a few ideas of where to go.

How Old Should Your Son Be Before You Take Him Fishing?

I’m at the point now where I joke with Tristan that I’ve really done him a disservice. See, I didn’t get him into baseball or hockey before he could walk, so now all the other kids have overtaken him. I did, however get him fishing since he was a wee little baby and now he’s absolutely crushing it at 8. We recently got back from a trip to Lake Champlain and I was super impressed with how well he could cast a baitcaster. That doesn’t happen over night!

You can take your son (or daughter) on a fishing trip regardless of their age. You’re just going to need to temper your expectations to match their age and ability. A two year old probably won’t be able to cast, but may be able to spin the reel if you hold the rod for them. A kid who is fifteen is going to look at you funny if you try to do that. In the same respect, if you’re taking your son out when he’s little, you should be focusing on panfish, not Blue Marlin.

I’ve written several posts that can help you get the hang of things regardless of what age your son is. Consider reading up on a few of these before setting out for your father son fishing trip.

• An article about what a good age is to take a kid fishing
• Fishing with a two-year-old
• Fishing with a four-year-old
• How to make fishing with kids stress free

Why You Should Plan a Father Son Fishing Trip

There’s no time like the present. I’m so glad that my dad took me on many fishing trips together when he was able to. While I still drag him out from time to time, he’s having a tough go of it lately as he gets older and slows down. You never know when this day will come for you. You’re just one accident away from not being able to spend as much time with your littles so go out of your way to take them on a fishing trip today.

In this day in age, fishing with your children is even more important. After all, it gets them away from the screens and their stupid Roblox account. It gives them confidence and something worth posing for a picture with. I can’t get my son or daughter to pose for a shot unless they’re holding a fish! Hey, whatever works.

Planning Your Father Son Fishing Trip

A father son fishing trip can be as simple as a trip to the local pond, or an extravagant excursion to the wilds of Alaska. Regardless of where you’re trying to go, you’re going to want to have fun with your son. Here are some tips to help you plan your trip.

Determine Your Goals

The first step in planning a successful father son fishing trip is to determine your goals. Are you trying to help your son catch his first fish? Are you on a monster quest looking for a true lunker? Is this a bucket list journey you’ve been saving up for the past few years? Are you after quantity, or quality? Is there a particular species you are after? You should have goals in mind to help you narrow down where to go.

Consider Your Options

Depending on what goals you have in mind, you need to narrow your options. The best way to do this is by online research including asking folks for help on internet forums. While anglers can be wary of giving out their specific spots, most are willing to at least help out a dad who is taking their kid out with some general advice. For example, if I wanted to catch some Florida strain largemouth bass, here’s what I would do.

• First, I’d figure out what states have them (generally southern ones).
• Then, I’d pick the state I’m interested in visiting (let’s say Florida).
• Once I knew the state, I’d start poking around for good place to catch them (Okeechobee, the Harris Chain).
• When I had it narrowed to the different waters, I’d see what accommodations are near, or what other things I could do with my son on the trip. Depending on your kid, you might not want to be in the boonies. On the other hand, that might be perfect.

Research the Water

Once you have it narrowed down to what water you’re going to fish on your father son fishing trip, you’re going to need to figure out how you will fish it! Can you launch your boat there? It not, can you rent one? If not, can you go out with a guide? Is there a depth chart somewhere for this lake? Are there any internet forums with anglers who post fishing reports for this lake? All of these questions are useful.

I once wrote a post called “ Why You Can’t Catch Fish and What to Do About It ” where I talk at length about how to research new water. Give it a gander so you can learn this new place you’re taking your kid!

Pack Your Gear

There’s nothing that will ruin a father son fishing trip like leaving some important gear behind. After all, you’re not going to have a good start if you need to run out to the local Wal-Mart to replace everything you forgot! That eats into valuable fishing time!

To ensure your trip goes as smoothly as possible, I suggest having everything you can packed days in advance. This gives you time so you can remember something once your memory jars. It also lets you realize if you’re missing something so you can do something about it at home instead of on the road. Packing for your tip early makes the packing somewhat enjoyable too. Far better than rushing at the end!

Set Your Son’s Expectations

When I’m taking my son on a fishing trip to a new destination, I am very careful to set his expectations. I find it is helpful to pitch the trip as an adventure where we are going to explore new water. I don’t promise fish ever, but especially not if we’re headed to a place I’ve never visited! Instead, talk about the experience. Talk about what you’ve read during your research. Don’t forget to mention the other things like arcades or museums or aquariums or such that you can do if the fishing doesn’t pan out!

When we make our fishing trips about the fishing, it had better be good. When we make these about bonding and experiencing life together, catching fish is just a bonus.

Great Father and Son Fishing Trip Destinations

While I’m sure there’s a million great father and son fishing trip destinations out there, my top 3, by far, would be Lake Champlain in New York and Vermont, the Harris Chain of Lakes in Florida, and salmon fishing in Ketchikan, Alaska. Each of these has some very strong things going for it that makes it a great fishing destination to take your kids on a special adventure. Let’s explore why.

Lake Champlain

My home waters, Lake Champlain is not only a tremendous fishery but there is a ton of stuff to do with kids if it rains or they just get bored. The Echo Aquarium in Burlington, Ausable Chasm , Fort Ticonderoga , and Lake George Village are all nearby. I always like to have a plan B when I’m fishing with kids and if I was planning a father son fishing trip it would be no different.

As to the fishing itself, Lake Champlain has pretty much every northern freshwater species you could think of. It is routinely a top bass water cited by Bassmaster, has extremely good smallmouth action, and has a healthy array of northern pike, chain pickerel, channel catfish, lake trout, Atlantic salmon, and more. There’s also a huge amount of panfish such as white perch, yellow perch, bluegill, pumpkinseed, black and white crappie, so regardless of how old your kids are, there are fish for them to catch.

Our place is near the southern end of the Lake near Crown Point and Ticonderoga, but I’ve fished many times with Captain Mick Maynard of lakechamplainangler.com . He’s an incredible guide and does a great job helping kids catch giant fish. He fills up quick though so make sure you book early!

The Harris Chain of Lakes in Florida

I’ve fished in a number of locations in Florida, but my best advice to anyone planning a father son fishing trip in Florida is to stick to the Harris Chain of lakes. This is especially true if your kids are little. This chain is full of fish which is important, but you also take really cool canals to move from one lake to the other, which is an experience in and of itself.

However, the main reason I would recommend these lakes is their proximity to Orlando and Disney. This means you can take your kids out fishing and also to amusement parks for the typical Disney experience. While there are fishing guides on actual Disney waters, you’d likely do much better fishing this chain. Luckily, my dear friend Mick also fishes down in Florida during the winter! He has quite the life! Check him out at largemouthcentral.com to book your next charter!

Ketchikan, Alaska

If you’re seeking a more exotic location for your father son fishing trip, Ketchikan Alaska is a great place to go. My dad took me there a few times back in my 20’s and it was a blast. Specifically, we went to Sportsman’s Cove Lodge . Now, dad is a frequent traveler to Alaska, and he will tell you that there may be bigger fish elsewhere, but there is plenty of action at this lodge, and you’re doing it in refinement. The entire experience at Sportsman’s Cove makes you feel like a king and leaves you in total comfort. If you’re taking your family with you, this is the lodge they’ll want to go back to again and again.

I wrote a detailed review of my time at the lodge that you can find here . I definitely recommend reading it when you have a chance. If I was planning a father son fishing trip to Alaska, this would be the only option I’d consider.

Conclusions: Father Son Fishing Trips Are Worth Planning!

Some of my best memories in life are the fishing trips my dad took me out on, as well as the father son trips I’m experiencing right now with Tristan. Yes, they can sometimes be stressful and yes they can cost money, but the memories are priceless. I hope you get to experience a few of these trips yourself while your kids are still young enough to look up to you 🙂

Thanks all,

John Paxton

Want to learn how to take your kids out fishing? Do you have a friend who might need a hand? Click the pictures below to purchase my helpful books!

Related Posts

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Preparing for a Fishing Trip with Kids

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Life Lessons from “Fishing With Dad”

By James Romm

When my kids were young, my favorite book to read at bedtime was called “Fishing with Dad.” The book, I now realize, was as much for my benefit as theirs. I was learning to be a father, and the leading of fishing trips seemed an essential part of that craft.

It’s been almost a decade since the book was put into storage, but two parts of the story stand out clearly in my mind. In the opening sequence, the hero father awakens his son before dawn and buys him doughnuts on the way to the fishing hole. (This early-morning departure qualifies, in my family, as science fiction.) There’s a lot in the middle that I can’t recall, but the story’s ending is unforgettable. Dad, recognizing that hooking a panfish on a worm-and-bobber rig might be a challenge for his young son, stealthily secures a fish on his own line, then sends his son to the car to retrieve a snack. He reels in both lines, unhooks the fish and transfers it to his son’s rig. When the boy returns, the bobber is dancing with a catch that cannot get away.  Fish on _!_

For a dad-in-training who longed for a fishing bond with his offspring, the author’s message came through loud and clear:  get your kid a fish. _ _But that dictum would prove hard to follow. In trout-fishing contests at my home-town park, where boys my son’s age—he was seven or eight at the time—were pulling dozens of stocked fish from a lazy stream, we managed to get skunked. Jonah learned then that he did not have a hero dad, but a fumble-fingered classics scholar who didn’t know the difference between trout worms and nightcrawlers. His disappointment was palpable (and hurt like hell), yet, somehow, his fishing ardor endured.

Last month, while standing on a beach in central New Jersey in a cold, driving rain, I found myself living out a bizarrely supersized version of the “Fishing with Dad” story line. Here I was, trying to get my kid a fish, but the bait I was throwing—Atlantic menhaden, a.k.a. bunker—was itself bigger than any of the quarry in hero-dad’s fishing hole. My son had gone back to the car, not to fetch snacks but to escape foul weather while playing games on my smartphone. I had brought Jonah here, three hours from home, in the midst of a late-spring nor’easter, gambling with his comfort and patience in the hopes of hooking him up to a ten-pound bluefish, perhaps the most powerful creature that a twelve-year-old can subdue without an adult’s help.

Now, as the rain rattled on my parka hood and the full-moon tide began surging over the beach crest, that gamble appeared badly misguided. The weather did not trouble me as much as the solitude: I was alone on a beach normally lined with four-wheel-drive trucks. Surfcasters in these parts will brave any storm if fish are within reach, so their absence was a very bad sign. But then, without warning, a violent motion animated one of the two rods I had placed in our sand spikes. Line began paying out from its reel, and self-doubt was instantly banished.

Surf fishing with cut bait, or “chunking,” has a rhythm unlike any other method of fishing. Hours can pass in total quiescence, then a rod suddenly bursts into convulsive life. No technique or presentation distinguishes one bait from another; the choice of whether to hit, and where, lies entirely with the fish. Like a slot machine with its sudden jackpots, the random rewards of chunking can be addictive. On a previous outing, Jonah and I discovered we shared this addiction, and that bond encouraged me to go through with this trip despite a wretched weather forecast.

Before I could set the hook on the beast now taking my rig straight out to sea, the line went slack. Bluefish are not fussy eaters, but this one mysteriously had dropped my bunker head in preference for some other meal. Still, its very presence had transformed the desolate beach from a place of despair into one of promise. As if sensing this, my son was now climbing over the dune toward me, miraculously choosing the wet and cold of the beach to the electronic comforts of our minivan.

It was not long before our next pickup, and my son took the rod_: fish on!_ I stood beside him shouting admonitions like a boxing coach at ringside. Rod tip up! Pressure on! Walk with the fish! (It was now charging parallel to the beach, fleeing some dimly sensed fate). The rod was bending and twitching, but suddenly it straightened with a sickening lack of tension. A second fish, cruising between us and our quarry, had brushed against the line and severed it. My son uttered a cry of anguish. I re-rigged and rebaited, trying to make the most of waning daylight.

My son was adrenalized now, pacing back and forth between our two rods with agitation. I would gladly have waded into the frothing surf, could I have somehow put a fish on his line, but the prey we had chosen to pursue could easily take off one of my fingers.

Then came a second take, and my son grabbed the twitching rod once more; once more I was standing beside him, cheering and admonishing by turns. This urgency, this sense of shared crisis, was what we had come for. The fight went on for a long time, until the quivering line approached the water’s edge. “Now comes the hard part,” I said, not at all sure I could talk Jonah through the mechanics of beaching a fish in heavy surf. But before I could try, the line flew out of the water, the leader cut by the fish’s teeth just north of the hook.

We headed for our motel room, vowing an early start the next day. Jonah was downcast after two defeats, and I was troubled by questions. Am I right to drag my son into a realm ruled by passion, not wisdom, a realm where I cannot control events as the hero-dad did? Should I place him so much at risk of heartbreak? What right has a guy like me—more at home in a bookstore than on a beach, heedless of the wire leaders that would have brought that last fish home—to take a boy surf fishing?

By morning the storm had churned up the surf such that even chunking was impossible, as a local tackle shop informed me. There would be no second chance, and my primary feeling was one of relief, given the high stakes of the previous night. I had failed to get my kid a fish but somehow the truncated trip felt like a success. Jonah’s peaceful slumber confirmed this; with the adrenaline flushed from his system, he slept blissfully until nearly checkout time, then rose in good spirits, ready for the long drive home. On the way to the Garden State Parkway, I bought him doughnuts.

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By John Donohue

By Tad Friend

By Kyle Chayka

By Eric Lach

Catch the Thrill of Fishing

Reeling In Memories: A Heartfelt Poem About Father-Son Fishing Trip

Setting the scene.

The gentle sound of waves lapping against our driftwood boat brings a sense of peace as we prepare to cast our lines. The water is calm, the sun is shining, and we’re surrounded by the beauty of nature. I take a deep breath and look out over the water, feeling grateful for this time with my dad. This is not just any ordinary day of fishing – it’s a tradition that has been passed down through generations, and one that carries a special significance to me.The familiar and comforting sound of the waves against the boat echoes through my mind as I reflect on the memories of fishing with my father. We’re in his old boat, the one that had been passed down to him from his father, and it has become a source of comradery and tradition for us. That’s because this isn’t just any ordinary fishing trip, it’s an excuse to spend quality time with one another while engaging in a favorite pastime. My father is wise and patient and I know that one day I’ll look back and appreciate all the times we’ve spent together on the water.

As I gather my tackle and prepare my rod, a wave of memories floods my mind. I remember fishing for the first time with my dad and the sense of accomplishment I felt when I finally caught a fish on my own. I think about all the lessons he taught me, not just about fishing but about life, and how they have stayed with me all these years. The quiet moments we spent together on the water offered a chance to talk about anything and everything. As we cast our lines, it was an opportunity to bond over a common interest – one that we both love and cherish to this day. These memories remain with me, even as I continue to make new ones.The air is crisp and the water is still as we set sail for a day of fishing, just as we have done so many times before. I smile as I recall the moments shared with my dad – the lessons learned, the fish caught (and released), and the joy of spending quality time in each other’s company. The calm of the morning carried with it the promise of a good day of fishing, but also something more valuable – an opportunity to create precious memories that would last a lifetime.As the sun climbs higher into the sky and the day heats up, our attempts to catch a fish become a little more desperate. With each unsuccessful cast, my father and I glance at each other, sharing an unspoken understanding. It’s okay if we don’t catch anything – the true joy is in the act of fishing itself, in the bonding and the memories created. This is a time for us to slow down, to enjoy the moment, and to appreciate each other. No matter what we catch, it’s these moments that we’ll treasure most of all.

Bonding on the Boat

Even as our lines remain still, I find myself content, simply being in the presence of my dad. I take in the beauty of the surrounding landscape – the calmness of the water, the majesty of the mountains, and the vibrant colors of the sky. I know that these moments will remain with me for years to come. As my dad and I talk about everything from life to shared interests, the memories of our previous fishing trips come flooding back. I’m reminded of the joy that comes with spending quality time together, with no interruptions or distractions.

The quiet lull of the water allows us to escape the hustle and bustle of everyday life. While we cast our lines, we find ourselves exploring deeper topics that we might not have time for otherwise. It’s a moment to clear our minds, let go of worries, and focus on the moment. Fishing with dad isn’t just about the fish – it’s about creating a space where we can connect and bond on a deeper level. There’s something special about sharing this tradition of fishing with my dad, and I know that these moments we’re spending together are creating memories that will be cherished for years to come.

As we navigate the water, I take a moment to appreciate my father’s infinite patience and wisdom. Fishing with dad has taught me so much about life – lessons about being patient, dealing with disappointment, and persevering even when things get tough. These lessons have become ingrained in who I am, and I know that they’ll serve me well throughout my life.

I glance over at my dad, watching as he carefully removes a fish from his line. His face is etched with a sense of contentment and pride as he holds the fish up and examines it. Seeing the joy on his face brings a warmth to my heart, and I’m reminded of how lucky I am to have such a wonderful father and fishing partner. I’m grateful for this moment, for the chance to connect with nature, and for the memories that we’re creating together.As we continue to navigate the water, I find myself lost in thought, reflecting on the moments we’ve shared together throughout the years. Fishing with my dad is not just a pastime – it’s a way to feel connected to him, and to carry on a tradition that has been passed down through generations. I think about my grandfather, and how he must have felt when he fished with my father as a young man.

The soothing sound of the water and my father’s voice bring me back to the present, and I realize that this moment is just as special as any of the others we’ve shared together. It’s not about how many fish we catch or what size they are; it’s about the memories that we’re creating and the bond that we’re strengthening together. As we continue to cast our lines and navigate the water, I know that I’ll forever treasure the time I’ve spent fishing with my dad.Fishing with my dad is a moment in time that I’ll always cherish. It’s a chance to escape into the peace and quiet of nature, to bond with my father, and to create memories that will be cherished for years to come. Fishing with dad taught me the importance of slowing down, of taking a moment to appreciate the world around us, and of being patient and steadfast in the face of challenges. It’s a tradition that I hope to continue with my own family one day.

As we finally reach the end of our fishing trip and prepare to return to shore, I take one last look at the water, feeling grateful for this special time with my dad. No matter where the future takes us, I know that we’ll continue to have these moments together – moments of peace, of bonding, and of creating cherished memories that will last a lifetime. Fishing with dad is an experience that I’ll always treasure, and one that I hope to pass on to future generations.

Reflections on the Past

As we quietly wait for a bite on our lines, I can’t help but think of the memories of father-son fishing trips we’ve shared over the years. The sound of the water gently lapping at the sides of the boat creates a serene atmosphere that allows us to disconnect from the busyness of life. Here, on the water, we are free to bond and create an unbreakable connection. The day may be full of waiting, but it’s the time together that’s far more valuable.As we fish together, an unspoken bond is strengthened and I am reminded of the life lessons my dad taught me throughout the years. The time we spend together on the boat is precious, providing an opportunity for conversation and reflection. As each minute goes by, it is as if we are gaining so much more than simply fish. This father-son bonding experience is one that can’t be replicated and will forever be cherished in my heart.

These fishing trips with my dad always bring back memories of my childhood. As I grasp the fishing line, and feel the soft vibrations of the current, I am taken back to the first time my father took me fishing. The memories of that day flood back to me: the sound of dad’s laughter as I reeled in my first catch, the pride I felt in myself for being able to cast out, and the warmth of the sun on my face.

Every fishing trip I take reminds me of how much I learned from my dad that day and how much I still have left to learn. Every trip presents an opportunity to build on our relationship and create new memories – to continue to strengthen that bond between father and son.As we cast our lines into the still waters of the lake, I am reminded of the delicate balance of life and the importance of preserving traditions for future generations. Father-son fishing trips are a legacy passed on from one generation to the next, and it is our responsibility to continue these traditions, cherishing the moments spent together.

The beauty of the surroundings, the sounds of the water, and the silence of the moment are only a small part of the experience. It’s the chance to bond with my dad and spend quality time together that makes this trip so special. The lessons learned while fishing alongside him will be with me forever and will be passed down for generations to come.

Cherishing the Present

As we continue to fish together on the boat, more and more memories flood my mind. It’s amazing how these fishing trips can create a flood of emotions and memories all at once. From my first catch to the times I spent untangling my line, each memory, good or bad, has a special meaning to me. Reflecting on these past experiences and discussing them with my dad highlights the value of this father-son tradition.

Being on the water with my dad is a moment in time that I hold close to my heart, and as we patiently wait for a fish to bite, I am grateful for this time spent with him. There is something special about being on the water with someone you care about and sharing in the beauty of nature. As I watch him cast his line, I am reminded of how grateful I am to have this opportunity to bond with my father. It’s moments like these that I will always cherish and pass on to future generations.

The importance of cherishing the moments we share on these father-son fishing trips cannot be overstated. It’s not always about the quantity of the time that we spend together, but rather the quality of the time we share. Every minute on the boat with my dad is precious, a chance to bond and create memories that will last a lifetime.

These fishing trips teach us important life lessons that we can’t learn from any other experience. Patience, persistence, and hard work – all these values are instilled in us as we fish alongside our fathers. These lessons help us to grow as individuals, gain a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world, and build stronger relationships with our loved ones.

We may only have a few hours or a day to bond on the water, but the impact of that time lingers long after we’ve packed up our gear. And so, as we sit together waiting for the fish to bite, I am reminded of just how important it is to cherish every moment we have with our loved ones. I am grateful for this time spent with my dad and will continue to make an effort to create these memories with him in the future.Expanding on our reflections, we come to understand that time with our fathers is so much more than simply fishing; it is an opportunity to connect with family and create memories that will last a lifetime. As we sit in the boat, baiting our hooks and casting our lines, it’s a chance to discuss life and its complexities with someone who has experienced it all.

There is something special about being on the water that allows us to let our guard down, open up, and truly connect on a deeper level. The simple act of casting our lines and waiting for a bite allows us to clear our minds and get lost in the moment. These are the moments that we will look back on and cherish; they are the memories that will last a lifetime.

As the day on the water begins to wind down, I am reminded of the fleeting nature of time and the importance of making every moment count. It is times like these that I feel beyond grateful for the opportunity to have shared these memories with my father. These fishing trips are more than just a tradition; they are a chance to slow down, connect with family, and create memories that we will cherish for years to come.

Making the decision to continue this tradition with future generations is a way to keep those memories alive. Passing on the lessons learned and ensuring that these trips continue to happen is how we can preserve this legacy. It’s a legacy of connection, bonding, and creating memories with those we love most, and it’s up to us to continue this tradition.

As we pack up our gear, I take one final look over the water, and in that moment, I am grateful for everything. Every lesson learned, every conversation had, and every memory made has led us to this moment. It is a moment that we will never forget, and a reminder of just how strong the bond between father and son can be.

The sun begins to dip below the horizon as we climb back into the car, bringing an end to this father-son fishing trip. But as I reflect on the day, I realize that it’s the beginning of something more. It’s the beginning of a new chapter in our relationship, one built on shared experiences, memories, and lessons learned.

Fishing with my dad is something I will always cherish, and I know that these memories will stay with me for a lifetime. It’s not just about the fish we catch or the time spent on the water; it’s about the bond we share and the memories we create, and that is something truly beautiful.

As we drive home, I am left with a feeling of contentment and joy in my heart. I am grateful for this day spent on the water with my dad, and I am already looking forward to the next time we cast our lines together.Expanding on our reflections, we come to understand that time with our fathers is so much more than simply fishing; it is an opportunity to connect with family and create memories that will last a lifetime. As we sit in the boat, baiting our hooks and casting our lines, it’s a chance to discuss life and its complexities with someone who has experienced it all. There is something special about being on the water that allows us to let our guard down, open up, and truly connect on a deeper level. The simple act of casting our lines and waiting for a bite allows us to clear our minds and get lost in the moment.

These are the moments that we will look back on and cherish; they are the memories that will last a lifetime. As the water gently ripples around us, I am reminded of the importance of seizing the moment and making the most of our time with loved ones. As we pack up our gear and make our way back to dry land, I am filled with a sense of appreciation for this special opportunity to bond with my father once more. Fishing may be just an activity, but these fleeting moments spent on the water have the power to create lasting memories that we will treasure forever.

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First Fishing Trip with Dad

The old neighborhood is lined with houses. The woods we played in now hold an abundance of brick, mortar and siding. The little creek, which once had a consistent flow from the spillway of a pond hidden back in the woods near Augusta Road, is dry. Driving through the subdivision brings happy memories and melancholy recollections to see how it has changed. But then again everything has changed. Even the creek.

The creek itself was an imaginative place, where sticks became boats and were raced around rocks. Small dams were built to increase the water level where small boys could sit and cool off in the hot summer weather. Jacuzzi was not a word in our vocabulary but we understood the definition. Swimming trunks and bathing suits were reserved for pools. In the creek short pants were acceptable and would eventually dry if we stayed outside long enough.

Aggravating crayfish with skinny sticks and seeing how long they could stay clamped on these bits of wood brought an intense competitiveness between a group of youngsters. One needed to pull them slowly, only inching the crayfish across the sandy bottom to intersect with the make-believe finish line.

I didn’t have any concept as to how large Lake Hartwell was. I just knew that if there was a motor involved, it was bigger than our little half-acre piece of heaven hidden in the woods several hundred yards upstream.

The fishing anticipation in a young boy made bedtime a struggle. Burning thoughts of the fish, what kind, how big, being in a boat for the first time; it all danced fervently throughout my head and kept my eyes wide open. I had so many questions and Dad said to be patient. What did this mean?

I wondered how dad knew where to go find the fish, but it really didn’t matter. This sense of excitement and ardent thoughts of an upcoming fishing adventure still make it hard for this boy, 60 years later, to sleep the night before. And I hope it never changes.

The day before our quest I can remember dad coming home with a new bait bucket. He grabbed a pillowcase from the linen closet and took me down to the creek. He found a long oak stick that had fallen near the creek bottom. I was instructed to find a large rock for the bottom of the pillowcase. I can recall him telling me that as a boy growing up in north Georgia, he used a burlap potato sack as it drained better and wished we had one.

We walked up to where the creek made a hard right around a boulder and formed a deep pocket on the inside near tree roots that had been washed out. At age 6, a deep run was defined as about 18 inches. I could see small minnows in large numbers darting in and out of the tree roots.

In a little boy’s mind, this swirling school of delectable bait needed an extra layer of protection. So, that night I slept with the minnow bucket in my bedroom. Of course, mom wasn’t really fond of that idea, but dad overruled. After all, the minnows were needed for the most important task at hand; bringing bigger fish back!

That next morning, I was awake when dad peeped in the room and called my name. I had already gotten up and dressed to save time. There was a difference between getting up for school and a fishing trip.

Miles to a fishing destination seems longer getting there than coming home. We arrived at the marina, and they had the rental boat and motor fueled and waiting for us. I loaded the rods and carefully placed the minnow bucket against the boat seat for more support. The little aluminum 14’ V hull looked like a yacht in my eyes. My first fishing trip with dad and my first boat ride. It was almost too much excitement for a small boy to handle. Excitement could be defined also as hyper and I was told several times, in a fatherly voice, to slow down, hush, and sit on the front seat near the bow.

Of course, I kept opening the top of the minnow bucket to make sure they hadn’t jumped out. I also liked to stick my hand in the bucket and feel them tickle as they swam threw my hands. For some genetic reason, my daughter always enjoyed the same sort of tickle.

I could never remember our location or how many crappie we caught. I do remember that I learned how to hook a minnow, how the red and white bobber connected to the line and how intently I concentrated on it. I remember having lunch in the boat and just being alone with dad fishing. Pictures weren’t taken but the photographs will linger in my mind forever.

He didn’t know it then but that one day created a love for fishing that has lasted a lifetime. One never knows how impactful and positive a day fishing with a youngster can mean to them. Maybe that’s why I always like to “take a kid” fishing.

So wonderful to hear stories like that. I hope that my son Don and daughter Alexis will always remember when we would go bream fishing on lake hartwell. Fond memories for sure. Happy Father’s Day my friend!

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Ultimate Guide • Updated Mon, Jan 29, 2024

Our Top 10 Father-Son Fishing Trips

In this digital day and age, quality time — more often than not — becomes an afterthought. We all want more time together, but the technology that was supposed to free up our time ends up consuming it. That’s where we come in. At AnyCreek, we not only want to maximize your time on the water, but we want you to make memories. We’ve compiled our best fishing trips with top guides to get you that father-son time you deserve.

Courtesy of Tall Tides Charters.

This article covers:

You’ll drift down the Kenai or Kasilof River of Southcentral Alaska. When the trees break, mountains will reveal their snowy caps and the towering majesty of the Alaskan wilderness. Rich blue waters swell down to the sides of the forest where the snow melt divests itself entirely to the growing river’s flow. Here you’ll float, in the hands, care, and wisdom of a born-and-raised Alaskan. Bountiful streams of salmon spawning — sockeye and king — decorate the crown of these rivers as jewels with their bright red bodies. Rainbow, cutthroat, and Dolly Varden trout hide in deep alcoves, where your guide will know just where to find them. Your time will be spent joyfully mastering light tackle, drift, and  fly fishing under the learned hand of your veteran guide. For your next father-son adventure, explore Alaska together.

Unravel this world-renowned fishing tapestry with local guides like  Rondo Ebler and  Outgoing Angling . Like Alaska’s slogan says, “North to the future,” for memories shared in the simplicity of drifting down a river. 

Florida Keys

In the tropical beauty of the Florida Keys, you’ll be poled across clear blue waters to vibrant flats.  Redfish tailing,  tarpon rolling,  permit schooling, and the far-away, endless break of blue sky command a natural awe and anticipation of catches yet to come. Dense networks of mangroves and grassy flats give life to some of the most engaging  inshore fishing this country has to offer. Enjoy the play of light tackle and sight fishing under the guidance of  this region’s experts . Explore the deep-blue offering of the Florida Keys’ excellent offshore fishing — fed and kept in abundance by the Gulf Stream. Out at sea, you’ll be able to target an even greater variety of gamefish including cobia, mahi mahi,  wahoo , king mackerel, blackfin tuna,  yellowfin tuna , amberjack, and snapper. 

The Florida Keys provide the perfect canvas for exploring various fishing disciplines as father and son. From the thrill of  tarpon in  Key West to the challenge of  redfish in  Marathon , our guides make each trip an educational and entertaining experience. Learn more about fishing in pristine locations like  Islamorada ,  Tavernier ,  Biscayne Bay , and  Key Largo to get a better sense of what your guided trip will be like.

The Everglades , with its lush biodiversity, sets the stage for a one-of-a-kind father-son fishing journey. Rich with neighboring fishing communities like  Naples ,  Cape Coral , and  Fort Myers , you’ll never be far from an adventure here.  Our experienced guides will help you to explore the hidden gems of this ecosystem. From mangrove-lined shores to the vast open waters, these experiences are crafted for quality bonding amid nature's wonders.

The Everglades offers an array of species to target. From the aggressive  snook in the mangroves to the powerful  tarpon patrolling the open waters, the Everglades become a playground for anglers seeking varied challenges. Your guide will not only assist in navigating this ecosystem but also share their knowledge on the unique behaviors of each fish. Picture the joy of landing a trophy snook against the luscious greenery of the Everglades or the thrill of a tarpon leaping out of the water. Amidst this natural wonder, every cast becomes a potential encounter with a new species, creating memories that go beyond the ordinary.

Whether it's the serene beauty of Lake Tahoe with  Trout Creek Outfitters or the dynamic coastal experience near Dana Point with  The Salty Mae Fly , California offers exciting fishing adventures. California's scenic landscapes are the perfect background to create lasting memories between father and son. 

California's diverse fishing adventures are complemented by an impressive variety of fish species. In the serene beauty of Lake Tahoe, trout species such as rainbow and brown trout abound, providing  the perfect introduction to dynamic freshwater fishing . Meanwhile, the coastal experience near Dana Point offers encounters with a myriad of saltwater species — from striped bass to halibut. Your guide will ensure a successful day out on the water — applying their years of experience, wisdom, and collected information to make your day memorable . Whether casting in mountain lakes or along coastal shores, California's waters become the backdrop for creating lasting memories and a deeper connection between father and son.

South Carolina’s Lowcountry

The charm of the Lowcountry is unparalleled, and fishing in  Beaufort ,  Charleston , and  Hilton Head is an experience like no other. There’s bountiful fishing on the coast, in the rivers, and off-shore — creating a variety of experiences to explore and memories to make.  Our local guides ensure fantastic fishing as they highlight the best of what the Lowcountry has to offer. 

Boasting some of the biggest bull  red drum , the Lowcountry is trophy terrain. Master anglers push the bounds of these fisheries, discovering new methods to catch gamefish favorites. Fly fishing, sight casting, and light tackle encompass a few of the  inshore fishing opportunities that keep this charming region fresh and exciting. As father and son, you’ll engage in quality fishing, focusing on what really matters. To see the best of this region, let guides like  Capt. Tim Disano of  Tideline Charters  or Capt. Peter L-J of  Lowcountry Premier Fly Fishing immerse you in the excellent fishing of the Lowcountry. 

Float Trips on Scenic Rivers

With countless iconic rivers across the country, we’ve curated a few of our favorites for the perfect father-son float trip.  Roaring Fork River and  Jackson River are some of this country’s best-kept secrets. They provide the ideal environment for just such an outing with premier fishing and breathtaking forests to float alongside.  Our guides will provide expert insight into the local fishing, turning a simple fishing trip into a serene journey.

Join our guides in targeting a range of gamefish — ranging from native cutthroat trout to smallmouth bass. Drift along the  Roaring Fork River , surrounded by the majestic beauty of Colorado's landscapes. Your guides will expertly navigate the river’s currents, providing insight and a deeper appreciation of the local environment. Out of Virginia, the  Jackson River provides abundant opportunities to indulge in the joys of light tackle and fly. Float along at the river’s pace, enjoying the memories simple fishing with the right people creates. 

Deep Sea Outings Offshore

Against the magnitude of the open ocean, you’ll target some of the largest fish able to be caught with rod and reel. Sharks,  tuna , barracuda, and  billfish — including the legendary  black marlin — hide beneath the surface, waiting to be caught. Let the masterful techniques of  veteran guides steer you towards the most successful father-son outing possible. 

There’s endless offshore fishing opportunities, but those off the east coast provide access to waters fed by the Gulf Stream. Baitfish school around the reefs and wrecks, creating an ideal environment to target larger predatory fish. From South Carolina’s Lowcountry down to the Florida Keys, warmer conditions produce greater opportunities to catch these deep sea species. The challenge of reeling in a thousand pound fish fuels the stories that will still be told in years to come. Share the memories that make those stories as father and son conquering the sea alongside an  expert guide .

Intro to Fly Fishing Trips

There’s no better way to work on your cast than with a father-son outing, under the expertise of an experienced guide.  With the aid of experts , this experience not only imparts valuable techniques but also strengthens the bond between generations. Explore our tips to improve your fly cast to make the most of this unique adventure before hitting the water. 

Limitless locations with local guides are made easily accessible with  AnyCreek . No experience is needed, as you’ll be taken through the steps by a veteran guide who’s introduced countless anglers to fly fishing. You won’t need any gear, as your guide will have everything you need. All you need to bring is a willingness to learn, and your guide will take care of the rest. Choose your ideal background from a  range of locations across the country to spend quality time as father and son engaged in the learning of a new pursuit. 

Overnight Adventures

Extend your fishing adventure with overnight trips guided by  Covert Creek Outfitting and  Wesley Hodges Fly Fishing . Go beyond fishing, as you fully immerse yourself in nature — both day and night. With the entire journey planned and guided for your enjoyment, these trips offer an unforgettable, one-of-a-kind experience.

Whether you spend a night in the Catskills with Covert Creek Outfitting or explore the rivers of Virginia with Wesley Hodges Fly Fishing, you’ll be guided through some of the best fishing available in these regions. Your day will be spent fly fishing amidst beautiful landscapes until night comes and brings you together to share a meal after the full day, tired from all the engaging fishing. Leave restored from the blend of relaxation and fishing that’s brought fathers and sons closer together for years. 

Explore the Northeast

Uncover hidden gems in the  Northeastern United States . Our suggested experiences in these regions promise not just excellent fishing, but a chance to explore the unique landscapes and cultures. Rivers abound across the northeastern forests, making for a variety of locations which offer peak freshwater fishing. Target bass, trout, and other freshwater gamefish as your guide directs you to the best spots the Northeast has to offer. 

If you're still hungry for more adventures, delve into our guide on the  9 Hottest Fishing and Hunting Trips for Fall 2023 or visit our website for an extensive list of offerings.

Father-Son Fishing Trips FAQ

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Why You Should Take a Fly-fishing Trip With Your Dad — Even If You Don't Know How to Fish

Nina Ruggiero is Travel + Leisure's senior editorial director and the co-founder of Be A Travel Writer , an online course for the next generation of travel journalists. A New Yorker based in Los Angeles, she has a special interest in beach destinations, outdoor adventures, unique hotels, pet-friendly travel with her golden retriever, @travelswithcali, and all things Italy.

"It's so special you brought your dad," Two Fish John, a dad himself (and a fly-fisherman who earned his new nickname by hooking two at once the day before) said as we sat at the bar before dinner at Hubbard's Yellowstone Lodge in Emigrant, Montana.

It was the last night of an Orvis fly-fishing trip that we spent not only catching and releasing trout, but horseback riding, skeet shooting, grizzly bear viewing, touring Yellowstone National Park , and shooting pool at the local saloon.

I had little to no experience with the activities on our itinerary, and it was also my first time traveling solo with my dad, but each adventure-filled day wound down with such ease on the Hubbard's porch it quickly grew to feel like we'd been spending summers in Montana together for years.

Orvis , known primarily as a fly-fishing outfitter, hosts more than 30 adventure trips a year in some of the world's greatest fishing destinations, from Yellowstone and Yosemite to Patagonia, Belize, and even Russia. The company has been around since 1856, and in that time it's gone far beyond just selling rods and waders in its mission to "guide its patrons to lead more fulfilling lives through a deep personal connection to the adventure and wonders of the natural world."

And even for us, two New Yorkers, Orvis was able to kick-start that connection to the outdoors before we took off for Montana. One of the best parts of booking a vacation is the anticipation , after all — and we were proof of that as we both willingly subjected ourselves to criticism in a Long Island parking lot on a Saturday morning while attempting to cast into the wind and catch a paper fish off the blacktop. Orvis offers free Fly Fishing 101 classes at almost all of its stores, and it's highly encouraged before a trip.

We'd practice again on the lawn at Hubbard's before our big outing on Story Lake, a pristine and privately owned spot known among fishermen for its fruitful waters. Our instructor, Dave Force, patiently tied our flies, worked with us on our casting techniques, and then set up a beautiful picnic lunch on an original homestead overlooking the lake. Although we admittedly spent the majority of our time on the water sitting and admiring the scenery, and one of us let a few bites pass by (it was me), we both had the opportunity to feel the exhilaration of a fish pulling on our line and wriggling in our net.

Our friends back at the lodge liked to say "the tug is the drug." For most of them, it was the focus of the trip. For some — like a woman named Jenny, who took up the sport in an effort to spend more time with her fishing-obsessed boyfriend, Miller, and lovingly out-fished him most of the trip — it's a bonding force. For us, it was just one of many foreign and unforgettable Montana moments.

We felt the same high on our horseback ride through the backcountry, where fields of wildflowers meet a massive blue sky in the summer months — although temperamental Montana weather means it could shift from sunshine to hail at any given moment. Wrangler Wray looked the part of cowboy from a mile away: leather chaps, under-the-hat-brim stare, relaxed-cool horse-riding posture and all. But he proved he wasn't just playing a part when he guided a bunch of beginners over running streams and up steep hills with a level of skill and ease only someone who spends most of his time with horses could pull off.

The professionalism of guides is one of many deciding factors for Orvis's team when they select lodges to endorse, Seth Berger, a fly-fishing travel specialist for the company, told me. Hubbard's has been named Orvis Lodge of the Year twice, and though its striking porch with its grand stone fireplace and Adirondack chairs overlooking the Yellowstone River is reason enough to stay a while, it's the Hubbard family and the staff they've chosen that make it stand out.

86-year-old Jim Hubbard owns an expanse of mountain land so breathtaking he's used to having zealous would-be buyers knocking at his door (singer Paul Simon among them), but he'll scan the crowd at cocktail hour himself to make sure no one has an empty glass while he tells stories of how his kids helped him grow the lodge into the beloved destination it is today.

Fishing trips are full of storytellers, I would learn, and we made fast friends with them — from Dr. Tim, a fishing guide/radiologist (and opera singer/swing dancer); to Larry, king of inventing tall tales as his wife Brenda kicked him under the table; to Chris and Jason, brothers on their first-ever fishing trip without their own dad, who took to mine so well they knighted him an honorary Texan on our way back to Bozeman Airport.

Some of our favorite stories of all came from Chris Bausch, our guide to Yellowstone and a local history teacher who seemed to know every turn, every rock crevice, and every bison's habits better than a veteran postal worker knows his mail route. His tales of the park in the days of Ulysses S. Grant and Theodore Roosevelt, and of the Native Americans' first reactions to the bubbling geysers and steaming hot springs, managed to make the world-famous landscape twice as vivid.

"You cannot see Yellowstone in one day," he repeated a few times as he drove us through. But with his guidance, we couldn't help but feel as though we had.

"I gotta tell you," my dad said as we made our way back, "I've never had a day like this in my life."

In all my travels, neither had I.

On our last night, my dad and I were the last two at the lodge to go to bed. I was walking to my room when I saw him hang back on the porch out of the corner of my eye. "I'm not gonna see this Big Sky Country again," he said, taking a seat and looking up at the stars.

People who travel often sometimes forget what a privilege it is. Going out and taking the type of trip you've never taken before — especially with someone who rarely steps foot on a plane — is guaranteed to remind you.

So while fishing trips are full of old wives' tales and trout that grow three inches each time a story is retold, Two Fish John was only speaking the truth. Having the opportunity to go on the trip of a lifetime is lucky. But being able to take your dad on his trip of a lifetime is special.

Orvis provided support for the reporting of this story.

Letters to Lindsey

The Heartbeat of Fishing with Dad

Dear Lindsey,

My dad called that fall and said, “If I were to go to a fly-in fishing lodge up in northernmost Canada, would you consider going with me?”

I replied, “In a heartbeat!”

At 82, he knew it might be a once-in-a-lifetime, and I was so grateful for the opportunity.  Like listening to a teen practicing music , he was saying, “I love you,” the way a dad does, and I hoped I could scream it back to him.

At 79, he had lost his youngest (my little brother) and the following year, his wife (my mom) and one year after that – to the day – his own mother passed away at the age of 100. My grieving dad and I would probably do well with some time under the northern blue sky, while the worries of the world vanished in a small boat’s wake.

“You’re the only person I know who actually likes fishing,” he said. “Most people only like catching.”  Haha! We both related to boats full of kids waiting for us to do the work. For him, I had been one of those impatient kids.

Every year of my childhood, my family took a two-week fishing vacation (Six of us and a dog in a camper that comfortably slept four Munchkins). Whether in the boat or on land I always loved to have my line in the water.

Adventure of Getting to “North”

I flew from North Carolina four hours and two time-zones to Denver, where my dad lived. The following day, we flew (through directionally incorrect Seattle) 7 hours to Saskatoon, SK, Canada. There, we rented a little Suburu SUV, (“Four-wheel-drive is necessary,” we had been told.) and after a night in a hotel drove straight north 3.5 hours (half-way to the North Pole, I am sure) to a very random boat dock with a plane attached. Cell signals long gone, GPS had been replaced by hand-written notes of a phone conversation between my dad and the destination nine months prior.

Like many good journeys: the worse the drive, the more worthy the destination.

Nature lined both sides of the mud road. The further north we went, the more lakes, the less houses. Less people.

Finally, we arrived. We assumed we were at the right dock with a white floatplane and awaited the pilot who would take us to the much-anticipated destination: Lawrence Bay Lodge .  When we exited the car in the mud-filled parking area, the elements hit. A cool mist engulfed my breathing, but my mouth was not properly filtering out gnats… or were they mosquitos? I went into the floatplane’s “business office,” a dilapidated trailer- similar to the one of my childhood – but with duct tape holding its indoor stairs in place and buckets catching the incoming rain. This was the first bathroom we had seen since Saskatoon. As I ventured in, I realized that this bachelors’ (plural) pad had not heard of Clorox. I wondered if this would be the condition of our week: bachelors, duct tape, mosquitos, and lack of Clorox. I tried to toughen up. UGH.

The pilot arrived at the dock; my heart was having second thoughts. As the storm picked up, the pilot wondered if it was safe to fly. (Note: if a floatplane pilot is wondering if it is safe to fly, it is NOT.) I was fine with taking the small rowboat with the Mercury attached, but the pilot told us that it would be an hour-long very wet, very bumpy [and mosquito-y] ride.  We waited in cars to see what weather would do. I missed my weather app – and my house.

The storm lifted slightly and they rushed us along with other arrivals into the floatplane trying to get up and back down before the wind picked up again. This was my fourth takeoff and landing in 48 hours, and by far the roughest. However, we stayed low under the clouds – and in our short, fifteen minute flight saw miles and miles of lake beneath us.  Weather has never stopped me from looking forward to fishing.

The plane landed more smoothly than its flight, and the Lawrence Bay Lodge welcomed us with its gorgeous, enormous log-cabin lodge with a lake view. One of the smaller cabins to its right became ours for the week. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw running water… and smelled Clorox. 🙂

Fishing Like No Other

“Fish on!” I excitedly said within minutes of dropping our rattle traps into the water behind the trolling boat that first morning. Lake trout were incredible fighters compared to the Carolina bass to which I was accustomed. At around 11:30am, Vince said, “Let’s keep the next one for lunch.” We did.

Pulling up to a dock-less island, Vince found a somewhat flat spot and began to build a fire where one had never been. “I’ll give you a dollar for every bone you find,” he said with a smile while he filleted the fish, using the oar as his cutting board. (No Clorox needed. No dollars either.) He opened an old coffee can, revealing a bag of flour, a small vial of oil, a can of beans and some chopped potatoes. He then set a pan on top of the fire, put in some oil, added the potatoes and floured fish and put the can of beans in the coals alongside to warm.  Within minutes, we had a perfect lakeside picnic. Vince often filled his drinking cup with water from the lake, but brought us bottled, knowing our stomachs weren’t as prepared for lakewater as his.

The afternoon was much the same… fish on! When we arrived back at the dock, Dad and I were ready for a nap before dinner and early bed!  The next day, we moved from trout to pike. Vince cut the bait and told Dad the best place and hook action to use. When the first forty-inch-er took Dad’s line, he leaned back so far to set the hook, I thought we would lose him in the water! Dad reeled with might and the fish made its way to the boat to pose for its obligatory picture. If my dad had a bucket list, the forty-inch pike was on it. He had caught three by week’s end.

Nature and Stories

Like a good guide, Vince told entertaining stories. He talked about his grandfather and told tales of each of the islands (whose identity was a blur to us). (I have often wondered if fishing guides and taxi-drivers just make up stories on a daily basis and watch their audience’s reaction as they spin their yarn.) Once we found a plaque on an island, giving it a name. I wondered out loud how someone could claim one of these islands as their own to name. It certainly felt like “no man’s land” to me.  Regardless, at the end of our trip, I sent a plaque to Vince, so he could place it on an island of choice, “naming it” after his grandfather.

Along with our fishing and shore lunches, we encountered nature’s animals. We promptly renamed seagulls as “freeloaders.” Each day, when we would pull up to a random island for fire-building and lunch-cooking, there would be no gull in sight. But by the time Vince’s knife had finished its first swath, there would be twenty-five seagulls ready to freeload on scraps that he discarded into the water.

My favorite animal encounter was probably when an eagle (of which we saw many!), practically crossed over the front of our boat in pure flight. Vince caught my attention, giving me just enough time to snap a picture. Isaiah 40:31 came to mind. “Yet those who wait for the LORD will gain new strength; They will mount up with wings like eagles, they will run and not get tired, they will walk and not become weary.”

There were other nature differences between northern Canada and where I live. For example, the sun never sets! Well it set, but it did so after I was in bed and starting to gild the sky by 3:30am, complete with the escort of birdsong. (Birds must need less sleep in Canada!)

3:59am sun rising

Similar to the event during our harrowing drive, at several points during our week, I noticed my Fitbit congratulating me on a workout! Ha! Workout? I had sat in a boat with a fishing rod in hand! Maybe it was picking up that my heart rate would accelerate at the fun of catching the fish?! After all, the data shows it to be active only during the hours of our boating! I don’t think my heart chose favorites – whether the fish was on my line or his. We both enjoyed it either way. I suppose my heart rate graph was just a visible proof of the gift of fun I was having. I hoped my dad’s graph would look the same.

My dad and I spent many silent hours together. No internet, no phones, some books. In the comfort of a good relationship, we often just sat in silence. I enjoyed watching his joy of fishing. Each evening we had a magnificent dinner at the lodge (This was no bachelor pad!) and heard the fish tales of the day from others in the camp. We then retired to a game of Scrabble before an early bed. Every day. For seven days– before our long trip back home. It was amazing.

I know many daughters would prefer a fancy place, something to dress up for, people to meet, award-winning meals and jewelry. But I got such joy out of the simplicity of life and the love language of most kids from their dads: T.I.M.E.  The lull of the engine motor. The look of the wake vanishing into the glistening water. The peace of silence… with Dad.

Dad and I weren’t betting people, but we did have fun wagering a dollar:

• For the last fish: Dad
• For the biggest fish: Dad
• For the smallest fish: me
• For the greatest variety: Dad (trout, walleye, pike and a white fish, which put scales all over the boat!)
• Dad won a dollar.

Scenery, wildlife, sport and restoration for our souls: it was truly a wonderful vacation I will never forget. If my brothers, kids or husband ever ask if I want to go back, my response would be the same, “In a heartbeat!”  I think when I do, I will bring along a plaque to put on an island somewhere to name it in memory of Dad.

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Related Posts :

• Sunrise, Sunset, Fishing for Memories
• Reserved for Bob
• Grace: Pass It On!

Other Letters in Memory of Dad :

• Angels Can Do No More
• The Best Present: Being Present
• A Cookie Kind of Grace

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11 thoughts on “ The Heartbeat of Fishing with Dad ”

Terri, What a beautiful story, and you tell it so wonderfully well. I laughed when I was looking at your pictures, and saw your guide in the Nature section. Such a special memory from such a gorgeous place! Thank you for sharing it with us!

Haha! I was battling technology in the sorting- so sorry if Vince ended up in the wrong section! Oops!

Thank you, Terri, for sharing this story again (I heard it live at conference.) I would give anything to be home, in the tribe, listening to my Dad preach to our little village church in Papua New Guinea. Thanks for the memories!

Thank you! What a legacy your dad must have left behind!

Terri, I used to fish with my dad when I was a boy. I wish I’d had more time…he died when I was just shy of 20 years old. (I’m 60 now!) I still hold wonderful memories of fishing from small boats on inland lakes to salmon fishing from a large cruiser on the Great Lakes. Thanks for walking me down memory lane.

Wow- sorry for such loss, but grateful for such memories! Thanks for sharing.

Thank you for taking us on this amazing trip with you and your dad. Loved it!!

Thanks for riding along! If only these heartbeats could count as real workouts! Haha:)

Thank You!!!

Terri, I so remember you leaving for that fishing trip with your Dad and praying for you the entire time you were gone. It was nice to read it now, years later, with more details, but feels like it happened yesterday. I know full well the country you were in….I lived in LaRonge, SK for 6 months when I was a missionary and probably would know Vince if I saw and talk to him in person, eh?! Like you, I cherish the scenery that flashes through my mind, the bear tracks, and seeing eagles, eagles and more eagles! I think a plaque for your Dad on an island in Canada would be fitting…may one of your children take you soon! Love you gal! Carmen

Yesss!! I thought of you often- and prayed for those souls you reached… and the ones who remained lost! I actually thought the same thing- wondering if Vince’s family was some of the recipients of your Gospel-sharing!! God works these ways:)!

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Book of Short Stories, By Fifth Grade Pupils

A book of short stories page 18, a fishing trip.

Douglas Schnorr

One nice day last summer my father and I decided to go fishing. We left early in the morning, crossing over Niagara River on the ferry.

We stopped at a fisherman's shanty on the river and bought a pail of minnows. With these, our fishing tackle and lunch, we started up the river to an old ship yard. The docks and ships were falling apart. The fish like to stay around the old piling and sunken ships. We fished for a while but caught nothing. Then I wandered around into different spots. Finally I dropped my line right into a school of perch. I called my father and he came running. Between us we caught over thirty perch in less than a half hour. Of course my father caught the most. In the excitement the lunch blew into the river, as we had just about started to eat when I found the school of fish. The sea gulls happened to be very plentiful at this point. Soon they ate the lunch, we ate the fish and everybody was happy.

School No. 23

Where heroes are born and the story continues

Suggestions.

Tips for planning the perfect father-son fishing trip

If you’re looking for a way to bond with your son and create some fantastic memories, look no further than a father-son fishing trip.

Fishing is a great activity that the whole family can enjoy, and it’s a perfect way to spend some quality time together. This article will provide you with some tips for planning the perfect father-son fishing trip. So pack your bags and get ready to catch some fish!

Go Where the Fish Are

If you’re planning on taking your son to a lake or pond where there’s no fish, it won’t be much fun. Make sure you go somewhere with a lot of fish, so that way, both of you have something to catch. You’ll also want to make sure the lake or pond has a good number of bass, trout, and catfish.

Book a campsite or reserve a cabin if you’re going to be spending the night outdoors. You’ll also want to make sure your car has enough gas before leaving for the trip because you might not find any stations nearby. Pack a cooler with food and drinks so that you’re not hungry or thirsty during the fishing trip either!

Bring a Camera

You’ll want to take pictures of your catch. This will give both of you something to look back on and remember the trip by later in life. It’s also nice if other people want proof that you or your son caught a big fish because now there’s photographic evidence! You can print out the photos when you get home from your trip or upload them onto social media so that everyone else can see them, too.

Bring the Right Lures and Baits

You’ll want to bring along some of your favorite lures and baits when fishing. This will help increase your chances of catching fish. If you’re unsure what lures or baits to bring, do some research online; different fish prefer different baits and lures! While sturgeon prefer live bait , bass are perfectly happy with spinners and jigs.

Take a Kid-Friendly Fishing Trip

Not all fishing trips are suitable for kids. Some trips involve a lot of hiking and long walks, which can be tiring for young children. Instead, take your son to a place where he can easily catch fish. This might mean going to a smaller lake or pond instead of a big one, but that’s fine!

Be sure to follow our tips for planning the perfect father-son fishing trip! Fishing is a great activity that the whole family can enjoy, including you and your son. Now go spend some quality time together!

Kelly Schoessling

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