Fishing

Four days before my daughter's fifteenth birthday, and a year after a move, we loaded the canoe on top of the van and headed off to go fishing.

After a day fishing "the lake at the old house."
Fifteen seemed a long way off. 

It would be the first time in a year the two of us sat in the canoe together- something we did on an almost nightly basis before the move, when we lived on a twenty-five acre lake that offered a large mouth or crappie on almost every cast. We challenged ourselves at one point to see how many days we could fish in a row- even if it meant sneaking in a few casts in the morning before school. The move was a big adventure, and a successful one, but it didn't provide many opportunities for little adventures.

The canoe sat at the edge of a little farm pond, too small to hold much more than the tiniest sunfish. My son enjoys paddling around it with his Buzz Lightyear pole, but Savannah never took the bait- it wasn't the lake at the old house.

I was surprised and excited when she took interest in heading to the Grand River. When she was little, she enjoyed fishing. Mostly I enjoy catching. If they're not biting, I'm ready to head to the house. But Savannah was always stubborn. If the action was slow, she got frustrated, but she would not quit fishing. I wondered if she had outgrown all that.

The M Hwy Bridge at Bosworth

We paddled upriver from the access, taking the same route steam boats once took from the Missouri to Chillicothe. After stoping at a gravel bar, we began floating downstream, working the bank with a worm and a jig, the way we caught bass in the lake. Cast after cast- no bites. Carp jumped from the surface to mock us, and we were jealous of the fishermen we saw taking fish off trotlines. There was frustration, but there was also comfort in re-engaging in our bickering about who was rocking the canoe, or why it was obvious that casting there would get you snagged.

We didn't do any catching, but we were both glad we went fishing.