April 6, 2005
Izak

American Sportsman.  Not.  It was spring break along the Front Range last week allowing the 8 and 5 five-year-old grandsons to head over the hill to our house for a few days.   

The oldest of the pair has three passions.  Yu-Gi-Oh cards, baseball and fishing.  As of last week the Rockies were still in spring training, Yu-Gi-Oh is a world lost on anyone beyond the age of 10, leaving angling front and center.   Our back windows overlook Connected Lakes State Park causing the water in the distance to continually prompt the question, “Grandpa can we go fishing?” 

Last week’s weather wasn’t the best for outdoor activity so fishing was placed on the back burner while we visited the Math and Science Center at Lincoln OM (killer fun for kids and adults), Chuck E. Cheese, the annual trip to watch dinosaurs growl in Fruita, Red Robin and Toys R Us.  Finally, the weather warmed to the point Thursday where we could grab the gear, (“Boy Grandpa, there sure is a lot of dust on your tackle box”) and head down the hill for fish. 

First some background.  Being a Type A personality, angling is not my sport of choice.  Those of us wrapped tighter than most give fish five minutes maximum to jump in the boat.  The Contemplative Man’s Recreation wasn’t penned with yours truly in mind. 

Not so with the 8 year old.  His life is filled with fish books, Cabela’s catalogues and fishing shows on the Outdoor Channel plus going fishing with his Boulder grandfather, whom he calls, “Poppa.” 

That’s where competition enters the picture.  Walking down the hill to the lake I was told, “When I go fishing with my Poppa, I always catch fish.”  Talk about pressure.  Should the return home be empty handed this Grandpa would be a distant second in a two man race. 

The 8-year-old Isaac Walton soon had his line in the water while Jan, along for moral support, and I turned our attention to the squirt.  10 minutes hadn’t passed when the 8 year old shouted, “I’ve got a fish!”  “No, you’re snagged,” claimed Grandma just before the snag flopped to the surface.   

Once onshore, “I think it’s a small-mouth Grandpa!” the grandparents realized weren’t in any way prepared for the possibility of actually catching something.  “Shall we put it back in the lake?”  I inquired.  “No” he gasped, eyes filling with tears.  “I caught him and want him for dinner!  Please?” 

For lack of a stringer, we stuffed the fish in a Wal-Mart sack previously used to bring cookies and lemonade on the outing and headed home stopping to show off the recently hooked trophy to a jogger, three guys framing a house, and a painter working for the neighbor’s. Then we had a photo shoot on the back patio followed by e-mailing the pictures of Moby Dick and Captain Ahab to Mom and Dad plus Nanny and Poppa. 

“Now let’s clean him.”  That request caused Jan and I to stare at one another.  Our combined knowledge on bass gutting was limited at best.  But grandparent pride was at stake so right there on our kitchen counter what appeared to be a tag team wrestling match with a two pound small-mouth took place while the grandsons kibitzed and did play by play.  Once the head was detached, “Oh that’s cool, it’s a fish zombie” Grandpa checked out.  My stomach relishes fish on the dinner table but protests mightily when witnessing the finned creature being transformed from flopper to filet.   

Finally, after leaving a trail of bass body parts all over the kitchen, it was into the skillet and onto a plate. “Grandpa, this fish I caught might be the best tasting fish ever.”