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I had been educated in the basics of middle-class spinner fishing. Taught to feel the spin of the lure in the current. Taught to fish downstream and to use the flow of the river to your advantage. Taught that Panther Martins and an occasional Mepps were the tools of the trade. It was not the high level of the glamorous fly fisherman. There was no high arcing loop and no rhythmically sweeping stroke of the rod. It was more direct. You get the lure to the hole, make sure it spins right; if you put it in the hole three or four times without a bite, move on. Spinner fishing is an active and movement-centered task. You earned and owned the fish you caught.
Today, I was cold, wet, and 11.
We crossed the minor tributaries towards the main river as it rained. His faded dark nylon mesh hat sat high on his head with a worn, rectangle "Remington" patch centered on the front and a small feather above the ear. His peppered cheeks and chin were two days unshaven, and he was lit with opportunity to fish.
He carried me across the smaller streams. I wondered what it looked like to see a child on the shoulders of a man, moving on the river.
I watched him from the bank as he surgically cast his Panther Martin, under, around and beyond tree limbs. His head bobbed rhythmically; he moved among the rocks. His casting motion switched to a left to right motion that mimicked tossing a ball underhand in an attempt to add spin. He extracted the fish one at a time with a grin and nod to me as I sat on a cold wet rock.
He must have remembered that I was 11. We left, and slowly we crossed the tributaries towards camp. After watching him, I was no longer shamed to climb upon the shoulders of a man. I think he sensed I was tired and carried me longer than he had that morning.
The rain settled, the light of afternoon came through the cottonwood trees, and we stopped in a small clearing and sat on the rocks. We drank sugar-free grape Wyler's punch and ate flattened peanut butter sandwiches that had somehow remained dry in my pack. It was a little bit warmer and I noticed my feet were drying.
"Do you see the calm water, above those rocks?"
"Uh huh."
"See if you can't get it in that hole."
As I focused upstream, my finger pulled the line towards the rod as my left hand tripped the open bell of the reel. Without thinking, the rod flickered once above my head and released the silver speckled Panther Martin. I saw the splash beyond the hole. Eager to impress, I turned the reel; it felt strange not to feel the steady tug of the current, the lure drifting back toward me, and I turned faster to keep the blade spinning, knowing I was downstream. I felt him rise to his feet behind me as the rod bent; the fish jumped.
It flopped on the river stones in front of my feet and I held the fish by the gills as I had seen him do. I wrenched the hook from the lip as the fish fell and slapped again on the flat rocks. I looked at the eye and felt sorrow as I watched. He casually picked it up and smacked the side of its head on a rock and it went limp. Red blood slowly seeped from the mouth and from under the eye as he tossed it in the creel. I felt sick, and yet I caught two more fish from the same spot.
As we walked back to camp, he adjusted the strap on my pack. We both smiled as we talked about fish.
Love Emily