qk fish
08-10-2005, 04:27 PM
I wanted to share something that just happened to me. I am sure you will all relate. It is just a way for me to deal with my loss with friends who share the good life of the outdoors. I wrote this a few moments ago.
Bobber Down
I could barely see ripples of water as the trailer tires slipped into the reflective darkness of the Siletz. A perfect daybreak was just moments from reality on one of my dad’s favorite rivers. I watched dad brace into the rope as it came taught when my “bobber boat” broke from the bunks and slid out, ready to help us great the day.
In no time, I had the rig parked and was on board with the 40 HP four stroke warming and just barely audible. Fall had come and the morning chill was threatening my fingers. The Lowrance dinged its alert sounds and came alive for a day on the water, telling me the depth and temperature. I nodded and dad gently worked his tired and aged legs on board. One leg at time until he was inside and seated for the trip up river. I watched him quietly and was thinking how strong he used to be. I marveled at how hard I tried to keep up with him in my youth as he showed me around the woods not unlike an Elk teaching it’s young to step soft and silently. Now I was the one making sure he saw as many sunrises as possible, outdoors and doing what he and I loved most about being alive.
The boat swung out into the current and came onto a gentle plane. As we picked up speed, dad turned his coat collar up to the wind, gave me a quick and assuring look and than watched up stream as day light caused a reverse reflection on the perfectly still water ahead.
Soon we were slowing to a crawl as we arrived at the first of many pockets that held memories of past bobbers disappearing below the surface as a Fall Chinook was enticed to the delicacy below. The electric trolling motor was very silently prowling us forward. We both observed the screen on the Fishing Buddy II side finder in search of a telltale mark against the bank 30 feet away. “There they are,” I said to dad as we watched 4 than 5 marks appear. I pushed the boat to the upper head of the hole as the tide was just starting to flow out. After we both pitched out our baits, I set up the boat for a drift that would let the bobbers float right over the spot where we both knew excitement was laying in wait.
The eggs I had baited up on the Gamagatzu 5/0 hooks had been provided the season before from this same area. Spending several years of trial and error and talking with many fishing friends, I now was very confidant of the cure I was using and how the preparation of putting egg to cure had been done. No blood, the right cure amount with a touch of an additional surprise offering. The proper cure time and temperature and finally the storing in quart jars, vacuumed sealed and placed in a large old cola cooler in my garage. All winter, spring and summer I would twice a month turn the jars over and allow the nectar to flow down over what I considered the perfect recipe for a great fall day. Now the fruit of all that care and time taken was about to appear.
The sun was on the tips of the steep and wooded canyon walls when dad’s bobber did a little swirl dance and almost stopped. I was silent as we both watched the bobber and dad came to the ready, even though my mind was saying, “wait dad, not yet”. Before I could realize what I was saying to my self, the bobber slipped under and ever so slightly upstream. Whoosh went the rod through the fall air as he swung the rod up. The bend and instant throb told every thing. Dad was hooked up and the day of silence was now full of grinning and coaching from both of us as I maneuvered the boat away from the slot. Dad led the fish by gently laying the rod to the side so as to not create any more commotion over the rest of the salmon as possible. Perfect, I said to myself as I watch my old man, my very favorite fishing partner, the person I most looked up to, having moments suspended in time as he battled a bright 30 plus ponder. The fish took a massive run and Dad commented “Oh he’s a good one”. Working the boat, turning so the fish was always pulling away, the bobber finally came to surface and shortly after as if by instinct, I dipped the huge mouth of the Beckman Net quickly into and under the first Chinook of the fall. Straight up came the handle, as I knew this fish could easily bend the net if I tried to lift wrong. As the big female thrashed the side of the boat, dad pulled line from the reel, stepped over and we grasped hands in a full grip over our heads. “Good job Dad” I blurted. “Good eggs” he said in return.
As the day wore on, I saw dad tire. It was obvious he had done all he could for one day. We landed several more fish that day as we traveled to each of our accustomed spots where bobbers had disappeared before. At one point, dad was looking away and I loudly said “Dad, bobber down”. We always seemed to try and catch the other in that typed of situation. Kinda like having your pants down at the wrong time.
Dad dozed off as I drove us back to Sweet Home where we lived. As he slept, I intentionally replayed and cherished the whole day knowing these days were soon coming to a close.
I was fortunate enough to watch my dad land a few more fish from my drift boat the next spring in front of my house on the South Santiam. Just 6 days ago, after sitting 5 long days with him, I held my dad’s hand when he slipped from this earth into heaven. The two of us again all alone as the sun was just starting to rise up over the Ochoco’s in Prinville. Out of nowhere I found my self saying “Dad, bobber down” while I felt Dad’s long awaited eternal fishing partner and he drifting away from my reach.
Now what is mere memories so vivid in my mind will some day be real as I wait for the time when I can again fish with dad. Only this time there will be three bobbers instead of two.
Bobber Down
I could barely see ripples of water as the trailer tires slipped into the reflective darkness of the Siletz. A perfect daybreak was just moments from reality on one of my dad’s favorite rivers. I watched dad brace into the rope as it came taught when my “bobber boat” broke from the bunks and slid out, ready to help us great the day.
In no time, I had the rig parked and was on board with the 40 HP four stroke warming and just barely audible. Fall had come and the morning chill was threatening my fingers. The Lowrance dinged its alert sounds and came alive for a day on the water, telling me the depth and temperature. I nodded and dad gently worked his tired and aged legs on board. One leg at time until he was inside and seated for the trip up river. I watched him quietly and was thinking how strong he used to be. I marveled at how hard I tried to keep up with him in my youth as he showed me around the woods not unlike an Elk teaching it’s young to step soft and silently. Now I was the one making sure he saw as many sunrises as possible, outdoors and doing what he and I loved most about being alive.
The boat swung out into the current and came onto a gentle plane. As we picked up speed, dad turned his coat collar up to the wind, gave me a quick and assuring look and than watched up stream as day light caused a reverse reflection on the perfectly still water ahead.
Soon we were slowing to a crawl as we arrived at the first of many pockets that held memories of past bobbers disappearing below the surface as a Fall Chinook was enticed to the delicacy below. The electric trolling motor was very silently prowling us forward. We both observed the screen on the Fishing Buddy II side finder in search of a telltale mark against the bank 30 feet away. “There they are,” I said to dad as we watched 4 than 5 marks appear. I pushed the boat to the upper head of the hole as the tide was just starting to flow out. After we both pitched out our baits, I set up the boat for a drift that would let the bobbers float right over the spot where we both knew excitement was laying in wait.
The eggs I had baited up on the Gamagatzu 5/0 hooks had been provided the season before from this same area. Spending several years of trial and error and talking with many fishing friends, I now was very confidant of the cure I was using and how the preparation of putting egg to cure had been done. No blood, the right cure amount with a touch of an additional surprise offering. The proper cure time and temperature and finally the storing in quart jars, vacuumed sealed and placed in a large old cola cooler in my garage. All winter, spring and summer I would twice a month turn the jars over and allow the nectar to flow down over what I considered the perfect recipe for a great fall day. Now the fruit of all that care and time taken was about to appear.
The sun was on the tips of the steep and wooded canyon walls when dad’s bobber did a little swirl dance and almost stopped. I was silent as we both watched the bobber and dad came to the ready, even though my mind was saying, “wait dad, not yet”. Before I could realize what I was saying to my self, the bobber slipped under and ever so slightly upstream. Whoosh went the rod through the fall air as he swung the rod up. The bend and instant throb told every thing. Dad was hooked up and the day of silence was now full of grinning and coaching from both of us as I maneuvered the boat away from the slot. Dad led the fish by gently laying the rod to the side so as to not create any more commotion over the rest of the salmon as possible. Perfect, I said to myself as I watch my old man, my very favorite fishing partner, the person I most looked up to, having moments suspended in time as he battled a bright 30 plus ponder. The fish took a massive run and Dad commented “Oh he’s a good one”. Working the boat, turning so the fish was always pulling away, the bobber finally came to surface and shortly after as if by instinct, I dipped the huge mouth of the Beckman Net quickly into and under the first Chinook of the fall. Straight up came the handle, as I knew this fish could easily bend the net if I tried to lift wrong. As the big female thrashed the side of the boat, dad pulled line from the reel, stepped over and we grasped hands in a full grip over our heads. “Good job Dad” I blurted. “Good eggs” he said in return.
As the day wore on, I saw dad tire. It was obvious he had done all he could for one day. We landed several more fish that day as we traveled to each of our accustomed spots where bobbers had disappeared before. At one point, dad was looking away and I loudly said “Dad, bobber down”. We always seemed to try and catch the other in that typed of situation. Kinda like having your pants down at the wrong time.
Dad dozed off as I drove us back to Sweet Home where we lived. As he slept, I intentionally replayed and cherished the whole day knowing these days were soon coming to a close.
I was fortunate enough to watch my dad land a few more fish from my drift boat the next spring in front of my house on the South Santiam. Just 6 days ago, after sitting 5 long days with him, I held my dad’s hand when he slipped from this earth into heaven. The two of us again all alone as the sun was just starting to rise up over the Ochoco’s in Prinville. Out of nowhere I found my self saying “Dad, bobber down” while I felt Dad’s long awaited eternal fishing partner and he drifting away from my reach.
Now what is mere memories so vivid in my mind will some day be real as I wait for the time when I can again fish with dad. Only this time there will be three bobbers instead of two.