A good influence
On a late-summr evening I hooked and landed a smallmouth bass on Birch Lake, where I live. It was only an 8-incher, but it was significant because I caught it using a fly rod and a bass bug. And I owe this event largely to my 13-year-old grandson, Tucker Kulow, of Plymouth. I’d neglected my fly rods for far too long. I picked them up again because of Tucker. He recently attended a week of day camp focused mostly on fly fishing, and when he finished, he texted me: “I can teach you properly how to fly fish. Cause I know how now.”
It so happens I’ve had some fly casting instruction and some practice (though far too little) on the water. It also happened that two years ago I gave a surplus fly rod to Tucker and his younger brother, Perrin. So when we visited their place last weekend, I took my panfish fly rod along. Tucker had rigged up the rod I game him with a fly he had received at camp. After supper we practiced casting in the backyard for a while, and then Tucker suggested we head to the Mullet River, which flows through Plymouth’s downtown, to fish for real.
I took my rod along but mostly watched Tucker and taught him to work the calmer patches in a stream that perks along pretty briskly. He had the most success upstream of a footbridge where the current was quite a bit slower. He caught little sunfish, a rock bass, a creek chub, and a diminutive smallmouth. Best of all, he cast with surprising accuracy, including up against a couple of rocks next to shore just below the bridge, from which he pulled out two sunnies. We came back to the Mullet the next afternoon, and Tucker again connected with a variety of the small fish that inhabit the stream.
It did my heart good to see him take to the sport, and it spurred me to ask: Why don’t I use my fly rods more? So on that summer evening I left the spinning gear behind, went out on the boat with only the fly rod and bass bug, and poked around in various spots. The little smallie took the bug in glass-smooth water next to a reef. I’ve caught bigger bass on flies, and also nice bluegills and crappies. But this minor success has me enthused again for the delicate art (and it is an art) of fly casting. I’m nobody’s expert, but my technique is improving, and I owe the motivation for practice to Tucker. With my phone I shot a picture of the smallmouth, green bug still in its jaw, and sent it to him. “Nice bass!” he quickly texted back. I confessed about the size of the fish, and then told him, “You are a good influence.” He replied simply, “Thanks.” At such times it is just great to be a fishing grampa.