When I was growing up, my dad frequently took my brother and me fishing on the Rainbow River in Dunnellon. We would stay at the Angler's Resort, a rundown motel that catered to fishermen and fishermen only. There was a strip of a dozen or so rooms along one end of the property, a detached bait shop/lobby in the middle, and a marina at the edge of the property where we could rent a small boat for the day.
We were worm fishermen, and we were good. We knew where the submerged logs were. We knew where the deep holes were. We knew where the fish were, and where they were not. We could catch up to 50 “keeper” bluegill on a good day, and my dad would clean each and every one of them when we returned to the marina. The next day, my dad would fry them up at home in a cast iron skillet.
There was certainly a lot of bonding on those trips.
Last August, when my dad suggested that we head up to his cabin in North Carolina for another father and son fishing trip, I checked with my ever faithful, kind and thoughtful wife, who gave me the green light to leave for a five day, four night trip.
The trip as a whole consisted of eating, fishing and sleeping only (with a bit of scotch thrown in). We caught brown trout, rainbow trout and silver trout. We caught stocked trout and wild trout. I had the pleasure of seeing my dad catch the biggest smallmouth bass of his life. We caught them on fly, we caught them on worm. We caught them on a Mepps and on a fancy crawfish lure.
As it was when I was a boy, each afternoon my dad would clean the fish we’d caught and fry them up in a cast iron skillet. The wild trout I ate on our second night was one of the finest fish I’ve ever tasted.
Though this blog is mostly about my current fishing experiences, I thought I would include this trip because it was so special and meaningful to be able to fish with my dad for five days straight. It was also an important trip because it was the first time in my life that I’ve ever caught a limit of any kind of fish, and that I did it not once, but twice.
Listen to this fish tale:
There is a lake nearby our cabin which is crammed full of fish. In the times that my dad and I had fished it in the past, we could see dozens and dozens of trout lurking nearby, but each time we tried to catch one, the pan fish would aggressively attack any bait we tossed in the lake. Though pan fish are plenty of fun to catch, we were after the bigger ones, but couldn’t figure out how to get to them. After a couple of trips, we had yet to catch a trout.
The day we tried the lake in August, the sun was out and the breeze was gently rippling the water of the lake. We chose a spot near a large structure and rigged up our gear. My dad had a hunch that the larger trout were holding below the pan fish, so he set up the rod with a slip bobber. The slip bobber would allow the bait—in this case a live worm from his garden—to sink quickly to the appropriate depth—in this case he had chosen six feet—thereby bypassing the small fish and getting the worm right in front of the trout’s face. At least, that was the concept.
I baited up my hook first, cast out my line, and waited about 15 seconds before my bobber was pulled under and I lifted my rod tip to hook a fish. I knew instantly from the weight of the fish that I had caught a trout. When I got it over the rail I gave out a holler (we were in the mountains, after all). It was a very nice silver trout, well over 12”.
There was still some worm left on my hook, so I cast out again. About a minute later, I had landed my second 12”+ trout. All this before my dad had even baited his hook.
Between the two of us, we limited out in just over an hour with seven fish apiece. Though the size minimum was 7”, we didn’t have any less than 12” and our largest was nearing 24”. Quite simply, we slayed them.
You can imagine the chatter between the both of us on the car ride back to the cabin.
The next morning, we drove right back out to the lake, certain we could catch our limit again.
We practically ran over to the same spot from the day before, rigged our gear the same way, and baited our hooks with the same garden worms. We caught one trout over the next 45 minutes. Perplexed, we decided to walk around the shore to see if the trout hadn’t moved to a different portion of the lake. We tried about four spots with no success.
A young couple fishing nearby smiled smugly as they reeled in fish after fish, (though they were only catching pan fish). It was a bit disheartening.
We literally walked all the way around the lake and back to our original spot. My dad suggested we try it again for five minutes, and if there was nothing going, we’d head back to the truck. About an hour later, we had caught our limit again. The young couple across the lake watched us catch about half of them before they packed up and left in disgust.
Now, folks, it takes a lot of practice, skill, strategy and luck to catch fish, and I can say without hesitation that my dad watching his slip-bobber strategy go gangbusters was probably one of the top three highlights of his fishing career. Landing the biggest smallmouth bass he’s ever caught probably takes one of the other slots. Of course, you’ve gotta keep a top three slot open for the next trip…
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