Daddy Take Me Fishing
By: Bud Journey
The northern lights glittered over Patch Mountain as we sat in the north Yaak, tending a dying campfire. My 7-year-old daughter, Shasta, pulled the tip of her poking stick away from the embers, and said, “Daddy, take me fishing.”
It was a safe request on her part. She knew the old man didn’t need much prodding to go fishing.
A little fly-fishing in the outlet can sometimes be productive. Photographer Shasta Journey.
“OK,” I relented. “Where do you want to go?”
She studied the glowing tip of her poking stick, as she contemplated her answer.
“I think I would like to go to Hoskens Lake. Rocky told me the fishing is good there.” (Shasta held a high regard for the experienced voice of her 10-year-old brother, Rocky).
“Good choice,” I said. “Rocky and I caught some nice cutthroats when we went there. We’ll go tomorrow.”
So that’s what we did.
It was not a difficult trek for a healthy 7-year-old, even with the small pack that Shasta insisted on toting. I carried all of the nonessentials such as tent, sleeping bags, food, and fishing gear. Shasta carried the really important stuff such as popcorn, marshmallows, books, and one stuffed animal. She made sure we had everything we really couldn't do without.
Shasta carries her share of the camping gear.
We were lucky. The weather was beautiful, and the fishing was good. Shasta fished industriously for a couple of hours, catching cutthroats from nine to 13 inches long with her spin fishing equipment. After awhile, though, she put down her rod and said, "I'm done fishing for now."
I looked at her and said, "Shasta, you're in the mountains, now. There's no phone service, TV, radio, toys, no friends to play with -- but the fishing is great. What are you going to do if you don't fish?"
She put her hands on her hips and gave me a restrained look of consternation. "Dad," she said. "Just look." And she waved her hand at the surrounding country. "There's lots to do."
Shasta fights a Hoskins Lake cutthroat.
I looked around. The lake lay in a glacially carved basin surrounded on three sides by nearly vertical hillsides. True, it was pretty, but I didn't want to scale the steep slopes with a 7-year-old. "We're not climbing the mountain," I said.
She cocked her head and looked at me, obviously frustrated at her Dad’s insensitivity. She said, "Who said anything about climbing the mountain? Let's go exploring. I think I saw a grizzly bear right up there." She pointed at a talus slope up the hill from us. The jumble of rocks was low on the slope and solidly anchored, a perfectly safe place to walk.
"OK," I said. "Let's go look at the griz."
We walked up the hill, and Shasta said, "See, I was right. There is a grizzly."
I looked in the direction she was pointing. I didn't see a grizzly. "Where?" I asked.
Shasta rolled her eyes in exaggerated impatience and said, "Dad, open your eyes."
She walked over to what looked just like a boulder to me and continued, "See, here's the griz."
Then she pointed to another rock and said, "There's a caribou." Then another rock, "Look: a moose."
In about five minutes, she managed to identify almost every large North American mammal and a few from Africa -- all of them, right there in that rock pile.
Properly admonished, I had to admit that she was better at spotting wildlife than I.
Shasta working on her pictograph.
"Want me to draw some of them for you?" she asked.
I thought about saying, "But we didn't bring any art supplies." However I was finally beginning to catch on. Instead, I said, "Sure, draw me some critters."
Delighted at the opportunity, Shasta selected a large, flat boulder, picked up a fist-sized scribing rock and went to work. Before long, I had been thoroughly schooled in the art of second-grade pictography -- and I had to admit that the drawings weren't much less precise than some of the Stone Age pictographs that I had studied as an anthropology student in college. The drawings were idealized realism at its best.
We spent the rest of the afternoon discovering the many wonders of that rock pile, including dinosaur eggs, an Indian village, and a rocket ship. It was quite an education. If it hadn't been for Shasta, I would have overlooked all those wonders that dwelt right there on that talus slope.
A Yaak cow moose getting a drink of lake water.
That evening, we sat in front of the campfire, poking at the coals and talking.
"Daddy," Shasta said. "Are there really grizzly bears around here?"
"Yes," I answered. "There are a few, but they're getting scarcer every year."
"Right around here?" she asked.
"Well, there could be, but the odds are against any being right here, right now. We'd have to be pretty lucky to see one."
"Lucky?"
"Sure. Think about it. How many people in the world have even a chance of maybe seeing a grizzly bear in the wild?"
"OK, I see what you mean. We would be lucky to see one ... I guess. Why are they so rare, anyway?"
"Because we humans are pushing them out of the places they live -- their habitat."
"Will they all die soon?"
"I hope not. If we work hard enough to protect them, grizzlies will be around a long time."
"Humans would protect grizzlies?"
"Yes, many people believe that grizzlies have as much right to live as we do. I’m one of those people.”
"Would you shoot a grizzly?"
Grizzly track from the Yaak.
"Yes, but only to protect you and me."
"Are they really dangerous?"
"They can be, but most of the time, they avoid humans. People seldom see them right around here."
"Then we probably won't see one, right?"
"Right."
Shasta poked at the fire and scrunched a little closer to me, then she continued, "Dad, did you bring a gun?"
"I always do when we come to the backcountry."
"Good. But you won't use it unless you have to, right?"
"Right."
"But you will use it, if you have to, right?"
"Right."
"OK, let's hit the sack."
"OK."
Have you had a great outdoor experience? Join Global Outdoors and write a review to tell everyone about it! We’re building the home for trusted reviews of outdoor experiences, outfitters, and guides.
