For several years, my older daughter and I had a Memorial Day tradition. We would drive up to Vallecito Reservoir in Colorado, camp for a couple of nights, and fish.
We used my little twelve-foot aluminum boat—the same boat I had originally bought from my brother.
One year we were out on the reservoir and weren’t having much luck.
At some point an old timer paddled by. He told us we might do better near the inlet, fishing off the bottom.
It sounded as good as anything we were doing, so we putt-putted over there, dropped anchor, and gave it a try.
The old timer knew what he was talking about.
Before long, we started catching a trout or two.
Then I hooked something different.
I could tell immediately that this wasn’t one of the trout we’d been catching.
I said to my daughter, “This one is really big—get the net.”
She didn’t believe me.
“Oh, right.”
Apparently I had established some history in this department.
“No, I’m not kidding this time.”
The rod was doubling over.
Eventually I managed to bring the fish to the surface.
It was huge.
And this is the part of the story I remember with the most pleasure.
My daughter was ready with the net, and when the time came, she netted that fish very efficiently.
No fumbling around. No knocking the fish off the hook. She just did it.
That was the best part.
I was proud of her.
We took the fish back to the dock and had it weighed.
Five pounds.
A five-pound brown trout.
I’ve caught a lot of fish in my life, and I’ve spent a lot of days on the water. But when I think about that particular fish, the thing I remember most isn’t its size.
I remember my daughter sitting there in that little aluminum boat with me.
I remember telling her to get the net.
I remember her thinking I was kidding.
And most of all, I remember watching her net that big brown trout.
It remains one of my fondest fishing memories.
This happened to me.