The Last Great Fishing Trip

The Last Great Fishing Trip
by
Brian Barnett
Growing up I was never a stranger to fishing. I can’t remember exactly how many times I went fishing, but an extensive compilation of memories tell me it was relatively often.
There is a picture of me with my first fish dangling from the line as I posed for the camera with my Dad at my side. I can still vaguely remember that day. I can also remember countless trips taken with my Papaw on his boat to the Kentucky River, or various surrounding lakes: Beaver, Taylorsville and Shelby Lakes all come to mind.
Never in my life have I been a morning person. I’m still not a morning person. But on those mornings that my dad woke me and reminded me that I needed to get ready to go fishing with my Papaw, I sprang out of bed and dressed in mere minutes.
I don’t know if my Papaw ever knew it or not, but I looked forward to those fishing trips almost as much as Christmas morning. I would dress in warm clothes and wear a light jacket on the way to my Dad’s truck. The drive to my Papaw’s house couldn’t have been more than five minutes, but it seemed more than twice that long.
On the way over, I would wonder if he had the boat ready and hitched to his truck. I remember getting there and seeing the tarp pulled off the boat and knowing that within a few minutes our trip would begin. Dad would walk me in the house and Papaw would be preparing our day’s lunch. I remember the sandwiches being either bologna or Dixie loaf and cheese. I typically went with bologna.
He would wrap the sandwiches in sandwich bags and toss a couple Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies in the lunch box for good measure. He would have a small cooler with ice that he would pack cans of Pepsi. He always had his thermos with his coffee. The trips were good indeed. We ate like kings. We did in my mind, anyway.
When lunch was packed, Papaw would load it into the back of the truck. It had a topper, I remember, and the bed liner was a sort of plastic that generated high voltage static shocks. I was a victim to that several times.
The last step before our departure was to grab the fishing poles. They were stocked in the shed at the end of the driveway. The smell of must and gasoline was intoxicating. There was nothing better than the smell of that old shed.
I would grab my fishing pole. I remember it had a sticker on the reel that had a rhino on it. Papaw would typically grab at least two to three poles. So, not to be outdone, I would go ahead and grab both my poles. I was a major fisherman, after all.
He would grab his tackle box. I remember that it unfolded with several layers of trays that folded outward. They always revealed a treasure-trove of lures, swivels and hooks. In the bottom, there were stringers, pliers and other essential tools of the trade.
I had a small green tackle box. Mine opened to reveal one or two trays. I was proud of my accumulative arrangement of lures and such. It was slightly embarrassing to change lures in front of Papaw. The grandeur of his tackle box seemed to make mine cower in response.
Finally, the truck would be loaded and we would pull out of the driveway. I can remember shivering at times. Papaw would turn the heat on the truck. I never told him that I wasn’t cold. I shivered from excitement. That is absolute truth. I don’t know how many kids do that, but I remember doing it often.
Before leaving Frankfort, if we did indeed go to a lake, we would stop by Hardee’s. He would order a few sausage and biscuits and a coffee. I got an orange juice and nursed it along the way. This was tradition, written in stone. Nearly every time I order Hardee’s breakfast now, I reminisce about my breakfasts of the years of yore. Well, not that yore, I’m not very old yet.
Once we made it to the lake, whichever it was, we would cruise to tributaries that seemed promising. I never knew one from the other. I just wanted to throw my line in somewhere.
I always thought his fish-finder was, by far, the coolest piece of technological equipment ever created. Yes, even exceeding the Nintendo my parents got me.
Small, fish-shaped blips would appear below us according to the fish-finder. I can remember thinking we would have the upper hand since we knew they were below us. The first time I threw my line in the water and watched the fish-finder, I expected to see my bait show up on the screen. I was young, give me a break.
The fish never reacted on the monitor, but somehow Papaw always found them in great volume. I’m not talking about the ones on the fish-finder either. He found them well away from the boat. I remember marveling at his ability to catch a dozen to my one at any given time. He was an amazing fisherman. I remember that well.
Occasionally, I would catch one worthy of hanging on to. There was a couple holding tanks on the boat. He only used one tank to hold fish. The other had life jackets, oars and such. I remember asking if I could pull the plug to let the water in. They had a spring tensioned lid that I would raise and check in on our prized catches. In fact, I did repeatedly.
Even if we didn’t keep the fish to eat, I like to watch them swim in the box. My fish were typically smaller in comparison, but they were there nonetheless, along side of my Papaw’s fish. On the days we did keep the fish, I would replace the plug and he would clean the fish in the back yard. I would gag and go inside to talk with Mammaw. She laughed at me. I can remember that too. Most the time, we decided to just release the fish before leaving.
Soon, too soon, the afternoon would roll around and my jacket would come off. It’s amazing how fast a lake can warm up in a matter of a few hours. We would eat lunch. No, we didn’t have any hand sanitizers. There were just a few rags with clean patches of fabric between the grimy fish-smelling spots.
The sandwiches always, always improved with age. The sun warmed the cheese and it was soft against the bologna. My mouth is watering for those delicacies now. There was, and still is, no better sandwich.
Finally, the trip would be over. We would ride back to the house. I would be sleepy and so would he. It was a full day for sure. I remember keeping myself awake by sticking my hand out the window. I would cup my hand and the wind resistance would blow against it hard. Then, I would wiggle my hand, so it could weave through the air current. Yeah, I remember that too as weird as it may seem.
With all that said, probably the most memorable fishing trip included my Papaw, my Dad and me. It was the last trip the three of us would take. We went sometime in early or mid-summer of 2001. It was on a local farm, in a pond. We fished for bass. I’m a terrible bass fisherman, but I didn’t care. The intimidation factor was not going to keep me away.
I remember when Dad asked me if I wanted to go fishing with him and Papaw. I remember hoping that it was not the last chance for Papaw to go fishing. I knew he had cancer, but I didn’t know to what degree. I remember thinking, “Yeah, right. Papaw’s last fishing trip? Never, the man is going to live forever.” I was wrong. That trip is now one of my favorite family memories and I hope that one day, old age doesn’t take it away from me.
Never before had I actually fished for bass intentionally. Growing up, I was satisfied with nearly anything being on the hook when I reeled it in. A bass for me would be a big deal, especially if it was a size that could be kept.
While Dad and Papaw were taking their positions around the pond, I cast out my line. My very first time throwing the line in the water, I caught a bass. It was a dandy. It was literally the biggest one that would be caught all day by any of us. I put it on the stringer. It turned out to be the only one that I would catch all day. I didn’t care. That’s not what good fishing is about for me.
Papaw and Dad had better luck. Papaw caught at least fourteen if my memory is correct. All of them were twelve inches or bigger. He kept only about a half dozen. Dad caught dozens. Unfortunately, they were all tiny. Yes, we laughed hardily at his haul.
At the end of the day, Dad’s co-worker, Hootie, told us to pose for a picture. At the time, it was no big deal to me. Looking back, I can’t tell him how much that blurry picture means to me. The three of us leaned on the open tailgate of Papaw’s truck with our bounty on a stringer. My lone monster bass, one tiny bass from Dad, and a half dozen “keepers” at Papaw’s end.
There are no words that can express how much I miss my Papaw. I am so happy that I have such great memories of him. That last fishing trip sticks out as one of the best, no matter how bittersweet.
One day in the near future, I look forward to waking up my sons, Michael and Sebastian. After he springs out of bed in anticipation, I’ll drive him to his Papaw’s and let him shiver in excitement as he continues a newly minted Barnett tradition.
I will probably stay behind at least a few times to let him build memories of his Papaw as I did. I will envy him. Not because of the fishing per se, but from those child’s eyes, nothing, not hardly even Christmas, can top those great mornings.
Category:Stories from the Barnett Family
Category:Fishing Stories
Category:Stories