Gone Fishing

A short story by Dave Howe June 9, 2026

It was Saturday morning in the summer of 1957. I was twelve. After breakfast Mom gave me the good news. “Your Dad says he’s taking you fishing tomorrow. He wants you to try to catch some grasshoppers.”

I perked up. “Can you pull down the stairs for the attic so I can get my fishing gear? Did he say where we’re going? What should I wear? I’ve got to tell Larry that I won’t be able to play tomorrow.” Then I remembered the grasshoppers. “Do you have any old bread bags I can use for grasshoppers?”

Mom smiled, “I think you’re going to Stonyford. Wear your jeans and a jacket, it could get cold.” She reached into the bottom drawer. “Better take two. One for you and one for your Dad.” The bags said Wonder. They smelled good.

Out in the garage Mom pulled down the stairs to the attic. I ran up the stairs and pulled the string to turn on the bare light bulb. Off to the right was the pile of fishing equipment. On the left were the M1 rifles belonging to the VFW. Those were off limits.

I selected the collapsible fishing pole from the disorganized pile. It was about twelve inches long now, but when extended would be nearly six feet long. Perfect for trout. The only reel I could find was a spinning reel, not ideal but it could work. My creel was there, still full of grass from our last trip. The grass was dry and still smelled like fish. I made sure there was a packet of split shot, lead weights. For leader I selected a reel of two-pound test. That would be enough for the small fish we would catch. The creel already contained two packs of hooks in tiny plastic boxes, silver number four for grasshoppers and gold number tens for salmon eggs.

Back downstairs I collected mom’s whisk broom and headed out the door. The best place to look for grasshoppers was the second creek, two miles west of town on the road to the golf course.

As I marched out Hillgate Road I shouldered the broom like an army rifle. I watched the almond orchards for signs of dry grass. Nothing today. At the creek I went downstream towards Johnny Cochran’s house.

Almost immediately I came across dry grass and some grasshoppers. The strategy was simple. I would sneak up on one and when I was about three feet away I would swing the whisk broom down on top. That would stun them so I could walk up and catch them. Then I pinched their head until it crunched. That would keep them alive but not able to jump out of the bag when it came time to put them on the hook. I wanted ten per bag but after an hour I decided five each would be enough.

As I climbed out of the dry creek I spotted a large, dark lizard sunning itself on a piece of wood. I couldn’t resist. Taking a long piece of grass I stripped off the leaves until I had a single strand about three feet long. I tied a slip knot at the end, leaving a loop of about one inch. I crept up on the lizard, reaching the noose over his head. One quick jerk and he was mine.

Once he was in my hands I turned him over. He was a blue-belly. I rubbed his tummy and put him to sleep, then set him back on his piece of wood.

Heading back home I stopped at Joe Hornline’s tomato field. The pump was bringing up fresh water directly from the well so I drank some and splashed water on my face. I picked a nice juicy tomato and ate it on the spot.

I ran home so I would have time to lay out my clothes for tomorrow.

Next morning mom woke me up. It was still dark outside. I was careful not to wake my brothers. We shared the bedroom, the three of us.

Dad met me in the hall and we went into the garage so he could check my stuff. Mom made breakfast and packed us lunch. Peanut butter sandwiches and an apple each.

It was still dark when we loaded our stuff into the pickup and made our way out of town. We drove north to Maxwell and turned west onto a one-lane road. Stonyford was about an hour’s drive and the sun was finally coming up when we arrived at Red Bridge. We wouldn’t fish there because that is where Fish and Game stocked fish and we wanted native trout, further up the stream.

After about another half hour up a winding dirt road we arrived at the spot. Dad pulled the pickup as far off the road as he could. There wasn’t much room.

I opened the door and looked down. There wasn’t anything there. We were at the edge of a steep hill and there was no footing. “Whoa,” I shouted. “Be careful, it’s really steep here.”

“Don’t start down yet. Come get your gear. We’ll go down together.”

I reached around and got a hold of the truck bed, then climbed in. I crossed over and got down on the other side.

Dad met me. I grabbed my creel and fishing pole. Dad had his creel, a backpack and his fishing pole. We walked down the road to a spot he recognized. “Ready?” he said.

I looked down the embankment. It was so steep we couldn’t climb down, we would just slide. “I don’t know Dad. It looks too steep.”

“Just sit on your butt and keep your feet pointed down.”  He said, “Slide a little at a time. It levels out pretty soon.”

Dad started down first and I followed. We slid for about a hundred feet until we got to some young trees that we could grab. Then we slid, little by little until we got to a level spot. From there we walked to the edge of the canyon. The creek was at the bottom of a forty-foot drop, a real cliff.

Following the edge we reached a massive boulder. It was split right down the middle. Dad looked at me. “This is Split Rock,” he said. “We go down here.”

A thick hemp rope, grayed by winters and baked by the sun, hung down the center of the split, anchored to a tree at the top. Fist-sized knots were spaced every two feet. Dad went over first, disappearing into the shadow of the chasm.

I took a breath, gripped the rough hemp, and stepped backward into nothing.

Inside the split, the walls of the boulder towered above me. Everything seemed to echo. I wished I had worn my jacket. My boots skidded, sending a rattle of loose gravel clattering into the dark below. The rope bit into my palms as I swung out into the center of the crack. Dad had made it look smooth, but my legs flailed against the air. When I looked down between my feet, the white water of the stream looked crazy, roaring louder inside the stone chamber. Letting the rope sting my skin, I lowered myself until my feet finally hit solid ground.

The clear, cold stream crashed over granite boulders. It was twenty feet across, forcing me to leap between the grey stones to reach the other bank. Dad was there and he helped me set up my fishing gear. We worked our way upstream, one after another, leapfrogging. Dad settled into a fishing hole and I went ahead. When I found a good spot I stopped and put my line into the water. A few minutes later Dad passed me and went on upstream. This way we always knew where the other one was.

When I found a small eddy of calm water I dropped my line in. The secret was to let the bait gently sink in the calm water, then wash with the current. The trout usually rested in the eddies and bit at the bait just as it drifted past.

As soon as I caught my first fish it was time to prepare my creel. Lining the creel with grass was supposed to keep the fish fresh. I cleaned the fish and put it into the grass. Dad put four of his fish into my creel. The limit was ten fish, so we had to make sure neither creel contained more than ten.

After the fish ate all my grasshoppers I searched for something else to use for bait. The best choice was rock-rollers. They were larvae of caddisflies, the moth-like insects that live by the stream. The larvae live in the stream under the rocks.

Rock-rollers are little bugs about half an inch long. They live in a tube, a protective case that they disguise with small pebbles using saliva glue.

As I turned over a promising rock I found gold. Not actual gold, but a golden rock-roller. This particular rock-roller had disguised its home with small flakes of iron pyrite, fool’s gold. As I watched, the little bug stuck its head and legs out and crawled about, sparkling gold in the clear water.

I was watching it, instead of fishing, when Dad came looking for me. “We’d better get going before it gets dark.”

Our way up, out of the canyon was much easier than coming down. At the top of the canyon the stream finally climbed to the same height as the road. At the bridge where the road went across, we left the stream and started the hike back to the truck.

“How many fish did you catch?” Dad asked.

“Three,” I answered. “How many did you catch?”

“I caught ten, the limit. Did you clean your fish?”

“Yep. I used the knife you bought me.”

“Good job. Now let’s get them home. Maybe we can have them for breakfast.”