The last fish...

A tribute to my Grandfather who has been gone many years now, but thought about every day...

I was too young to face the tough reality of what was really going on.  He was old enough to appreciate it.  Years later, and several attempts to muster the words through the tears and I too have reached an age where I was old enough...old enough to know that it would be an injustice for the tears to ever go away...

I spent more time watching him, than paying attention to where my lure splashed down in that small farm pond that afternoon.  His soft-spoken, impressive stature in my mind was a product of the respect I had for him, and what he had done for me.  He stood in the fox-tail along the bank casting that same ole bait-caster he almost always used, and with a small grin on his face, the one I had seen many times before, as if he knew something I didn't.

I thought back to the times we spent together.  The first trips to the gun club lake, after he submitted to constant begging, pleading, and bugging.  He would try to fish, but he spent the time untangling "bird's nests," pulling hooks out of the cracks in the dock and teaching a youngster how to hold a bluegill and NOT poke a hole in his hand.  His level of patience surpassed anything I could hope to achieve as an adult.  There was even a time or two when he had to "fish" a rod out of the water after someone threw it in, naturally blaming it all on the slimy bluegills!

I remember the first trip to that same farm pond, where of course he quietly and calmly landed the biggest bass of the day without uttering so much as a hoot or a holler.

There were the adventures where he taught me to find my own bait, most notably, the great worms off the "Indian Cigar" trees, that only years later did I learn were really called Catalpa Trees.

My daydream state was snapped back to reality as a large-mouth exploded on top water just down the shore from my location. The sun was lower now, and the bright light reflected off the water into our faces, shining beautifully on the still rippling water.  Being the ambitious young fisherman, I quickly tied on the biggest, ugliest buzz bait I could find in my mess of a tackle box.

I came up ready to cast and I got another one of "those" looks from him.  The "that thing ain't gonna work" look.  I smiled and ripped the big lure into the air, as a fine mist fell off the line in the setting sun, I began to crank before it had even hit the water.  The bait came to the surface "chunking" along and only feet from the weed line in front of us a bass exploded on the bait!  I landed the chunky two pound large-mouth and smiled back at him as for once...yes once...I was right.  I tried to talk him into tying one on, and he refused...until I landed the third fish, and as he chuckled, he asked me what I was using as if he didn't know.  I proudly tied another big ugly buzz bait on his line and we set to churning up the water!

The sun had almost fallen below the tree line and the orange glow was like some scene from a movie or a cover of "Field and Stream."  He stood only feet from where we had started the day, and the setting sunlight engulfed him.  I was suddenly overwhelmed and tears welled up as a huge weight pressed down on me as I just had a feeling this may be the last time we ever fished together.  I was young, but not too young...and though I refused to face the reality, I understood all too well what was happening, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Once again an explosion of water on the surface interrupted my thoughts and this time it was met with Grandpa setting the hook!  I threw my rod down and ran down the bank to where he was.  He was in a good fight and struggling to keep the fish coming in, suddenly the bass launched itself out of the water and in the setting sun it appeared to remain motionless, frozen in time against the giant ball of orange, one of those moments you wish could go on forever...as the moment came back to reality I thought to myself it was the biggest large-mouth I have ever seen!  I cheered him on and he worked the fish closer and closer, finally into the heavy weed line at the bank.  I leaped off the bank into the water, preparing to land the fish, it rolled in the water and we got to see it clearly at the surface...a nine-pound fish if it was an ounce!  Then the unthinkable happened, he put tension on the line even though the big fish was rolled up in the weeds, just out of my reach and to my horror...the line snapped.

I was devastated, until I looked at him.  He had that same grin again.  I just stared at him in confusion, how could a fisherman of his caliber make such a rookie mistake?  He had taught me the exact opposite so many times before.  I realize now, it was no mistake.  He was at a point near the end of his life, and he knew it.  He didn't need to hold that fish, or take it home, and I believe he took pleasure in sharing that battle and ending it early, knowing that fish would be there for someone else, perhaps even his grandson.  I wasn't sure at that moment what had happened, but I felt an incredible sense of pride, I did not complain or razz him, in fact, I said nothing at all, we just watched the sun finish its decent, setting on a great man and his grandson.

It was the last fish he didn't catch.

In Memory of my Grandpa "Otie" and our last fishing trip.

Corey Suter