Fly fishing -- even with the addition of a slashing guitar soundtrack -- is still a fussy sport, and if you don't believe it, I'm inviting you to the next iteration of the Mount Shasta fish hatchery's Kid's Fishing Day.

Let me explain.

I snuck out Friday afternoon for a quick, 90-minute trip to a local stream, employing the usual effete practices to catch the usual 7"-8" trout.

You know the drill. The pained pursuit of the perfect drift. Casting from my knees. Reading the water like a Wall Street trader reads the bonus list. A determined focus on nice loops.


All while using whisper-thin tippet and a toy-like fly rod.

If you're like me, you catch tiny, fragile trout before releasing them (oh-so-gently) into the crystal clear mountain stream.

A day later, I realized I might as well fish with my pinkies raised and a pot of Earl Grey brewing in my pack.

That's because I got up early Saturday morning for a Little M-fueled trip to the Mt. Shasta fish hatchery's Free Kids Fishing Day. Which -- trust me here -- is a lot less... effete.

"Sure Meski, it's perfectly safe. Why do you ask?" 

If you didn't read last year's extensive report on The Troutpocalypse, let me refresh you.

Take a small, tree-lined pond at the hatchery (let's say half the size of a football field). Fill it with catchable-and-better-sized hatchery trout, then add a few trout big enough to drag your average small child into the water (and maybe even maul her).

Onto this pastoral scene project a mob of small children waving fishing rods tipped with razor-sharp fishing hooks.

It goes without saying that being small children, they suffer from a startling lack of situational awareness at the best of times. And in terms of adrenaline, this was clearly not the best of times.

Add to the mix a handful of clearly flummoxed parents, edging-towards-pushy little league parents, would-be poacher parents, a handful of real fishing pros, and at least one effete fly fishing dad.

Dante's Inferno isn't half so frightening.

Minutes Later...

The night before I invested a good 45 minutes finding and rigging a spinning rod. The reel was loaded with wispy 6 pound line, and to that I attached a lead-free split shot manufactured in England, a "trapped air reservoir" indicator that cost enough that I didn't want to to lose it, and a hook sharpened by military-grade lasers.

(In a rare Underground equipment review, let me say that a 6', bright-yellow fiberglass spinning rod [line weight 2-6 pounds] makes a fine tool whenever small children face hatchery trout in a small pond.)

When I bragged a little about the setup to fellow dad and freelancer Marc (who is Dutch and has little use for showboating), he only said "Perhaps simpler would be better for this."

Damn. He was right.

After Little M and I found the perfect spot (the fish were cruising pretty rapidly at this point, so there was no perfect spot), I stuck the nightcrawler on the hook, we co-lobbed it 12 feet from the bank, and in exactly 3.34 seconds, a trout ate the crawler, pulling the trapped air reservoir under the surface.

Assuming it was one of the "catchable" trout, I helped Little raise the rod to set the hook, and then (foolishly) let go so she could experience The Thrill Of The Fight
on her own.

The damn thing almost dragged her in.

The fish was stronger than I expected, and yes -- I hadn't checked until that very moment -- the drag was maybe a bit on the tight side.

Little M offered what amounted to a happy squeal, which ended abruptly.

Being a fisherman long before I was a dad, I looked up briefly to see who noticed we'd hooked up in seconds (I plead megalomania). When I looked back down, Little M was two feet closer to the water than she'd been a second ago.

And heading down the bank to the water.

Erp.

Bad Dad

I got a hand on her before I officially tendered my entry in the "Bad Dad Of The Year Contest," loosened the drag, and then the damned fish basically tore her (and I) up.

Eventually, it tired and a nice older gentlemen netted it for us (I'm glad he did, because I was giving some serious thought to throwing a rock at the thing).

Being as I was acting in the capacity of a guide, I'm happy to suggest the trout was 20 inches easy (meaning maybe 17" tops). It definitely impressed in the cooler (catch and release was strictly disallowed, two fish limit).

Being a 4.5 year old instead of a Real Fly Fisherman, Little M was unimpressed by the magnitude of her catch. In fact, her first question wasn't "Am I cool or what?" Instead, it was "Why is the fish so icky?"

The second was "Can we go to the ice cream store now?"

However warped, you've got to admire a kid with priorities.

Rubber trout in a plastic cooler. 

We stayed long enough to dangle a cured salmon egg under the trapped air reservoir device (fishing a nightcrawler seemed to risk another encounter with a big fish). The egg took 10.28 seconds to score an 11-inch trout, which we landed without any real drama.

At this point, our heroes should simply ride into the ice cream sunset with our cooler of rubber trout, but it's never that simple.

I thought Little M gave our jar of salmon eggs to the kids fishing next to us, but it turns out she simply poured most of them into the effete fishing lanyard pouch I made her wear so everyone would know she was the kid of a real fisherman.

Unfortunately, I didn't learn she'd poured the eggs into the pouch (and left them there over the course of the 90+ degree weekend) until I walked into my office this morning and realized Something Was Very, Very Wrong.

Toxically wrong.

Some people return from these father/daughter fishing trips with little more than the sanitized, sparkling memories.

Little M apparently thought that wasn't enough.

See you in a hazmat suit, Tom Chandler.