By KAREN MADORIN
From the first time my dad took me fishing, it enchanted me, and it’s not just catching fish. It’s like diggin’ taters; you don’t know what you’ll get 'til you’ve got it. A recent Saturday trip to a friend’s catch and release farm pond with our youngest and her eldest retrieved old memories and made new ones.
Getting ready to fish is a marathon. Thank goodness, my hubs keeps track of tackle and poles while I focus on providing sustenance to those tempting underwater denizens with lures and worms.
Our local market stocked perfect supplies to satisfy fisher-people from a nine-year-old to Gramps: Old Trapper beef jerky, cheese curds, watermelon and strawberry chunks, yogurt raisins, water, and fruit drinks. Once I loaded the cooler and tossed in handi-wipes, paper towels, sun hat, long sleeve shirt, folding chair, and camera, we hit the road.
Our daughter lives closer to the pond, so we met her there. Upon arrival, my breathing slowed and tension seeped out of taut muscles. A perfect rippling pond surrounded by cottonwoods and other trees along with a homemade dock awaited our appearance.
Paradise.
Resident birds raised a ruckus as we settled along the bank. A sentinel--a solemn bullfrog--floated amidst knobby mosses while eye-balling invaders. Apparently, we didn’t alarm it much because it didn’t move. What a perfect model for photos once everyone else focused on serious fishing.
Within minutes our daughter reeled in a palm-sized blue gill that jazzed her kiddo’s desire to outfish momma. The tournament was on. That youngster, a focused fisherwoman, couldn’t wait to land a biggun’. Gramps watched and grinned.
After a spell of repeatedly casting and reeling in lures, once hopeful cast-meisters’ patience wore thin enough that hubs headed south while the blondes worked their way north through reeds and tall grass to the dock on the other side. It was me, bull frogs, and camera left to our own devices.
The fun began.
Don’t get me wrong. I love tossing a line and waiting for a bite, but I hadn’t shot nature photos for months. At that moment, I had two bullfrogs, hordes of red ear sliders, and raucous birds squabbling, in addition to loved ones offering poignant candids. I settled for the great photo ops before me.
When someone caught a fish, I focused the lens that direction, but the rest of the time, I searched for rippling reflections, eye-catching compositions using critters, water, moss, logs, trees, and leaves. Temps and breezes cooled me and kept bugs away so I could immerse myself in the moment until I heard another, “Got one.”
We spent a good three-plus hours reeling in not only blue gill but also small, medium, and large bass while turtles sunbathed on banks and fallen logs. Two performed energetic breast strokes through the water. Ripples from moving front legs framed heads peeking out of the water. Frogs floated in mossy beds, absorbed golden rays heating mottled amphibian flesh. Occasionally, I noted a pulse beating in their pale throats.
Now and then, loved ones headed back to refuel. As they snacked, I shared photos I snapped of them or local wildlife. Eventually, chores called, forcing us to abandon paradise to lucky fish, frogs, and turtles.