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Home » Blog » Facile Fishing

Facile Fishing

June 2, 2021 | Uncategorized

2020-2021 Youth Writing Contest Special Recognition – Senior Category – Maine (Grades 9–12)

Facile Fishing

Eliza Lowell, Shapleigh, Age 14 Grade 9, Massabesic High School

When you’re a child, almost nothing feels like a day out in the North Maine Woods with your family.

I was seven years old the first time I went brook fishing, and I still remember the day vividly. I was equipped with an orange vest and a bright orange fishing pole. To me, an orange pole was so neat; I had the brightest one among the trio walking along the brook. The trio consisted of me, my father, and my grandfather.

Everyone was expecting to have a fun day fishing. At the time, “brookies” seemed so neat. My dad talked about them a lot; I was ready to catch my own.

Before this date, I’d been only a few times. Rather than being on a fast-running, thin body of water, it had been deep lake fishing. To a child, that was boring. I grew up without an ounce of patience. Now it was a matter of waiting far less. You weren’t in a boat, and you got to walk along all of the rocks and dip your toes into the bubbling brook.

I remember being so bothered every time the quick flow of the water stole the bait off the hook.

“Why can’t we catch anything yet?” I asked.

“Because they aren’t biting yet, Hun,” my grandfather replied.

So I kept casting the line in and out of the water. We tried a few different spots, and my family members had each managed to get a small brook trout. Me? Nothing. Just a few bites, but the fish hadn’t stayed on.

I think I was starting to get bothered and was rushing just a bit too much. It was at this time I realized I’d messed up. Instead of a fish, I managed to catch myself with a fishing hook! It was just barely in the skin on my leg. Thankfully, I ended up fine; I was just shaken up. It made me more determined to try just a bit harder.

“Can we move again?”

“You’re being impatient,” came the reply. “Just wait.” My poor family was forced to put up with my antics.

And so I did. I waited.

Was it worth it? Yes!

This brookie was just waiting for me to snatch it up in a thalweg. Everything was slightly calmer there, and a little waterfall was pooling into it. The trout had grabbed my hook.

“Oh my! Dad! Grandpa! There’s a fish!”

Even with all the strength my seven-year-old body had, there wasn’t enough to get this fish up out of the water. My dad and grandfather grabbed onto me to help pull the fish in. When I couldn’t get it with the help, my grandfather stepped in and reeled the fish in.

In my brain, however, it had been my work. “Wow! Look what I did!”

It was the biggest fish among the group.

“Great job, Eliza!” they said.

With an immense amount of pride, I put the fish into my vest pocket.

That night, I realized I didn’t enjoy eating brook trout.

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