Bruce’s guppies
My first memory of fishing and perhaps the most vivid, was also a day spent with brother Nick. I’m not sure this is correct, but it is what arrives when I think of my youth. It comes to me in fits and bursts, but I see a picture of Nick and me on a dock on what I remember as the Ecola Creek, but not sure if that is right. The thing that stands out in my mind is the first fish I ever caught. I believe it was a freshwater perch. Not a large fish, but as my first, it was a momentous moment. As I landed my opponent, Nick looked on with pride and amusement. The Perch, flopping on the dock, knew it had been defeated but would nonetheless not stop its fight. Nick pulled his leather strapped hunting knife and handed it to me, saying, “you need to stop its suffering. Take aim and hit it over the head”. I hesitated briefly, but Nick’s assurance and confidence in me soon had my arm raised, knife held between my thumb and first finger, and the handle flying toward the flopping perch. The next moment was completely unexpected for both of us. As the knife handle landed, my landed perch gave birth to a dozen or so babies. I was frozen in time and space; Nick told me to gather up the guppies and get them in the water. I did, silently and stunned. Nick explained that sometimes fish have babies and sometimes they lay eggs. I can still feel the little fish squirming in my fingers. I also remember the pride I felt in catching a fish – which by the way was delicious. Thank you Nick, for that experience, and for the fact that memory lays a foundation for our future selves – happy that you are a part of that foundation.
Mark’s corky and yarn
Another thing that has resonated through my whole life: steelhead fishing with brother Nick. We still lived at Montgomery – meaning I wasn’t even 7 yet and we would get in the El Camino (“blue devil”) and head for the coast range. Drank black coffee that had enough sugar in it to make Gommie’s eye brows raise. Drive in the pre-dawn black to the banks of a wild river. Magic. Forests shrouded in fog. Plying for sleek steelhead beneath the placid surface with corky and yarn or roe in borax. Bumping the river bottom with slinkies, no way to know what was or wasn’t there but feeling what might be there… Rich coast air filled with cedar and alder and dairy and wet with mystery. That was enough to keep a kid thinking about the woods and wilds for a LONG time! Thanks so much Brother Nick!
Greg’s whale
I have a fishing memory with brother Nick also. We climbed in the El Camino and drove forever to the mouth of the Deschutes. We hiked in and another fisherman hooked a rattlesnake? In my memory I had one of the trusty Porter family little spinning rods. Nick helped me set it up for bouncing a weight down the river and explained the how to’s. Then fishing began. It wasn’t long before I felt a tug. Nick had instructed me to pull hard to set the hook. Fish on!!! With the little rod it felt like trying to land a whale. Nick talked me through to pulling out my first steelhead. Though it was a hen that was probably almost done by the time I latched onto her, the memory of her running with the adrenaline rush that produced is still vivid. My memory says Nick was gracious and complimentary at the time. He was gentle as we released her and watched her swim away. After being skunked the rest of our time, we went back to our campsite where he cooked one of the signature meals of my life. Being ravenous at that point, I can still taste those delicious hamburger patties and instant mash potatoes! For a hungry kid it was gourmet. I remember Nick being patient, good natured, happy to be taking his kid brother on an adventure. I’m eternally grateful brother Nick.
Too many tom cod
Sad to say, I never have been fishing with Nick either-not in the sense of having him take me out when he was a fishing guide. I am pretty sure the number of fish I caught in my life would have been higher if I had. However, both of us started our fishing careers on the pier at Siletz Bay (though then we called it Taft Bay). I think it was probably when we were about 9 and 7 maybe. Bompop took us down to the bait shack, got us poles and bait and set us on the edge of the pier with baited hooks. My recollection is that he left us there for a good while–perhaps he was just having coffee with the man who ran the place– because he seemed to know everyone—but there we sat pulling in fish we were told later were ‘tom cod’. ( I had to look to see if there were such a thing–Microgadus proximus). By the time Bompop returned we had twenty some —the most fish I’ve ever caught. We told Bompop we wanted to take them back to the house (our rental place in Nelscott) so Mom could cook them. I recall Mom looking a little taken aback when we presented our catch, but they were cooked up– pan fried with cornmeal batter and salt n pepper. They were incredibly bony. But it was a great adventure I won’t forget.