Gone Fishing

A couple of Sundays ago, our friends invited us to spend the afternoon at Smith's Trout Farm. The sign in Alexander Valley is one we've passed many times, but it wasn't something we would ever have chosen to explore on our own. In fact, I would have said fishing was close to last on the list of things I like to spend time doing.

As it turns out, we had a pretty darn good time. Smith's Trout Farm is a quaint green oasis that probably hasn't changed much since it was founded in 1940. Little kids can still grab a willow dipper pole for no charge and pretend to fish or actually fish all day long. It's only open on Saturdays and Sundays. Fly-fishermen can practice, but the worm-and-bobber types are in the majority. Everybody catches something. No catch and release: you pay by the fish, and take what you catch, cleaned and iced for you on the spot. So, in addition to the cheeses and myriad snacks we brought, and the hot dogs on the grill for lunch, we had fresh-caught grilled trout. (You kill it; you eat it. Period.) Yes, they're farmed, and no, I don't think they are organic. The adults (ok, just me) seemed far more traumatized than the kids about the whole catching a fish and then killing it routine. Mike proved himself to be a quick and humane fish dispatcher.

I was taught to fish by my dad. After graduating from the plastic toy fishing set in the wading pool in my grandparents Aptos backyard, we were given little kid's poles, which were kept in a closet in the garage with the skis. Sitting by the side of the fishing pond, with a kid in my lap and a pole in my hand, showing her how to cast the line and reel it in slowly, and watch for other poles-- and hooks-- as she walked, I couldn't help but think of fishing in Alaska with my family. My grandparents lived there when I was in elementary school, and when I was 7, we went up for a visit. It is there that I discovered my love of all things shellfish, especially shrimp and crab--king crab and snow crab, with giant spiny legs as long as my arm, full of sweet meat. Now that I think about it, it was probably as much about getting to dip everything in melted butter as it was about the crab itself.

There is a picture somewhere of my sister and I, holding a string of a dozen or so trout, by the side of an Alaskan trout stream/pond. I don't remember being particularly traumatized by the killing of the trout, though I do remember trying to resuscitate some big, beautiful, silvery fish my dad brought home and put in the garage sink some time later. Dad hunted--birds, mainly-- and fished, so there was often something interesting to check out on the back porch or in the garage sink. The cats thought so, too. They demolished a pair of pheasants Dad had waiting on the steps, leaving a trail of beautiful multi-colored feathers, feet and beaks. Pulling the tendons of the severed feet would cause the feet to grip, providing an interesting if slightly gruesome early anatomy lesson.

I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the act of fishing. I don't know if I could cast a fly, though I think I could, but I can still throw a baited hook pretty darn well. And though I don't fish for fun as a rule, there was something not primal, but certainly fundamental about it. A generation taking long-standing survival skills from the generation before and handing them down to the next.