I walked out onto the peninsula. The peninsula was the only structure, the only protruding shape to speak of on the small lake, save for a rotten dock on another side. From its widest point at the shore the peninsula was about six feet wide, and fifteen feet out it came to a rounded point. Weeds just below the water’s surface flanked it on both sides, but at the point the water that met it was clear of weeds, and a mixture of large rocks and a soft mud bottom usually held suspended Sunfish and small Bass looking for a meal.
I looked back to find Jacob had come to stand next to me, looking out as I had so many times when I was his age. He pointed out the Sunfish just out of arms reach in front of us and spotted the ten inch Bass holding still on the edge of the weeds about twelve feet out, excitement in his voice. This little peninsula, this small piece of dirt and rocks covered in soft, bushy tufts of tall grass was the absolute best place for a grandfather and a grandson to sit side by side or back to back with a bucket of worms between them.
And for so many years, that was exactly what my grandfather and I had done, on this very spot. What little history of the lake I knew, was nothing compared to the history my grandfather and I had shared and made fishing here together. The lake was shaped like a fat “L”, almost like a boomerang. Standing on the peninsula looking right, the lake went a good two-hundred yards or more before its water mixed in with mud and cattails. This was my favorite end, about four feet deep give or take, a solid carpet of weed bed covering the entire bottom and three large groupings of huge lily pads. The ultimate playground for Bass looking to crush frogs and Dragon Flies hiding and resting in the water foliage.
Looking straight out from the peninsula the lake was a good three-hundred yards or so long with a small concrete dam at its far left. I had asked about the dam when I was very young and Grandpa had told me that it had been built to create the lake, to provide a source of water for the steam locomotives that once traveled the railroads. When I asked when that was, the answer, of course, was “A long time ago”.
I had also been told once that at some point, there was a rod and gun club somehow associated with the lake, and that when my father and all his cousins came here to fish when they were children, the small lake held Trout and Bullheads. What kind of Trout I didn’t know, but not the Largemouth Bass that ruled it now. In fact only two years earlier, talking with Wanda down in the barn with Jacob standing beside me on his first trip to the farm, we had gotten on the subject of when my great grandfather used to bring my father and his cousins to the lake when they were young children. Not only was the Lake stocked with Trout…But my great grandfather fly fished it!
I remember having two thoughts standing there in that old barn during that conversation. The first was that with Jacob there for his first fishing trip to the farm, he was the fifth generation of my family to fish this place. And I thought that made it even more special. And second, after Wanda telling me that her Uncle Walter, my Jaja (Great Grandpa in Polish) fly fished, and did it here, well, that was it. That was the kick in the pants, the motivation I needed, to pick up my fly rod and actually learn, actually become a fly fisherman. It was finally in reach. I guess you could say I finally realized it was in my blood.
Fish or Die! 