North Star Writers Group

I’m not very sophisticated when it comes to fishing. Give me a discount store rod and reel, a bobber, a hook and some worms and I’m happy as a lark, as my mother used to say.

I’ve been that way since I taught myself how to fish five decades ago in a scrawny little creek two blocks from the modest pre-World-War-II bungalow where I grew up.

I say taught “myself” because my father despised fishing almost as much as he despised onions and all cars not made by General Motors. Dad’s idea of a perfect fish was one that was deep fried, laid out on a plate and accompanied by a side of cole slaw.

Unfortunately, modern-day angling isn’t nearly as simple as it was back then and I blame that on, among other things, all of those dorky TV shows that feature fishermen who demonstrate their techniques by nailing fish nonstop for 30 minutes, not counting the brief timeouts for commercials.

The way I figure it, the reason those fishermen do that - but don’t quote me on this - is they get help from guys wearing wet suits who lurk off-camera in the water and attach huge fish to the show host’s artificial lure every 12 or 14 seconds.

Despite those TV shows, this fisherman has stuck with the bobber-hook-worm theory of angling for more than 50 years and has no plans to change his style any day soon despite the incredible variety of diving, wiggling, fluttering artificial lures on the market these days.

My youngest son, Chris, who loves fishing as much as I do, is just the opposite. He has all the bells and whistles of the sport, including six spinning rods. His four tackle boxes – one is roughly the same size as the state of Iowa – are filled to overflowing with more lures than you’ll find at most sporting goods stores.

The last time Chris and I fished together was in early August at pristine Union Lake in southern Michigan.

“You going with me in the boat?” he asked as we stepped into the chilly morning air to sip our coffee and watch the sun explode over the lake.

“No, I think I’ll just try my luck on the dock this morning,” I replied.

He shook his head like he always does. “I’ve told you before, forget the bobber-hook-worm thing because I always catch bigger fish than you and I do it because I use artificial lures. Let me leave you a few of mine to use, OK?”

“You can leave them,” I replied, “but I’ll still stick with the worms.”

After Chris – still shaking his head – eased the boat away from the dock and quickly disappeared into the gray-as-woodsmoke mist, I baited my hook with a worm and made a dazzling 10-foot cast, my $1.29 yellow and white bobber hitting the water with a soft plop.

I was about to take another slug of coffee when something hit my bait, nearly ripping the rod from my hand. The reel groaned as I tried to bring in whatever it was on the other end of the line.

Five minutes later, with my heart playing a Buddy Rich solo in my chest, I carefully lifted my catch from the water. It was a bass, and the largest fish I’d ever landed.

After quickly measuring the fish – it was just a tad shy of 18 inches – I estimated its weight at two, maybe two-and-a-half pounds, then slid it into the fish basket.

When Chris returned an hour later, I could tell by the look on his face that he hadn’t done well.

“Catch anything?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he replied, grumpily. “You?”

That’s when I showed him my bass.

“Wow!” he exclaimed. “Betcha caught it on one of my lures, huh?”

“Nope,” I replied, “bobber, hook and worm.”

Then I quickly turned my back to gently release my fish into the water so my son wouldn’t see the enormous grin on my face.

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