The air is cool and crisp. The blue sky spreads above interrupted by the tree line around the pond, which at this hour of the morning, allows a splattering of sun to pierce the dense green umbrella, showing up as bright patches on the small pond’s surface.

It is early June, 1989 and I am here with my two sons, Eric, 11 and Kurt, 9, while they practice their fishing expertise. I have more than a few misgivings about this adventure and hope by the time we finish, all of us go home more or less in the same condition as when we arrived.

Eric has a record as a “fisherman” he hopes to erase this day. On previous occasions he has fished with his brother, Kurt always seems to end up with the biggest or the most fish. Eric, who sees hiking as a competitive sport, is not just frustrated by his brother’s success, but humiliated as well.

The pond is a small rectangular construction maybe 30 feet by 100 feet built between the trees east of our friends the Chamber’s home. Originally the west end was improved with sand and small gravel for a beach and swimming area, but no one uses it anymore. It still serves as a nice area to put down equipment and an easy place to start fishing.

My duty is to bait Kurt’s hook. Eric is proudly independent on this issue and I am thankful.

We were here maybe ten minutes before a small bass took Kurt’s bait and ran. Kurt got excited, and used his deepest and loudest morning voice to announce his success to us, and to most of Aboite Township as well.

Catching the fish was the easy part. Kurt got the bass to shore, but did not know what to do from there so Eric ran off to find a bucket in the Chamber’s shed about 100 yards off. While he was away I helped get the bass off Kurt’s hook.

“What do you want to do with it?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I guess throw it back,” Kurt replied. He takes the small fish and throws it back into the pond.

At about this moment, Eric, who had searched Chambers outdoor shed for a bucket, comes, bucket in hand and out of wind, having run about a hundred yards to the shed and back.

“Where’s the fish,” he asks Kurt as he runs up.

“I threw it back,” answered Kurt.

“You what?”

“I threw it back,” Kurt answers again, very matter-of-factly.

Eric turns and looks at me with that questioning look that asks “Dad, why did I go to so much effort if Kurt was going to throw the fish back?”

It wasn’t five minutes later Kurt shrieked for the second time.

“Dad, look, I caught a bluegill!”

This time Eric was ready and immediately took charge, carefully putting the nine-inch-fish in the bucket and then proceeding to remove the hook.

Looking at the water in the fish bucket, Eric decides there is not enough so he picks it up and goes down to the pond’s edge to add more. As he tilts the bucket to let in more water the bluegill, seeing its opportunity, takes a leap for freedom out of the bucket and into the relative safety and pond.

Eric, who but seconds before was excited and proud of himself, now stares into the empty opening and then looks towards me. Without uttering a word he flings the bucket toward the yard. Then, huffing and puffing he retrieves his casting rod, baits the hook and walks toward the water’s edge to cast. He brings the pole back and then thrusts it forward and lets go of the brake on the line, hoping to send his baited hook across the pond and into a shady area under tree branches. To his utter amazement, the line ends up dropping barely five feet in front of him in maybe a foot of water.

Eric’s heat is rising now faster than the temperature. After a brief inspection I am able to untangle the line in Eric’s reel, allowing him to cast once more, but new problems are surfacing as fast as old ones sink into the past. Eric baits his hook and casts out into the pond. Minutes later, a fish comes and nibbles his bait. He waits in anticipation for the dramatic moment the bobber goes under, and then yanks, using all his strength, only to discover the clever fish has stolen his bait. This situation kept repeating over and over while Kurt, fishing quietly nearby, catches two bluegills and a 10 inch large-mouth bass. Eric didn’t want Kurt to come on this, “his” fishing trip and I’m beginning to understand his reluctance.

“I better catch something before I leave here!” Eric announces after Kurt pulls in his third catch of the day.

Finally, as if God was watching, Eric catches a nice 9-10 inch bluegill. The largest we’ve seen today. “Kurt. How many have you caught?”

“Three,” answered Kurt in a low monotone voice as Eric gestures with a clinched fist. “I only caught three fish,” said Kurt.

By 11:30 a.m., and after more than three hours, the score is Kurt 4, Eric 2; by 11:40 a.m. the score reads Kurt 5, Eric 3.

“Bring the bait!” Eric yells from the far end of the pond. He had gotten up and moved off on his own after Kurt caught his fifth fish. It is his fourth position of the morning.

Kurt, like all little brothers, follows Eric to the other end of the pond and immediately manages to foul his line with his brother’s.

Eric and Kurt take a break from fishing while “Dad” does his best to untangle the two lines and the two reels. Suddenly there is a commotion.

“My word! Wow Wooooow! Wooooow! They’re beeeg, big!” Eric roared, seeing catfish at the top of the pond.

The catfish are the pond’s largest inhabitants, being somewhere in the neighborhood of 12-14 inches. The warm sun has apparently brought them to the surface to hunt for some morsel of food. Their sleek black bodies contrast dramatically with the sun lit greenish brown water. They seem almost to float in air. Seeing these black bottom dwellers is a fitting end to our fishing expedition. The catfish are sleek, smooth and crafty. To Eric and Kurt they are a distraction from fishing which has now worn thin. It’s time to move on and enjoy the rest of the day.