Now that the grass is coming back, bream action is picking up big-time in this overlooked lake.
My dad. Everything he does in the outdoors — from gardening to setting crawfish traps — he does with a passion few men have. And excels at it.He led his bass club to top finishes in ALBC state tournaments. He directed hunts as huntmaster for his deer club. He was repeatedly featured on local TV fishing shows in the Acadiana area.
Ducks, dove, deer, rabbits, squirrel, turkey, geese, shrimp, crabs, frogs, fish — if it swam, flew or crawled on four legs, he knew it as well as it knew itself. Our freezer was a cornucopia of wild game and seafood.
But his buddies will also tell you that my father is a staunch conservationist. He not only preaches it to others, he’s walked the walk. My dad would turn loose any fish that had eggs in her belly or pass on any deer that was barely legal.
He and his good friend, the late Jesse Guidry, former secretary of Wildlife and Fisheries, had many outdoor adventures together across the state and the country. The stories they would tell made for many entertaining evenings.
Time may have slowed him down from when he spent countless hours in the woods or on the water. But he’s still going at it whenever possible.
I certainly admire my father. Most important of all, he always made time to take me fishing.
I’m absolutely certain my dad didn’t see me evolving into a fly fisherman. Truth is, I would never have believed it myself. But he sure is proud of what I’ve accomplished in this sport, and never fails to brag about it to his friends.
What he did teach me was all the little things — recognizing the many trivial aspects of your fishing environment. Taking time to observe. Knowing what, where, when and how to fool a fish.
As a father of three kids, I’ve done my best to instill the outdoors in their lives. Not just how to flycast or tie flies or paddle a canoe or kayak. But to be stewards of our natural resources, to conserve and restore. Much like my father taught me.
Of course, there has been fishing in their lives — and lots of it! Our family trips have ranged from a couple hours at the neighborhood pond to weekend camping at state parks to week-long excursions to destinations like the Everglades, Yellowstone and more.
There are so many great memories from all those trips. Sometimes I wish they could be relived.
I got my wish last June on Father’s Day weekend.
Cosmos, the older son, had the day off and Master Jake was on leave from the Air Force. Cokie was on semester break. The three decided to make that Saturday “Take Dad Fishing Day.”
Their mom cooked us all a hearty breakfast, then we were on our way to the Wildlife and Fisheries Waddill Refuge in Baton Rouge. The ponds there are managed as catch-and-release for bass and bream, and there are plenty of both species of good size.
The boys decided that a little competition might be fun. I thought it would be unfair. You see, Cosmos and Master Jake are very accomplished flyrodders. They both were junior fly casting champions at a younger age, and have caught more species and more big fish than 90 percent of the flyrodders I know.
Cokie, on the other hand, doesn’t have near the expertise of her brothers. Nor is she a proficient caster. And while she’s enjoyed some great fishing experiences, they’ve been few in comparison. Her first love — competitive swimming — leaves little time for any other hobby.
I decided to tag with her, figuring she needed all the help she could get.
Unlike her brothers, she didn’t start flinging away as soon as she stepped to the bank. In fact, she just stood there looking around. A gust of wind came up, and a mosquito hawk tumbled to the surface. In a few seconds, it was swallowed by some unseen denizen.
Cokie asked to see my fly box. She pointed to a yellow and green Accardo Spook. I tied it on, and within a minute, she made her first cast between two clumps of matted algae.
Up from the depths came a big bass, swimming non-chalantly. It stopped just inches from her popper and stared it down. She lifted the tip of her rod so slowly, as to only nudge the popper, and make its legs flutter without the body pushing water.
That must’ve triggered an instinct, because Ol’ Bucketmouth rose a couple inches to the surface and slurped it up! It then swam to whence he came, at which point she set the hook.
A spectacular fight, it was. The fish jumped at least three times. I kept giving advice, but I think it was largely ignored. She knew what she was doing — as if she’d been doing it forever.
The prize was landed, a beautiful dark bass that weighed just over 3 pounds.
A few hours later, a couple small bass and several chunky bluegill had fallen to her deception, and the deficit grew between her and her brothers. I began to realize that, while she hadn’t mastered casting or knots to the level of her siblings, she’d mastered something more important — the art of observation.
It reminded me of the first redfish trip with a good friend and fly fishing guide. He took me into one of his favorite pockets of marsh, cut the engine and didn’t do anything for 10 minutes but stare at the water.
“Sometimes you can learn more about fishing by just watching,” he said.
I realized this day that I’d passed on this most important of outdoor skills from my father to my children. Well, at least to one of them.
This Father’s Day, give dad a present he’ll treasure for a lifetime — take him fishing.
