Week 36: Why did he fish?

This was a sad week for me and it would have been easy to just skip the blog and not write anything.  I don’t think my father would have liked that, though.  My father passed away this week on September 5^th.  His memory does live on.  This week’s blog honors some of that memory.

My father loved to fish.  He was also named Robert, but went by the name Bob.  And boy did Bob love to fish!  I don’t know what it was about fishing that made him love it so much, but it seemed like it was his favorite thing to do.  Well, that and horse racing.  A perfect weekend for him would have been a trip to a casino on a Friday afternoon to place some bets for the Saturday horse races, and then packing up a motorhome or trailer (I believe they are called caravans in the UK) and driving back to Idaho for a bit of fishing.

Now a fishing trip with Bob wasn’t just the usual drive to your destination and fish type of trip.  Bob wanted to fish everywhere.  So you would start down the road on the way to Idaho from Nevada and after you got out of town and into a few remote areas, he would pull off to the side of the highway.  Maybe at some rest area, or something like that.

He would tell everyone to go to the bathroom if you needed it, or to maybe just stretch your legs.  We would use the facilities and then head back to the motorhome.  Bob would be nowhere to be found.  After waiting a few minutes, we would walk around to find him.  He would usually be out behind the rest stop at some small hole with water in it, trying to catch fish.

You could try and tell him it wasn’t a stream and there were no fish there, but he wouldn’t believe you.  He just wanted to try his luck.  And so we would give him a few minutes.  Soon, we would be back in the motorhome and on our way.  About ten miles down the highway, he would pull over again wanting to “check on something”.  He would be out of the motorhome and off to some tiny stream that he saw again trying to fish.

And this would be your drive on the way to Idaho, stopping every ten miles or so because he saw a bit of water.  There might be fish in there so we would have to stop.  You can’t blame a guy for doing what he loved, though.

Getting to Idaho, his plans would include fishing, fishing, and more fishing.  He loved to go to places with small creeks running here and there and catch rainbow trout.  To this day, I hate the smell and taste of trout.  That fish will always bring back fond memories of my father now.  He would fish until it was dark out.  And out where he fished, there were no street lights, or any lights for that matter, so you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.  But he would always still want to “try one more spot” before we left.

Soon I’ll be traveling to Idaho for family trip to celebrate my father’s memory.  And as we drive along, I think I’m going to ask to stop every single time I see a bit o water.  I’ll want to fish.  Actually, I hate fishing and will probably just stare fondly at whatever little pond I find, but I’ll still want to stop.  My dad will need to fish.

Until next week, keep fishing.  And also ask why occasionally.