The Boat
Memories of fishing Colorado’s Eleven Mile and Blue Mesa Reservoirs aboard a sixteen-foot Larson Shark define a childhood shaped by the patient rhythms of trolling for trout and Kokanee salmon. Using heavy, World War II-era metal rods and orange lures, the family navigated the trial and error of the sport, punctuated by the frantic excitement of "Grab the net!" and the occasional heartbreak of a lost catch. Whether dealing with the silence of a slow day or the unintended comedy of a grape jelly sandwich stuck to a pair of khaki pants, these excursions transformed simple outings into the most cherished reflections of youth.
Monte Crabbs
The boat was a sixteen-foot Larson Shark and was the perfect vessel to accommodate a family of four with an occasional guest. The boat served two purposes—fishing and waterskiing—mostly fishing. Eleven Mile and Blue Mesa Reservoirs were both in Colorado and were perfect habitats for various species of trout and Kokanee salmon. We had grown up fishing on a small pond near our house, but learning to catch fish by trolling was a gradual learning process.
My dad, who loved to read, knew the basics—the next steps were trial and error. Our trolling rods were heavy metal antiques that were probably manufactured during World War II. The only thing new about them was the colorful braided-nylon line. On the end, we would hook a long string of shiny cowbells known as pop gear; then, on the very end, we attached either an orange-colored lure or a hook and a nightcrawler. Time between bites was lengthy, which required lots of naps and snacks to pass the time. When we did get a hit, Dad stopped the boat, yelled, “Grab the net!” and we all jumped to the back of the boat while the lucky one reeled, and someone else waited patiently for the fish to get close enough to be scooped up. It was such a relief when the fish was in the net and very sad if the fish was able to spit the hook back at us and swim down through the clear green water of the reservoir.
We took turns manning the fishing rods—my brother and I took the most and longest turns; my dad seldom got a chance, and my mom never got a turn. On one trip to Eleven Mile Reservoir, where we were camping in our ancient brown army tent, my dad took his turn. It was lunchtime, and we were all eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. My dad yelled, “Got one.” I was driving, so I stopped the boat, turned off the engine, and went to the back of the boat to help. Sad to say, the fish avoided the net and swam off. Dejected, my dad sat down and asked for his sandwich back. Then he remembered that he had put the sandwich down on his seat to fight the fish. When he stood up, what was left of the sandwich slid from his khaki pants and hit the floor of the boat. We all laughed—everyone but my dad. He did not see the humor in having sticky grape jelly on his backside. We returned to the dock, loaded the boat, packed up the tent, and went home. My dad had the best sense of humor of anyone I ever knew, but not that day. Still, my memories of these fishing trips were among the happiest times of my youth.