When Max, our twenty four year old son, arrived at our cottage last Saturday afternoon, he uttered words I’d never heard before.

     “Hey Dad, can we go fishing? I bought a license on the way up.”

     “Sure,” I responded with confidence though I have none when it comes to fishing.

     For some reason, even with growing up in Minnesota and spending parts of the last twenty summers on the western shore of Mullett Lake, I never found myself comfortable around a tackle box. I bought one when the kids were little, stuffed it full of monofilament line, Lindy lures, needle nose pliers, sinkers, nail clippers, and everything else I could remember from my brother’s box when he used to drag me out on the lake back home when we were young. I put it in a closet in the back cabin with the old spinning rods I inherited when we bought our place. My two boys never inquired about it, never once asked to go fishing. They had been interested in boats and skis and inner tubes and even the crawfish worming their way under the dock. But never fish. I figured it was natural cause neither was I.

     The lake was dark grey like the sky with a stiff northeast breeze kicking into gear. I told Max to throw his things in his room and tell his mom we were going out. As he sauntered out on the dock, I noticed a man’s cut to his shoulders and back, a different look than how I remembered him. He lowered our little Lyman skiff from the hoist and pulled it alongside the end deck and secured it. As I passed the kitchen window with a pole rigged up in one hand and my cobwebbed tackle box in the other, my wife smiled encouragement. There was worry on her face though. I knew the look.

     Near the side of the cottage, I turned over the round granite rocks lining our flower bed and found three nice nightcrawlers. A good luck sign.

     Puttering past the buoy, I handed Max the rod and we trolled for an hour. Through choppy waves, we worked our way along the drop off, checking our bait every ten minutes or so. Our life jackets straps were pennants in the wind, slapping against us, and the spray from small white caps drenched our faces. Not a nibble. Not a bite. Had I rigged it right? Was I using the right spinner? Was the nightcrawler too hapless and thin? I had absolutely no idea.

     “Maybe they’re just not interested,” I said.

     “Can we try something else?”

     “Something else?”

     “You know. From your tackle box.”

     I opened it up and placed it on the bench seat between us. It was like staring at a map when you can’t read. Little packages of hooks and lures, lures, lures. Flourescent yellows and greens. When I held up a slip bobber, Max nodded his head.

     “It’s simple. I’ll rig it up for you?”

     “I’ll do it, Dad. Don’t we need an anchor if we’re using a bobber?”

     “Technically, yes. But I’ll troll into the wind and hold us in place for a while. You seem to know a lot about fishing.”

     He let the bobber and a newly hooked worm over the side and we drifted back from it. I gave the old four horse Evinrude a little more gas and we stayed in one place long enough to get completely soaked, the bow rising and slapping the water to the rhythm of the bobber.

     “This isn’t going to work, Max. We’ll try in the morning. Tomorrow’s supposed to be nice and sunny. I’ll go to the Mullett Lake Country Store and get some big Canadian Crawlers.”

     “Just another minute.”

    “Sure.”

    “The bobber’s gone, Dad.”

    “Did it come loose?”

    “I don’t see it.”

    The rod tip bent slightly. Then it wiggled and pulled. Then it bent to the water with Max reeling steadily. The little net was too small. It was for trout. The fish moved under the boat with purpose, but that gave me a chance to grab the line and pull it in. It was a good sized walleye. It flopped and began to fight more than it did in the water. I got the hook out easily enough and then realized I didn’t have a stringer in the tackle box.

     I pinned the fish to the wood planks with both feet after pricking my forefinger on the back fin.  I turned the motor and started for shore.

    “You O.K., Dad?”

    “You better believe it. This is one nice walleye.”