Saturday, August 8, 2009

Fish in a Barrel

Actually the barrel was a manufactured pond area, but the idea is the same. This morning we met our Cub Scout pack (and by our, I mean my 7-year-olds pack and my husband and I complete the our because that's how involved we are. Thought it was just Dads you say?Oh no, Moms, whole families come along to earn the patch for every event they can drag us to.) Where was I? Wow I really wandered off in the middle of that sentence.

We met Pack 81 at the Roaring River Fish Hatchery at 9:30. This was after obligatory Saturday breakfast at McDonald's where my child sucked down his daily biscuit. We had pretty good instructions, still with my complete lack of internal compass, we had some directional bumps. Still got there within minutes of everyone else, including Den leader in his uber-goofy hat.

Parked, wandered down to where the rest of the boys and families where arranged along the stone banks of what must be a human engineered pond, what with the stone blocks, pumped rush of water to keep fish happy and clearly well-stocked supply.

We borrowed a pole from the den leader as we are a currently still a little too urban to have fishing poles and tackle and also some bait. It looked like little yellow and orange balls of playdoh that smelled like fish butt. I left most of the labor to my husband while I went to find Hansel and Gretel's bathroom cottage. Really. I asked where the bathrooms were, was pointed to a picturesque house on a hill. If I hadn't really needed to go, I wouldn't have trudge up the hill and ten stone steps to get to it still worrying the witch would come out and bake me. But it was just regular, if old-fashioned bathrooms.

Returned back down the hill to my guys glancing at the hatchery tanks along the way. The whole hatchery looks as if it were built in the 50s as it's all stone tanks and ponds and old-fashioned buildings, but still working and producing trout. Rainbow trout, lots and lots of smelly rainbow trout.

Joe and Fletcher were "fishing" at this point and I used the term loosely because that consisted of an argument between the two because Fletcher hadn't got the hang of casting and was frustrating his father. Fletcher eventually learned to cast without endangering all of us with being hooked and caught two fish. Each fish caught caused a ballistic-level reaction at the thought he might have to touch it or even be near it. He acted as if there was the possibility of the fish leaping on him and going for his throat. Trying to get him to pose next to one of the fish, in a net, held by another person was misery.

After catching two fish and a whole hour standing around with a pole in his hand, son was sick of the whole process. He and I went to look at the hatchery tanks where he freaked out again at a large trout who was a little too close to the surface of the water. Really, I can't explain to him enough times that short of actually being in the water with the trout (where it would, at most, tickle you) it can't get to you. He doesn't buy my explanation, continues to flinch and dance away, almost falling into another tank.

Meanwhile, the other boys of the pack are happily touching flopping fish, crowing about catches, and happy as clams. Mine was bored, wanted to go home. We did.

Joe and I figure we should probably acquire some poles and tackle and force (I mean take) Fletcher to fish again until it's not too scary. Though I admit, it's still dull.

1 comment:

  1. need to let him go hiking with my granddaughter (age 6). She will have him stuffing all sorts of creepy crawly, scaley ooky thing in his pockets in no time.