Solitude can be a wonderful thing. And, when you can find it in out of the way places where water flows and bass gather, it can be sublime.
On that sultry July afternoon, I sought it in that magic time when the powerboats are moored and the jet skiers are presumably relaxing on their decks enjoying a truce with the natural world.
I arrived at a lonely, boulder-strewn shoreline and surveyed the narrow that emptied into the lake I was on. Nature was all around. On the far bank, a common merganser and its brood foraged nervously beneath the overhanging cedars and then slowly skittered away. Above, gulls coasted. Beyond the bay, a beaver cut an elegant vee in the smooth water.
Otherwise, I was alone. So, I took a deep breath and inhaled the serenity of the moment.
I selected a fly and tied it on and, in the artful pauses between bird songs, I began shedding the mental clutter that the week had heaped upon me.
My first cast was a short one to the near current seam. My fly broke the surface and was soon swept away in the flow. Before I could even mend the line, a chunky smallmouth rose from the shadows, inhaled it, and then turned.
The hook-set was reflexive. The fight was brief. The release was accomplished without fanfare, photos, or witnesses. It was just what I needed. Several more hook-ups followed and, with each, stresses slipped away like flotsam in the flow. Suddenly, the silence was broken, by a trio of boys. They tumbled down the slope towards the water like leaves driven by a hard wind. Where they were headed was anyone’s guess. The oldest was perhaps eight, the youngest, maybe six.
They were untamed in the wonderful way young humans are.
Behind them, yelling futile, unheeded instructions, was a young man who, I learned later, was the father of two of them and the uncle of one. He was a big strapping fellow with a commanding voice and the means to back up what he said. And he was clearly outmatched.
I nodded. He shrugged, shook his head, and smiled. The solitude I had found left for parts unknown.
“Got your hands full,” I said, which was literally and figuratively true. For in his overburdened arms were two fishing rods, a small tackle box, assorted snacks, and a container of worms.
“They wanted to go fishing,” he replied.
He then put on a demonstration that will one day be cited by any instructor who offers a course on how to herd cats. Before long, he convinced at least two of the three to pay attention.
“Fish over here,” I said. “This is a better spot.”
I moved downstream to give them room. In the meantime, he had somehow wormed two hooks and cast two separate lines out, handing each rod to a boy. Then he told the third — the one that most resembled a jumping bean — that he would get his turn. He stood behind the young anglers taut as a wire, but somewhat proud of the achievement.
But any father who has experienced this, and I am one, could have guessed what was going to happen next. Lines tangled. Hooks snagged stumps or rocks. The tackle box got kicked over. Bobbers went down. Hook-sets came too late. Excitement. Noise. Pandemonium. Mayhem. Not long after, one of the lads fell in. The water was deep enough to fill high rubber boots and cause adult heart stoppages. But otherwise, no harm was done.
Suddenly, I dropped my pretence of being a casual observer. For I had been there before with my own kids, some 20 years ago. I remembered the nerves, the worry, and the stress. I also knew, however, that within that disaster were memories that would lose their sharp edges with the passage of time. Ones that a father would not trade for the world.
Minutes later, after he emptied the boy’s boot, they were fishing again. And then a bobber went down.
“You’ve got one on,” I said to the nearest boy.
The father ran to him to help set the hook. They landed a feisty little bass. The other boys jumped up and down and cheered. Then I cast and hooked one too.
“That guy’s got one,” one of the lads yelled.
I looked at their father. “Is it OK if one of your boys lands it?” I asked.
He nodded. A boy ran over and I handed him my rod. The bass gave him a fight — but the kid soon figured it out and proudly led it to shore.
“Dad! I got one!” he yelled and then he leapt with excitement.
I lipped the smallmouth and let him and his cousin study it. The wonder and curiosity in their eyes was real — and I envied them for it.
Then, they did what every new angler since time immemorial has done. They studied the fish closely. They cautiously touched its wet skin. Startled by its sudden movements, fascinated by its sleek form, and excited to see it close-up, they took it all in. Then they asked what the fish was called.
I answered and showed them how to hold it by its bottom lip and explained how to let it go. Then they urged me to do so. And they cheered the fish as it swam to the depths.
Empowered, they wanted to know everything. They looked at the fly and wondered why I did not use worms like their dad. I showed them my fly box and they viewed it with the same excitement they viewed that Styrofoam container of worms — with admiration and fascination.
They ran to their dad and told him of what they had learned. I cast again and hooked another one.
“Can I bring it in this time?” the other boy asked.
I handed him the rod. And so it went, for several subsequent fish. Not smoothly. Not without minor disasters. But with enthusiasm and high excitement and the unbridled happiness inherent in kids who are allowed to run unfettered and get their hands dirty in nature.
The experience was not without pain. Lines were tangled, flies were broken off or snagged, and far too much noise was made. I couldn’t help but recall how my own father and I had faced this sweet music too. And, for a moment, I couldn’t help but regret the passing of those long-gone days.
I started packing up when the father of the third boy arrived. His arrival evened the odds. It would have been selfish to stay. Plus, those bobbers and worms were working just fine.
The boys, by this time, considered me a fishing buddy. They waved and yelled, “Bye Steve!” as I left. I chuckled, high-fived at least one, and wished them luck.
When I got home, Jenn asked me if I enjoyed my “quiet time.”
I laughed and told her about my new friends.
“So much for solitude,” she said.
“You know, sometimes I think it is overrated,” I replied.
Originally published in the Summer Bassin' 2026 issue of Ontario Out of Doors
