From Fishing Frustration to Riverbed Treasures

Walking along the edge of the river with my family, with a fishing pole in hand, was something I did not enjoy. I remember watching Father and Mother casting their lines out to the middle of the river, and on some fishing trips, bringing in several trout, which made for a very tasty meal.

My brother really enjoyed these fishing trips and didn’t mind putting that wiggly, slimy worm on his hook. Of course, he couldn’t cast his fishing line out very far, but he got quite excited whenever he reeled in a little trout and got it up out of the water.

My parents loved to fish, and many nights after supper the four of us headed to the river, with fishing poles in hand and fishing bags over our shoulders. They would happily fish along the riverbank for hours on end, or so it seemed to me, throwing their lines in, waiting for a nibble. Just to please them, I would throw my line in the water, but truth was – I just wanted to go home.

Father would often cast our lines out for us, then hand us the rods, in hopes we’d be lucky enough to catch something. On one outing, I watched a trout swim slowly to my hook and finally open its mouth to take a bite. In my excitement, I yanked my rod too hard and ripped that hook right out of its mouth. Seeing what had happened, Father stooped, slid a fresh worm on my hook, and cast it out again for me. “Have patience”, he said, “you’ll catch it!”

Time passed before suddenly the tip of my rod shook hard as the fish realized it was on my hook. When I realized what had happened, I began reeling in my line as fast as my small hands could go. Slowly my fish rose to the top of the water, made direct eye contact with me, and promptly spat the hook out. I was devastated. Once again, father re-baited my hook and cast out my line. I sat on a big rock and waited. Would I be lucky on the third try? As time passed, my hopes diminished and once again I waited patiently for the sun to go down so the four of us could head for home.

This brings to mind yet another fishing experience that didn’t go so well. Father had put a thin, wriggly worm on my hook, and cast my line out into the water. Handing me my fishing pole he said, “I’m just going a little way upriver, and work my way slowly back downstream to you “, as he pointed up stream. Everything seemed to be going fairly well, Mother and my brother were fishing downstream a way, and having some luck catching trout.

It wasn’t long before Dad heard the hysterical, unmistakable cries of his daughter. He could see me coming, shuffling across the rocks toward him, lugging the fishing bag in one hand, and in the other my fishing rod held high like a torch. My face was red, with streaks of tears running down my cheeks. He hurried to me, expecting some sort of injury. Gasping for breath, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I had it Dad, I had a fish on my line. I pulled him up on the rocks. Then he flopped. I tried to grab him, but I tripped, and he got back in the water, and he took my worm with him!” Once again, I was robbed of the thrill of yelling, “Mommy! Come look at my fish!”

A few days passed, and one evening Dad took me fishing, just him and me walking down to the river. In a roundabout way, he was trying to give me a pep talk about fishing. I wasn’t really paying much attention to what he was saying, but I remember the gist of it. “Sometimes you catch them and sometimes you don’t.” I guess he added that part in hopes I wouldn’t get too discouraged by all the bad luck I was having. He could tell I was quickly losing all interest in these fishing trips.

By the time we arrived at the river, I was thinking to myself, Tonight I’ll show him I can catch fish too! I cast my line out several times but didn’t even get a nibble. Dad came over and cast my line out for me, and of course his cast went out much further than mine, which was a good thing. It wasn’t long before there was a nibble on my hook. My excitement increased as I shouted, “I got a fish!” But I began reeling it in just a fraction of a second too late, the tension released and up came my hook with only half a worm on it. The fish had bitten off the dangling part. My fish was gone.

My chance to show Dad I could catch a fish had dissolved in the blink of an eye. I dropped my rod, sat down on the rocks, and put my head in my hands. Father was quick to come over and sit beside me and used many encouraging words to motivate me to keep trying. Next time he’d push the worm further onto the hook, in hopes of my hooking up with the one that got away. At that moment, I resolved to land that fish at the first opportunity!

A week or so went by, and I was still obsessing over the dreaded fishing trips. On the next family outing at the river, I spotted a pretty stone lying in the water, close to the riverbank. I picked it up and put it in my fishing bag. And just like that, collecting colourful stones from the river became my favourite thing. While my brother and parents fished, I collected stones. I looked for stones that were smooth and rounded, but not overly big or too heavy to carry home. Some were brown, some grey, and my favourite, pure white, I called lucky stones. I also favoured stones with colourful markings or sparkles. When we went to the river after a rainfall, I would discover new stones uncovered when the increased water flow churned things up.

So, Mother and Dad gave up and allowed me to switch from fishing to stone collecting on one condition: that I wouldn’t try to wade out into the river because of the slippery rocks. My stone collecting soon turned into rock collecting. Dad built me a display box with compartments large enough to hold my findings. I scrubbed the rocks using a brush Mother gave me, then rinsed them thoroughly, and lay them out on brown paper to let them dry completely before placing them in my display box.

I loved having something that was truly my own and felt a tremendous amount of pride showing off my collection to family members who came to visit. Rocks were readily available in many locations, not just down by the river, making it a relatively easy hobby for me to pursue. My favourite finds were the ones I found when we went to the beach, because the tidal action had worked to naturally “polish” them. That’s how I started my rock collection years ago. Sadly, I no longer have that prized collection in my possession. Even though I’m now a senior, I’m still guilty of picking up a random stone here or there when one catches my eye.

Share Your Own Unexpected Discoveries!

Marilyn’s journey from frustrating fishing trips to the quiet joy of collecting river stones beautifully illustrates how sometimes, our true passions emerge from unexpected places. It’s a lovely reminder that persistence, a little help from family, and an open mind can lead to delightful new hobbies and cherished memories.

Do you have a story about a childhood activity that didn’t quite click, or perhaps an unexpected hobby you discovered later in life that brought you immense joy? We’d love to hear about your own “happy accidents” or any cherished memories of finding something truly special. Share your experiences in the comments below – your stories truly enrich our Canadian Senior Moment community.