Me (far left) and my siblings. In front of our fish (I should point out that those particular fish are not suckers. They are walleye. If you are from Minnesota, you will appreciate that there is a huge difference!).
There is a place. Where the creek and the river meet. We call it “the mouth.” And, in the springtime, it really does talk. The heavy, gushing waters have a lot to say. Its rust-colored flow thunders. Like a stampede. A wild beast. It cries. “Freedom!” You can feel its power. And the release. From its icy, quiet, winter lull.
Like the sky and the trees and the ground, the river. Is alive. With life. And, the mouth? In the springtime? Well, it’s the most magical place on earth. Because it’s where the suckers come. To do what they were created to do. To spawn. To “run.” To create life.
We are all loaded up. In the pickup truck. With our fishing poles. Me and my brothers and my sister and my mom and dad. And we are ready to go.
Two evenings ago, me and my brothers gathered worms. In preparation. For today. It was raining. And worms love the rain. Especially spring rain. That’s when they come up. From their little holes in the ground. To feel the cool drops of water. On their skin. The ditch across the road is full of moss. Thick, lush, bright green moss. And beneath it. Is black dirt. And that is where the worms live. In huge colonies. I reached my hand in the earth and pulled up a handful of wet moss. The worms were everywhere. They wiggled. And dove around. Right in that pile in my hand. Big, fat, juicy, nightcrawlers! The kind the robins like to gobble down. I watch them sometimes. Tip their heads back. And swallow greedily. I brought a plastic bucket. That my mom gave me. A special bucket. For collecting worms. I put some dirt and moss in the bottom. And started plucking. Right from the piles in my hands. So many worms! And today? We have plenty of bait for fishing.
To get to “the mouth,” we drive down a bumpy, muddy, dirt road. At the roads end, is a small field. We park the pickup there. Because we must walk the rest of the way. Through the woods. For half a mile. Me and my brothers jump out. With our fishing poles and our worm buckets. And we run. Down the path. As fast as we can!! I can hear it. The water rushing. In my view now. The river at the mouth is wide. The brown water is strong. And powerful. It roils and boils. A big, hearty stew. A pot full of suckers.
I wrap a fat, squirmy nightcrawler on my hook. And drop in my line. Suckers don’t have teeth. They feed off the bottom. So, you need to use a sinker. To make sure the worm goes down. All the way to the bottom.
I ease my line in. When I feel it hit the bottom, I gently jiggle my pole. Like my dad taught me. Up and down. To make the worm move. To draw attention. To my hook.
And just like that. Wham! I have a bite. A hard jerk. And he’s on!
I reel him in. It is such fun! I am beaming. And full of joy. I yell. “Look mom! I already caught one!” My older brother helps me. He gets the net. As it comes to the surface, we get a good view. What a beauty! My brother helps me take it off the hook. I hold it up. To show him off. Look at me everybody! I caught the first one! We put it on a stringer. And let him float there. In the water. On the edge of the current.
Everyone is catching them now. And it’s a glorious, splendid, unforgettable spring day!
We hop from rock to rock. Me and my brothers. Trying new spots to fish. My brother gets hung up. Snagged. On a log. Or maybe a rock. I watch him. He tugs and tugs. And suddenly. His line releases. He stumbles. Backward. And the line flies back. We all look. Mouths gaping. Astonished. It wasn’t a snag. On the end of his line is a fish! And not a sucker either. But a MOONEYE! I have never seen a mooneye before. And I think it’s the most beautiful fish I’ve ever seen. We lay it on the ground. And stare at its shimmery, silver scales. It is thin. Like a wafer. And almost translucent. It has big, round silver eyes. And they really do look like the moon.
A few hours later, we eat our lunch. Sandwiches. And Old Dutch potato chips. The kind that come in a big box. We have cans of soda pop, too. The cheap stuff. From the Holiday gas station. But I don’t care. The grape one is my favorite.
After lunch, we fish a bit longer. Until we catch our limit. And then, it’s time to go home. Together, we all carry the fish and the fishing gear and the cooler back to the pickup.
We are home now. And the process begins. My dad takes a fish out of the water-filled cooler, and sets it up. On the table. The table is an old electrical spool that is tipped on its side. It makes the perfect, round table. I watch my dad take his knife and cut the fish. Into filets. There is a rusty, old refrigerator in the yard. By the garage. It’s the old-fashioned kind. That looks puffy, and has a lever that you pull down to open. My dad has turned it into a smoker. That’s how he’s going to cook the suckers. He’s going to put them in the old fridge and smoke them.
My dad picks up a sucker and notices something. On its side. It looks like a sore. Or a wound. He thinks we shouldn’t eat it. He says it’s “No good.” There is a rusty barrel nearby. He tosses it in. Trash.
I stand there. In silence. And listen. I can hear the fish in the barrel. Flopping around. Just slightly. He is still alive. And I feel it. Inside of me. Like a cattle prod. Compelling me. And nothing matters now. Except this feeling. This overwhelming feeling that tells me I have to help. That I must save him.
I back away from the table. Because I don’t want my dad to see. To disapprove and try and stop me. He is busy. Cleaning the fish. And talking to my mom and my brothers. So, I seize the moment. When he turns his back. I reach into the barrel, grab the fish, and run. As fast as I can! To the ditch.
There is lots of water there. In the ditch. Fresh, cold, spring rain water. Quickly, I submerge him. And move him back and forth. By his tail. I watch his gills. Flow open as I pull him toward me under the water. All pink and fleshy inside. He is weak. And barely alive.
I stay with him in the ditch. Moving him back and forth in the water. For a while. Until his gills open and close. Slowly. But on their own. I try to think of what to do. If I leave him in the ditch he won’t survive. But where?? And, then it comes. The answer. The creek. I must get him to the creek!
I have to leave him in the ditch. To get my bicycle. On the way, I grab an old canvas bag. I’m going to carry him in it. When I return to the ditch a few minutes later, I’m relieved. He is still there. In the same position. His gills moving slowly. In and out. Breath. Life.
I look up to the sky. And say a little prayer. It’s one mile to the creek. “God? Please help me keep him alive. Let him live.”
I lift him out of the water, and put him in my bag. And…I’m off.
I run. Fast! Like a deer! To my bicycle. And I pedal. Hard. With all my might. With my heart and my guts and my bones. With a sucker, fighting for his life, in the canvas bag slung over my shoulder.
The creek is at the bottom of a hill on a gravel road. At the top, I give my pedals one last, hard push. And let gravity take me down. Flying. I am flying! Hurry, little bird. You must hurry!
I reach the bottom and slam on my brakes. My bike skids sideways. I jump off and let it fall to the ground. Right where I stopped. It’s 20 feet to the creek. I sprint down. Frantically, I open the bag, and grab the sucker. I crouch down. Next to the water. And ease him in. I hold him by his tail. Moving him back and forth. Like before. Letting the water fill his lungs.
Like the river, the creek is high and moving fast. From the spring thaw. It's icy cold. And my hands are numb. And aching. But it doesn’t matter. I won’t let him die.
I nurse him there. At the waters edge. Until I think the cold water will crack my limbs and carry them away. I pull him toward me. For the last time. And let the water give him one more breath. Then I open my fingers. And…I let go.
A pause. A moment. Suspended. I fill my lungs. With air. And hold it there. Hoping. Then… swoosh. A gentle flick of his tail. I watch him disappear. Gracefully. Beneath the iron-brown water.
I stay crouched there. By the creek. With my arms around my knees. And smile. I watch the water rush by. And let it fill my heart. I think about how beautiful it was. To watch him swim away. Wild. And free.
It’s funny how that experience - that moment - is still so vivid in my mind. Oh, how precious and poignant it was. Don’t we all have a wound? A sore. A struggle along the way. It’s true, isn’t it? We are all just trying to survive. To find our way. And along the path, we need each other. To carry us sometimes. To the river. Down to the creek. To hold us in the water. And help us breathe. And when we find our gills, to let go. Because, from there, it’s up to us. And, that’s the gift that matters most. And, the hardest of all. To find that place in our hearts. That place of love and light and goodness and unrestraint. That wide-open space. That wide-rushing river. Where we are at the most genuine truth of who we are. Without all the shackles. Where we can swim away. Even in the murkiest water. Swoosh! Wild and free.