It was the kind of sun-drenched May morning that would thaw the heart of an IRS auditor. The stream was still slightly high from previous rains but the water was beginning to clear.

Most of the steelhead had spawned and returned to the lake, but it was pleasant fishing for these stragglers. I heartily dislike elbow-to-elbow angling with its tangled lines, frayed tempers and foul-hooked fish, and consequently avoid well-known trout streams the first couple of weeks of the season. I also feel vaguely guilty disturbing these magnificent fish when spawning is on their minds.

I’d fished a half-mile stretch of stream without results and reached a slow-moving, deep pool above a small dam where I had noticed a couple of fish swirling. In such a pool they could rest for hours or days before resuming their lake-ward journey. I drifted unweighted spawn sacks and small worms in the sluggish current for a while and was rewarded only with a large sucker.

Finally succumbing to the sun, I sat, poured a cup of coffee, and lit my pipe. About 100 feet away, at the top of the pool, a man and boy appeared, obviously father and son. I felt a tingle of happiness, anticipating the day when my own son, then only three months old, would accompany his old man on a future warm spring day.

The father noticed a swirling fish and cast to it, using a lure. The boy watched for a moment, then began exploring the area as a 10-year-old will; poking a stick into holes along the bank, wandering to the water’s edge, chucking stones at trees. He didn’t appear to have his own rod.

A large boil in the water nearby reminded me why I was there. Deciding the fish were probably as lazy as I was, I hooked a small worm lightly through the head, injected the tail with air, and clamped a small split shot about 14 inches above the hook. I gently tossed it towards the scene of recent activity.

“You Stewpid! Stew-pid!”

The father seemed to have developed a backlash in his reel and somehow managed to blame the boy. His voice rang across the water as he berated the lad. He ordered him to come over and hold the rod while he attempted to undo the bird’s nest. The word “Stew-pid” with profane adjectives, was often and loudly repeated.

My attention was quickly diverted to my rod as line spun madly from my open spool and my rod tip throbbed. I closed the bail, waited for the line to tighten, and set the hook hard. A five-pound steelhead danced across the surface of the pool, cartwheeled, and tore furiously for the opposite bank.

Seconds later, I reeled slack line frantically as the fish charged toward me. I regained pressure and watched with delight as he cleared the water twice more before settling into a tug of war. Reluctantly, after two or three minutes and several increasingly short runs, he tired, and I managed to lead him to the gently sloping bank. As I reached toward him, he shook his head once more, dropped the hook, and slowly edged out to deeper water.

I mentally doffed my cap and re-rigged with shaking fingers.

“My father would like to know what you’re using.”

I hadn’t noticed the boy’s approach and he looked at the ground as I turned toward him. The father was now fishing only about 20 feet away, looking grim and casting sideways glances at me.

“A worm,” I replied. Had the boy been alone, or had his own fishing outfit, I would have given him the full particulars but I had no desire to educate his boorish father.

The boy nodded and trotted off. Minutes later his father gobbed a large worm onto an oversized hook, weighted it with a clinch sinker, and plopped his offering into the pool, as near as possible to where I was fishing.

I bit my tongue. Chances were he would take out his displeasure with anything I said on the boy. The poor kid had enough problems.

I moved to the far side of the pool, almost directly above the dam. For 20 minutes nothing happened. The father gave up and moved to the pool below the dam. The boy stayed on top, where he could see us both.

Almost immediately I had another fish on.

Bigger than the first, this one did not waste its energy taking to the air. It explored every nook and cranny of the large pool in what seemed like seconds. The boy shouted encouragement and I grinned like a madman. Eventually, a spawned-out female of about 10 pounds lay gasping on the bank.

I unhooked her and held her upright in the water, waiting for her to regain her strength. The boy crouched silently beside me and then asked if he could touch her. I said “sure” and he stroked the gleaming beauty tentatively. A few seconds later, with a lazy flick of her tail, she drifted into the depths.

The boy and I rose and shared a smile. Above us, the father loomed, glaring with what looked like pure hatred before stomping back down to the lower pool.

I asked the boy why he wasn’t fishing. He said that his father was using his rod, having broken his own the week before. He said he really didn’t mind but his voice was unconvincing.

I nodded and showed him exactly how I was rigging the worm. I explained the importance of the small hook and tiny shot.

“Get down here Stew-pid! Right now!” His father’s bellow could be heard clearly over the roar of the dam.

“He’s probably tangled it again,” the boy said apologetically as he turned to leave.

“He needs me.”

Like a boxer needs a punching bag, I thought.

I sat and thought about fathers and sons. I thought about patience and serenity and what the poet said about “the child is father to the man.”

I made a solemn promise, said a silent prayer, and went home.

This piece first appeared in the June 2004 issue of Michigan Out-Of-Doors magazine.