Bucks Lake

As I mentioned more than a month ago, I went back to California for a long overdue camping/fishing trip. While the camping part never really developed (long story), I did get in a full day’s fishing with my father and some extended family.

We returned to the sight of our most recent triumph: Bucks Lake in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. We camped and fished there in the summers of 2010 and 2011. While we had success on each of the previous visits, this past year the only thing any of us caught were sunburns. And in my case, a shoelace (don’t ask). However, Bucks Lake remains the home of my greatest fishing accomplishment.

As of 2011, I'd only caught one fish my whole life: Lake Oroville, a popular summer getaway spot in California. I think I was 16, so it was quite some time ago, and the fish I caught might as well have been a minnow. I remember feeling a sharp tug on my line, and that was it. Just a single tug. I thought maybe I’d briefly latched on to something and reeled in just to make sure my bait was intact. Sure enough, at the end of my line was the tiniest bass I’ve ever seen. We let it go.

So I've never felt very good about my fishing skills. But I’m in good company because most of the Hoff family is bad at fishing. Despite numerous fishing trips over the years, dating back to when my father and his siblings were all little (during the Cretaceous Period, I believe), there haven’t been many tales of great success.

The exceptions to this rule are my Papa and my cousin, Adam. Papa is the reason any of my uncles enjoy fishing to begin with, and it seems Adam has inherited his talent. Adam is like a fish whisperer compared to us! I’ve seen him catch fish using nothing more than chewed gum on a hook as bait. He’s the master now.

My father and I made our first trip to Bucks Lake with two of my uncles and three cousins. Two full days of fishing resulted in four nice fish for eating and another four that were caught and released. Adam was in particularly fine form; he had the majority of our catches.

Anyway, my two uncles and one of my younger cousins joined my father and me again the next year to the same spot. We only caught three fish that year (all of them keepers, however), but it marked a personal achievement for myself. I was responsible for two of those fish!

I caught the first of the day. I felt the sharp, incessant tug on my line that signaled a catch. As unfamiliar as I was to that feeling, I still recognized it for what it was. I had a fish! He put up a decent fight, but I tired him out and reeled him toward the boat where one of my uncles grabbed him. A beautiful brown trout! I had caught my first fish worth keeping.

After my father even the score at 1-1, my second catch of the day came a few hours later. It was a no-look, over the shoulder catch. I know that makes it sound like a football or baseball catch, but let me explain. What happened was I had my fishing pole resting on my shoulder with my line going directly out behind the boat as we slowly trolled along. Suddenly, my pole was slamming into my shoulder as my second trout of the day took the bait and paid the price.

But the biggest story from that particular trip is the one that got away (isn’t it always?). My uncle David hooked something big! He fought with that thing for what felt like half an hour before finally he started getting it close to the boat.

It was a monster! The king of the lake! It wasn’t a fish, it was a shark! No, a whale! No…the Loch Ness Monster! The largest trout any of us had ever seen and it was now within sight of our boat. Just one problem: we had forgotten our nets in the truck that morning. With our other three fish that hadn’t been a problem, but we could tell this would be different.

My uncle Darrell stalked out to the end of the boat as David continue reeling in (I know, there’s a lot of “D” names on one boat…wait until I try describing a Hoff family holiday to you). Darrell planned to grab it with his bare hands, but the monster got its second wind upon spotting him and the boat. Darrell had his fingertips on it at one point before it splashed away. A few seconds later – it snapped the line! Taking David’s hook and bait with it, the Bucks Lake Monster swam back into the depths.

None of us have forgotten that day. And to this day, that fish gets bigger with each retelling.

Now I understand the thrill of hunting. Eating something you personally tracked down and fought with to subdue – its fun! It’s exhilarating! And that haunting feeling you get about the one that got away… it stays with you.

I prefer lines and hooks to guns and orange vests, but it’s the same thing really. Nothing tastes better than a meal you’ve caught yourself.

With the bitterness of defeat still fresh in my mouth, I can't wait until next year's trip! I'm coming for you, fish!