Fishing disappointment is something to pass from generation to generation

Lots of guys take trucks on fishing trips. Not many take a front loader.

Jesse had both at Lake Roosevelt, and a potty chair, too.

The day before our trip, Jesse excitedly told his preschool teachers about our plans, even as I considered calling it off. AccuWeather hinted of rain and temperatures barely above freezing – a miserable mix for anyone, let alone a 3-year-old.

The boy’s enthusiasm won me over. On Jan. 20, he woke before 6 a.m., and we began the long drive on Highway 2. Airway Heights, Reardan, Davenport, Creston, Wilbur – Jesse grew impatient every time we hit a speed zone. “A big blue racecar wouldn’t go slow,” he noted.

Finally, we reached the cove where we had agreed to meet a West Side buddy. I lit a fire and cast out lines as Jesse and his Tonka trucks cut roads across acres of sand. At the same time, I began the careful task of managing expectations.

“Jesse,” I said. “The great thing about fishing is that it’s fun even if you don’t catch fish.”

“Papa,” he answered. “Let’s throw rocks.”

That’s what I wanted to hear: a hint that another generation of Hansens knows innately that fishing isn’t about fish. It’s a family philosophy cultivated by generations of fishing failure.

Decades ago, I took my daughter on her first fishing trip to Downs Lake, where we rented a rowboat and never once had a bite. “That was fun,” the 4-year-old girl said at the end of the day.

Or consider my son, Jesse’s uncle. When he was a preteen, I heard him telling a friend that old quip about the difference between fishing and catching. He ended by saying, “we fish, mostly.”

With expectations like those, success can be disorienting.

Once, when we were young men, an older brother and I drove through the night to reach Neah Bay. It was the peak of the coho run, and we had consulted experts who guaranteed success. Still, we were shocked to actually hook a salmon. “That was the last thing I expected!” Keith said as I netted the fish and nodded agreement.

Saturday made me fear that Jesse is in for a lifetime of disappointment. Lake Roosevelt not only produced fish, but the weather was brilliant. We shed our winter jackets, and absorbed the vitamin D, as fat rainbow trout inhaled our triple temptation of worms, marshmallows and Power Bait.

What happens next time, when there is no hefty stringer? Will Jesse still be satisfied to toss stones and build roads? Will he comprehend that steelheaders consider fishless days a necessary payment of dues?

Or maybe, out of all the day’s events, it would be climbing the bluff with Adam that would stand out as a memory. Or digging in the sand. Or roasting hotdogs.

Late that afternoon, Jesse fell asleep as soon as we loaded up the Tonka trucks and said our goodbyes to Adam and the beach. He awoke when we exited I-90, startled from a dream.

“Papa!” he said. “I caught a fish!”

And in his voice I recognized the same disbelief I heard years ago in a rental boat at Neah Bay.