“Eventually, all things merge into one; and a river runs through it.”

                                                                 -Norman MacLean, A River Runs Through It

   Growing up on a mill pond in a small town in the days before computers certainly had its opportunities. That’s an understatement. Learning to swim off a dam with calm, deep water above and violent, swirling water below the spillways, known as “slashes”, was nothing like learning in a swimming pool at a park. In the winter when the ice froze to at least 4” thick you could hike, skate and – eventually – snowmobile upriver to the extent of your ankle strength or gas tank. But best of all was fishing. Especially for northerns. From a rowboat.

   The Embarrass River has three branches, two of which come together in the small farm town of Caroline (pop 250), in northcentral Wisconsin. The dam, which once ran logs and turned a gristmill, creates a pond. And that is where the northerns are. Especially where the Middle Branch enters the top of the pond, and cuts a deep pool into what’s simply referred to as the “first bend”.

  That’s where Ben is when he catches the biggest northern of his life, with his dad and younger brother, Deric, who catches the biggest northern of his life – at the same time. It’s interesting. Good thing their pops is there.

   They’re in a 12’ aluminum MirroCraft rowboat, which has three bench seats but is still small and light enough that Ben’s father can put it on top of their Plymouth 4-door when they go camping, allowing them to pull their 16’ Mallard camper trailer. These are the days. Conspicuous consumption has reached rural America.

   So, they get a motor too. A 1964 Johnson 5.5 hp Seahorse. Not the old classic, pea-green units with the round metal engine cover, like the one Ben’s grandpa has in his basement. This is the modern line, with a sleek, white fiberglass cowling and embossed logos and lettering in orange and black. It also uses an external 5-gallon gas tank, which is a big step up from the pea greens with the little 1-gallon tank on the top of the motor. You make a rainbow sheen from the gas on the water’s surface when you refill those on the river.

   On this Sunday morning, May 12^th, 1974, they’re quiet and tied off with two anchors holding them steady into the current, in the shallows of the pool. Usually, Sunday means church. You can fish afterward. But the urge to be here early that morning is strong. The river is high and the water’s cold. And northerns gotta eat.

   The sun is still rising when they have their bait in the water: A ticked-off minnow on a treble hook, with a 12” wire leader tied to 6# monofilament line hanging from the biggest red and white bobber in the tackle box. Ben and Deric have simple spin cast reels and 6’ poles. Their dad’s rig is a little bigger. He brings it along as a back-up. Two people fishing alongside a current out of a rowboat with live bait and big bobbers is plenty. Their pops is not there to fish.

   Once they all get settled, he folds his hands under his arms and looks about him. Smiling. Listening to the birds. There are lots of birds. The grandest is the Great Blue Heron, and they are common to see on this part of the river. In the cattails on the small island behind them are redwing blackbirds, squawking and looking for breakfast. Ducks are ubiquitous; mostly mallards but some wood ducks. And – on a good day – a kingfisher.

   There are plenty of other visitors to this hole. Land creatures on the bank. If you’re lucky, you might witness a family of raccoons start their day, exhibiting their amazing manual dexterity.  Watching them catch and eat crayfish is a memorable riverside experience. Seeing the little ones learn to swim. Wash up, and then they’re gone. Ben has seen mink scoot across the same bank on later trips to this spot. (They’re mean little bastards.) It isn’t unusual to hear a beaver tail splat on the surface somewhere upriver. And, of course, there are always deer.

   But it’s fish they’re after, and they’re in a good spot. They catch and release a few smaller “jacks”, that get out of the water and tail dance when brought in. Always fighting. Minnow eaters. That keeps the adrenaline up. Quiets the birds. Silence.  The rising sun bounces off the river’s surface, and the bobber is hard to see. Or maybe it’s underwater.

   “You’ve got something going!” Ben’s dad says, pointing at his bobber. It pops up and is moving with more strength than many minnows could muster. Then it dives under and the line draws tight. “Set the hook!” Ben’s dad shouts, and Ben does. Fish on.

   “Reel in,” Ben’s dad says to Derick, wanting to give Ben free rein to bring in his fish without tangling his line if the fish wants to run, which it does. But as Derick is bringing in his line the tip of his pole dips, so he reacts – and now he has a fish on. Their dad is doing his best to keep their poles from crossing.

   It’s apparent pretty quickly that Ben has the bigger fish on line, because of the pull and run his fish takes, deep and away – downstream. Deric’s fish is happy to zip around the hole, disturbing the birds and creating a lot of confusion in the little rowboat that had been resting comfortably a few minutes prior. Now it’s mayhem. Blackbirds squawk at the boat, rocking.

   Ben keeps the rod tip up and is able to turn the fish…slowly it comes toward them. Deric’s fish is running amok, but in a different part of the pool. Ben brings his fish up to the boat’s side, but it looks at Ben and turns. “Hang on! Keep the tip up!” his dad shouts. So, he does. The next time the fish came up it lingers on the surface, and Ben’s dad scoops it tail-first and lifts it into the boat. Almost. When the fish is pulled from the water and hangs in the net, it twists and wriggles and slashes its jaws; biting through the net, flopping in the bottom of the boat.

   Ben and his father look dumbfounded at one another. Deric’s still fighting his fish. The net is no longer of use, being strung in between a pissed-off northern and a simple spin-cast reel on a 6’ pole. “Keep an eye on that,” Ben’s dad says, looking at the fish flopping in the boat. Then he turns his attention to Deric’s struggle. His fish is a little crazy.

   It’s running hard, and the closer it gets to the boat the more it fights. It tangles the anchor lines, front and back, but Dad gets it freed up. In the course of the battle, the motor gets knocked out of the tilt position and lowers the propeller shaft into the water. The fish wraps around that. Ben’s fish flops around his feet, hook in mouth and a net for a necklace. Deric is standing, trying not to rock the boat while Dad struggles to get the other fish in. This is becoming personal.

   Eventually, the boat wins. Both fish are landed, de-hooked and put on a stringer. It’s a wonderful feeling. The fishermen look at each other, smiling. A moment stamped in memory, birdsong. They wrap the gear, bring in the anchors, bait bucket and the catch, then fire up the motor and head downriver, for the hallowed ride home, wind in their faces. The river a flowing church.

   Ben and Derick clean and eat their fish for Sunday supper. Their parents and sister have their chicken, not knowing what they are missing.