As the long afternoon lazed around us, I began trailing a line overboard with a grasshopper on the hook. I had tied a small stone a foot or so above the bait, so that the hopper was either on the surface or just a foot or so beneath the water. It was not more than ten minutes until there was a disturbed circle of water around where the line vanished into the depths. Then I felt the solid pull of a fish on the line. I gave it a sturdy yank to set the hook and then brought in the line, hand over hand. My catch was a nice brook trout, easily two pounds. I flopped him into the boat and pried the hook out of his mouth. The grasshopper was still attached, so I had bait for the next try. I rigged a stringer from an extra bit of line and put it through the trout’s gills so he could swim around the canoe while I explored for his brothers. During the day I added three more trout and a dark monster that my father identified as a small-mouthed bass to the string.

The sun was low as we began to search for a camp site. As we did, my father said, “Miss Lizzy, since you’re the camp chef today, you can clean your catch.”

I protested but to no avail. Tim passed me his pocket knife, and my father said: “You’ll have no trouble with the trout. Just stick your knife into their vents and cut a slit up to the bottom of their jaws.” I did so, then he instructed: “Now take your finger and run it up the inside of the backbone and scoop out the innards.” The prospect repelled me, but I did as he said. When I reached the bright red gills, my father said: “Now snap them toward the top of his head.” I did and everything popped out neatly. The second was easier, and the third needed no prompting at all. By the last, I was an expert. The bass needed scaling first. I did that with the short blade of Tim’s knife, which was dull, getting almost as many of the glistening scales on my legs as I did over the side. I was so occupied that I did not notice that my father had located a camp site. Just as I finished gutting the bass, we shuddered ashore, the canvas making a sandpaper sound on the bank. My father held the canoe steady while we got out. As I rinsed the fish in the running water, he and Tim began unloading.