From The Publisher

Not long ago I wrote about being sixteen, wedged into my dad’s bronze Chevy pickup with my brother and a stack of canoes, hauling across the country to a whitewater race out West. I was the kid in the back then—the one Dad tried to reach by banging a wrench on the floorboards as we sailed down the interstate. Funny how the river keeps running. I’m sixty-eight now, the father of two sons—Ethan, who’s twenty-nine, and Troupe, who’s nineteen—both of them raised in the outdoors and happiest when they’re in it. And not long ago, I got to be the dad on the trip for a change.

I’ll be honest: for a stretch there, we hadn’t gotten to do as much together as I’d like. Work had a way of swallowing the calendar. That’s not a complaint—I chose this path, and I’d choose it again—but a man notices when the good trips start getting rare. So when my friend Bruce Fox called with an invitation to join a group bass fishing in West Tennessee, I didn’t need to be asked twice.

We threw ourselves into getting ready. The bass boat came into the garage for a once-over; we installed some fancy new forward-facing sonar, squared everything away, packed the rods and lures—and, on the strength of a rumor that we might get to run a sporting clays course, even tucked in a shotgun. We had the better part of two weeks to prepare and, naturally, were still down to the wire Thursday night before our Friday-morning departure.

It’s quite a drive—about six hours. More than that, it was the first overnight trip I’d gotten to take with Ethan in years. The last one, if I’m remembering right, was a sailing trip down to St. Martin with Ethan, his brother Griffin, my friend Jimmy Chirella and his son Joey, and my dear friend Eric Creed. So it had been a minute, and I was genuinely excited. Bonus: traveling is easier these days, because Ethan can take a turn at the wheel. Off we went.

First stop was Crossville, Tennessee, to meet up with our group—at none other than Buc-ee’s. We rolled in last, but it worked out fine. Ethan ran in for some brisket, I topped off the tank, and we pointed the truck toward Bolivar, Tennessee.

Ethan and I had volunteered to handle breakfast, lunch, and Saturday night’s dinner, so he’d spent most of Thursday tearing around Knoxville gathering provisions: a glorious big rib eye, eggs, bacon, fresh-baked bread—all the things a proper fishing camp deserves. I’ve never understood why so many of my friends think the right fare for a trip like this is hot dogs and hamburgers. To my mind these outings call for a little extravagance, precisely because they don’t come along often enough. In the spirit of my friend John Burrell and the High Adventure Company, we aimed to make it as all-inclusive as we possibly could.

We pulled in that first evening and headed straight for the water, half-braced for trouble. All the rain we’d driven through to get there—a genuine monsoon—had us certain we’d find a churning bowl of mud. But the grounds at the Lone Oak facility are beautifully kept, and all that well-tended grass had done its work: the lake was only faintly stained, not enough to matter.

Ethan and I were first on the water, and I have to tell you—my son has become quite a fisherman. He tied the same lure on both our lines, and he’d boated four fish, maybe five, before I’d even sorted out when to set the hook. He made some comment about the student becoming the master—more on that in a minute. The bite was feather-light, and Ethan just seems to have the touch. Eventually I caught a few—nowhere near his count. I think he landed fourteen that first day in a couple of hours. We went to bed certain every day would be that generous.

That night we ate at Simon’s, in the bustling metropolis of Bolivar—a restaurant owned by Mr. Ledbetter, the same man who brought Lone Oak to life. Dinner was fabulous. (A word of warning: those Ledbetter Old Fashioneds can be brutal.) We even got to shake his hand and thank him for having us.

The next morning, after a good breakfast, we were back on the lake—and, as fishing tends to do, it had changed the rules overnight. Tougher. Slower. We got off to a fast start and then had to grind for every bite. By lunchtime we were ready for a break, so we grabbed a sandwich and a cold drink and headed over for a round of clays. They have a wonderful course there—fourteen stations. It was Ethan’s first crack at sporting clays, and we had a ball. Bruce is an incredible wing shooter and made it look easy.

Back to the lake Saturday afternoon for a decent day. We got to work with the new electronics, study that fancy sonar, and—best of all—just spend father-and-son time on the water. The wildlife put on a show: a mink, a beaver, a few snakes, and a steady run of fish. Mid-afternoon a great flock of Canada geese swept in and serenaded us with their honking. All in all, a fine day. Then we came in, and so did the rain.

I was busy at the stove—quail poppers, Brussels sprouts, asparagus, baked potatoes, and fresh bread—while Ethan got relegated to the grill outside. I had no idea until later just how hard it was coming down out there; the boy was literally standing in two inches of water cooking the steaks. He never said a word about it, and he did a beautiful job. And when we finally sat around the table and swapped stories about the day and about life, I was reminded how much it matters to step away from the noise and share that time with the people you love—and how easily the years can carry it off if you let them.

Which is the whole point, isn’t it? Decades ago I was the kid in the back of my father’s truck, learning the river from him. Now I’m supposed to be the one teaching my son when to set the hook—though somewhere out on that water, the student quietly became the master, and the truth is he was teaching me. That’s the gift of it. The river keeps running, and it doesn’t wait on anybody’s calendar. Life isn’t all work. So pack the truck, gather the people you love, and take the time to live a little—because the trips don’t come around often enough to let a single one slip by.