My dad was an ardent fisherman, and when I was a child – and I am the only child – for him, it didn't matter whether we shared his passion with mum; we just had to love fishing as he did. I always felt deprived as we never went to Disneyland, mostly camping and fishing. 

Back then, I didn't understand how much I would miss that time and how I would desperately try to recollect each moment.

Almost every month since I turned five, he took us to Lake Hope, where we rode in our pretty old 75’ Cherokee Chief. First, we strolled the banks looking for fish no matter the weather. Dad didn't care much if we got in mud and were all wet or other things that mom worried too much about. 

Dad's dream was buying a small house by the lake so we could settle down, favoring his hobby 24/7. But having a kid who loves fishing as much as he did never was true for him – my fishing enthusiasm was never gross. Despite all the super gear for fishing on lakes and rivers all four seasons, even on ice, my excitement wasn't hard to disguise. 

For my dad, the entire process wasn't a breadwinning thing or team-building bullshit but a meditation with a stick and water around his hunched shoulders. It was always the time to gather his thoughts and foresee our family's future and himself as a lead. At least, this is what he said.

When dad is gone, remembering his favorite pastime with me joining it, while the shades of time haven't covered it all with dust, is way more gratifying and honorable for me.

I remember how he got prepared for each trip with such meticulous dignity that solidified his respect in our eyes, with the assertiveness of a guy who does everything right. This was dad's stance that I loved most of the time.

My favorite memory was the early fall of 1987 when he decided to visit Lake Hope for the first time. It was almost 20 miles away, so we had to take off around 3 a.m. I remember mom prepared sandwiches with ham and peanut butter, and we also had salad and apples – dad loved them much.

We took our dog with us, black schnauzer Toby, he loved to fish, and we loved him very much. We'd always give him our first catch, no matter how big it was. If a fish was too small, Toby would throw it back in the water and bark, staring at us. First, we couldn't get what she was doing until dad noticed Toby was sticking his nose out of the water, like a real Greenpeace activist. 

Then, dad would pull his favorite chewer straight up to him, and Toby would never trade it for fish. That is what dad always did – everybody knew his nice guy disposition.

I hated that every family vacation revolved around Lake Hope – we even called it “our lake.” This is how stupid I was. 

Now I assume we weren't rich and wouldn't have it any other way, something less ordinary than just fishing with my dad. My dad and my mom.

They never had to worry about those phone calls from school when kids skipped classes or anything of the kind because there were none. I was a good student and never caused them trouble. They trusted me and my judgments, maybe because I was sensitive and wise beyond my years. I used to read a lot, mostly biographies and history books. That is what I inherited from dad. 

On the lake, there is nothing more than tons of water, with your entire essence reflected in it. Dad was never a chatterbox, but he hardly ever dropped a word during these trips, even to mom. He had a myriad of baits, like spinnerbaits, crankbaits, and long and short spinning rods. He knew everything about the lake, all fishing spots and their depths. 

He knew the spots along the shoreline with rare reeds with less vegetation – some good spots to catch a largemouth bass. Lots of oxygen offers an excellent surface for predators.

Dad would use plenty of spoons, one after another, just around vegetation. Some types of spoons were among his favorite lures, but as for myself, until now, every second time I'm casting a spinning rod, I'm getting snagged. Dad had a map to keep his eyes open for logs and rock piles, a smartass.

When fishing, we were best mates despite not talking much. We only talked a little, though. I always was closer to mom, her sensibility predetermined my way of life. But as I've gotten older, I've got a clearer vision of my past. With mom, we talked a lot about life, she kept saying, “charity begins at home.” Looking with hindsight, I would say it only starts there.  

What do you guys know about silence? Silence of Lake Hope? It begins when you step out of that 75’ Cherokee getting into the wild – you can hear woodpeckers, see Eastern Phoebes, and even see hummingbirds, just be patient. A carpet of moss and lichens on both sides of your hiking path was a gentle touch of wildlife. 

I vividly remember this feeling of tranquility and pacification during these trips. 

By the way, we'd also cook fried bass over the fire for dinner, but it certainly wasn't my favorite. I remember it wasn't the flavor that I didn't like, but rather a marsh smell. However, the taste depends on the recipe you choose. Sometimes, preparing bass on the pan, dad put a little more dried garlic as needed to mask the smell.

It was late at night when I heard a series of water splashes and saw dad fighting a huge fish. I hurried to the car, took a torch, and returned to him as he asked me to.

Dad was piking with a live bait and managed to catch a pike of about 7lb. I watched him fight that ruthless lake king, and my adrenaline went insane. While I was holding the light on the fish, dad unhooked it.

That was the only time I saw such a huge pike that it had taken so long to pull it out! I was amazed by its tenacity but overwhelmed by my dad's endurance.

He never hooked a pike of the same size again, or maybe I just didn’t know it – I didn't know it and probably never would.

It was huge, more than enough size to hang it on the wall, but dad never did.