Columnist John Katsilometes: A different kind of fish story

Monday, June 4, 2001 | 8:21 a.m.

The kid was wearing a candy-apple red T-shirt with "D.A.R.E." printed across the front and matching shorts. He was a 12-year-old beacon with a puffy mane of blond hair and his name was Nicholas.

"But I prefer Nick," he said.

Nick spotted a few of us fishing recently on the bank of the small lake at Echo Canyon State Park, which is nestled just outside the quaint burg of Pioche. (And what outdoors-related column would be complete without such words as "quaint" and "nestled"?) We were enjoying/surviving a weekend camping adventure and we were out to catch dinner. Or, in our case, appetizers. Fishy fries.

Nick walked up with fishing gear in tow and recited the fishing mantra, "Had any luck?"

"I have so much luck on a regular basis it would make your hair stand up," I responded. "But in your case ..."

I wasn't in a mood for strangers, or kids, at that moment. But Nick pressed.

"Dad and I made a bet this morning to see who would catch the biggest fish," he said. "He won."

"Gambling is bad," I sermonized.

Nick then pointed to a spot across the lake that, to a 12-year-old, seemed a hemisphere away.

"I walked all the way over here from way over there, by that blue truck," Nick said. "I'm sure thirsty."

"I'll bet you could use a cool one," I said, invoking a Cousin Eddie line from "Vacation" to keep entertained. "There's a Sprite in the cooler."

"I'll pick it up later," an apparently well-hydrated Nick said.

Nick was needy. He needed soda. He needed sunblock. He needed bait. He needed one of us to rig up his line and cast for him; I didn't consent because I very rarely fish and do not "rig," "cast," or even "reel" with any aptitude. Another of our party, Bassmaster Danny, did assist our Opie incarnate.

I took Nick as something of a budding hornswoggler, perhaps unfairly. Maybe he was just looking for conversation. His parents had effectively turned him loose on the camping population and he'd clearly mastered the art of small talk. He had earlier asked all of our names and, after maybe a half-hour, addressed me as "John," showing retention skills elusive to most adults.

"Hey, John," Nick said. "Yesterday I met a girl named Brandy out here."

"Really?" I said. "What kind of bait were you using?"

Nick fixed me with a crooked expression and said, "Um, Powerbait."

"I'll have to try that myownself," I said. "Powerbait and wingtips."

Nick laughed, probably because he didn't know how else to respond.

Suddenly, Nick's eyebrows arched and he yelled, "You've got something!"

I assumed he was speaking in medical terms, but no, one of the rods we'd propped up on the bank was bouncing. Likely, a fish was involved and Bassmaster Danny was not tending to the situation because he was casting out (for) his wife.

"John, get that!" Nick implored. I grabbed the, um, apparatus and navigated in the fish to land. It was about as big as my foot -- I know because that's where I dropped it. I just laughed and turned to Nick and said, "I don't fish. This here fish is the first one I've ever caught."

And Nick, being ever the resourceful tyke, excitedly asked, "Can I have him?"