The Earnheardts | Gone fishin’

I started fishing when I was a kid. It's hard to calculate the importance this activity had on my childhood, particularly in regards to my mental well-being.

When I was a boy, my family wasn't exactly what an outsider would call stable. Don't get me wrong, my parents loved me and worked like dogs to provide the best life they could. Their work was complicated by a host of challenges. They were very young and very poor when I was born. My sister was born 16 months later. As we grew, my mother would often regale us with stories of our little family sleeping on a mattress on the floor of a small apartment near Killeen, Texas — with small rodents and large spiders loitering nearby.

Although my parents carried large reserves of love for us, their other, more basic resources were limited. Around the time I turned 7, my Dad started having very serious mental health issues. So, it was also about this time that I had to grow up and become responsible in the ways most little boys shouldn't have to.

When my Dad was hospitalized, I was the "little big man" of the house — "little" because, well, I was 7, and "big" because I was much too tall for my young age. I was often confused for someone much older and mature. Of course, young people pushed into a position of responsibility realize quickly that older and mature are not the same thing.

But, in the midst of unpleasantness, arguments, uncertainty, breakdowns, police visits and ambulance trips, my mom always tried to find ways for me to remember I was still a little boy. As much as my extended family enjoyed crowning me "man of the house," my mother found ways to protect what little innocence remained.

One of her methods for reminding me I was a kid was to send me out with Uncle John. My uncle was a true outdoorsman and he loved to take me fishing. I still remember the excitement of waiting for him to pull up and take me to Potter County in Pennsylvania for a long weekend of trout fishing, or closer jaunts, catfishing on Locks 8 and 9 of the mighty Allegheny. We'd stand in the creeks and on river banks for hours, just being in the moment and enjoying nature, trying rather unsuccessfully on most days to catch fish.

When the pandemic hit, I suddenly found myself with oodles of unexpected extra time. I tend to be a workaholic. Someone who likes to spend hours accomplishing professional goals quickly realizes that working all day can be exhausting in ways that cause physical and mental harm.

But in true workaholic form, when I was grinding I didn't notice the exhaustion. This was true until the early days of the pandemic. Routines were interrupted and lockdowns made all my work homebound, which is not the ideal location for pursuing (let alone accomplishing) professional goals.

Being cooped up in the house wasn't good for me, Mary Beth or the kids. My natural state is restlessness and that quickly became an irritant to everyone, including me.

I like to be productive, and COVID-19 only heightened my Mr. Fix It and Mr. Clean ambitions. Look, it's just really hard for me to sit on the couch and watch Netflix for hours on end. I wake up and move. When my head hits the pillow, I'm out (and I sleep hard).

One day last April, I was in the garage looking for something to fix when I saw my old fishing gear. It hit me like a bolt of lightning. I would fix myself in the same way my mother tried to fix me. I would escape into nature, just like I did when I was her little man. I would find quiet, peace, fresh air — the tried and true ingredients for resting my mind, body and spirit.

No masks are required when you're sitting on the edge of a lake or standing in a favorite trout stream. The only "six feet" you think about might have to do with the depth of the water in a favorite fishing hole after an evening of light rain, or the distance you hope your next cast will go to reach the spot where you just saw a "big one" jump.

Who cares about social distancing when there's no one around for miles?

Because I associate fishing with some of the best times of my childhood, it's probably not surprising that I love to take my kids fishing. If you've ever fished with little kids you know how challenging that can be. You learn quickly that taking your own fishing gear is pointless. When you fish with kids, there is no time for your own angling. You're too busy baiting hooks with "ewww, gross, squiggly, slimy, please don't hurt him" worms.

And, if you ever manage to get a worm on the hook, you're quickly called in to untangle a cast from a nearby branch. Even if the line makes it in the water, it's bound to get stuck on some damn log floating near the bottom that's close enough to see, but too damn far to unsnag. Which starts the process over from the beginning.

And don't get me started on what happens when one of my kids hooks a bluegill.

As much as I love giving myself carpal tunnel from tying endless knots, I decided to leave the kids at home this time. If I was going to reconnect to my childhood love of fishing, I was going by myself.

As a workaholic and father of four, alone time wasn't something I previously explored. I want to experience the world with my kids, so I feel guilty leaving them behind. I worry my kids might miss an opportunity to experience something unique about life if I didn't bring them along.

But after months of being locked together in the house, it was fairly easy to push away the guilt and download some fishing apps. I scoured Google results for the best fishing in Pennsylvania and Ohio, and set out for adventure and relaxation.

It took me a while to get back into the swing of things. My hip waders had dry rot (not easy to replace when you're 6-foot-8). Some tackle was rusted. Worst of all, my body wasn't as flexible as I remembered. How did I ever climb up and down slippery river banks?

But after a few months, I was fully back into the swing of things. I managed to get out on the first day of trout season this year in Pennsylvania. It was one of the most restorative acts I've taken in my adult life. Being a tech guy who is lost without a smartphone, I had become disconnected from the natural world. Reconnecting to it was just what I needed to breathe again. Really breathe.

Like many of you, I've lost a lot during the pandemic. It's been difficult. It has changed me. But, when I stand in Chest Creek near Mahaffey, Pa. and cast my line into the cool, clear waters, I know that I've reclaimed something I lost long ago; something that was always important, always central to my mental health.

I've found the healing power of nature and the spirit of a little boy who took solace in the company of fish.

Now I just need to remember how to actually catch one.

— Adam Earnheardt is professor and special assistant to the provost at YSU and member of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists executive board. Follow him on Twitter at @adamearn.

This story was originally published May 17, 2021 at 4:24 AM with the headline "The Earnheardts | Gone fishin’."