Collins Lake walkoff: A happy catch for brothers, dad – and Mr. Tom, too

Tyler's fish hit first – a big, chunky rainbow trout that splashed the surface of Collins Lake and made several line-peeling runs. I wondered briefly if the young man was strong enough for the fight, but he was. Just 10 years old, Tyler instinctively secured the butt of the rod into the padding of his life jacket and, using his left hand for leverage, calmly kept the rod aloft while reeling steadily with his right. After a Herculean battle, the fish, a gorgeous Creamsicle-colored variety of rainbow called a lightning trout Collins Lake is known for, tired. Tyler brought it to the stern and we slipped it into the net. The boy was ecstatic! We high-fived and he squatted down next to it, admiring his catch, which was about 6 pounds. He'd done it all himself. The kid radiated pride. His little brother though, not so much. Mason was only about 7 but a talkative kid with a quick smile. He also had a competitive streak. What younger sibling doesn't? Tyler had gotten a beauty. It was Mason's turn now. Their dad Jason looked on, amused. Unfortunately though, fishing was slow that morning. As you troll around a lake, pulling gear at slow speeds, the rod tips will occasionally bend, tremble or bounce a little. Could be caused by the presentation. Or wind, or line going through some weeds. For Mason though, each little tip dip was a chance to square things with his brother. Slow fishing or not, he was laser-focused on those rods. He was a sprinter, coiled, just waiting to burst from the blocks. He had also taken to calling me "Mr. Tom." Why, I'm not sure, but I liked it – even after he'd said it more than 400 times before 10 a.m. "Mr. Tom! Is that a fish?" "Mr. Tom! FISH ON!" "Mr. Tom! I think there's a fish on that pole!" Each time, I patiently explained to him that no, it wasn't a fish. His dad did, too. So did Tyler. It didn't matter. Mason was like a security light that keeps going off on a breezy evening. Don't misunderstand me. I get it. Inside, EVERY angler is a Mason. Doesn't matter if they're 7 or 70. Was the rod that bent before? Is the tip jiggling just a little more than normal? That pulse seems a little erratic, I'm just gonna check and see … But nope. By 11:30, we'd boated exactly no more fish and gotten not a single extra strike. Mason's battery was starting to wear down. His pace of "Mr. Toms" slowed, and there was an edge to them now – a sort of vague (but relatable) desperation. Before long, it was time to go in. Accepting our fate, I began reeling in. First rod. Second. I popped the third from the downrigger clip and noticed poor Mason's posture looked like a question mark. I asked if he'd like to crank it in. Quietly, he said, "Sure," more into the collar of his shirt than to me. So I handed off the rod and started putting the others away. Then, suddenly: "Mr. Tom! I got a fish! Mr. Tom! Mr. Tom! FISH FISH FISH!" I turned, ready to say for the 756th time, "No buddy, I'm sorry it's …" But it WAS a fish! And a nice one! The rod tip was galloping, the line tearing from the reel. Immediately, he assumed the same fighting stance as his brother. The kid took notes! He had this. Best of all, during the fight, he occasionally glanced at Tyler with a look of determined satisfaction. Tyler, to his full big-brotherly-credit, beamed back, shouting encouragement. Their dad did, too. A few adrenaline-fueled minutes later, Mason's trout was in the boat. Not quite as big as his brothers, it was still a chonk. There were excited whoops and high-fives all around. The ledger had been balanced – and by a last-second walk-off every slow-day angler hopes for. As he lined up next to his brother and his fish for a picture, it was Mason's turn to radiate pride. Tyler, and their dad, too. And yeah, so did Mr. Tom.