I was standing near the window and eating a cold fish fillet from the night before when I saw Dad’s truck backing into my driveway with the boat attached. We were on our way to the Lamar City Lake.

We’d had our family’s fish fry the night before, and it was quite a success. There were platters of fried fish, hush puppies, onion rings, beans and salad and even fried wild turkey — the bird not the drink.

Unfortunately, the event had been thrown together hastily, and my wife Karen was away at a conference and I was spending a week on Taneycomo. However, by sacrificing and cutting my fishing trip down by a day and driving straight in from the lake with my kayak still on the truck, I was able to make it. Surely the smell of all those frying fillets would mask the fish odor of my clothing.

Everything went quite well with lots of laughter and everyone eating way too much. Luckily, I managed to put back a care package for Karen. As we were packing to go, Dad took me aside and mentioned that we were now out of fish and asked what time I’d like to go in the morning to catch more. The fillets were still warm and he was making plans to refill the freezer.

Late the next morning Dad and I were off, driving north on Missouri highway 71 and headed for Lamar.

The wind was stiff and the air was cold as we pulled away from the dock and started toward our first planned stop, a wide grassy point. Because the water was high and pouring over the spillway, our point was almost entirely covered in water. We quickly worked the area with two-inch plastic grubs and small tube jigs but without a single bite.

Beyond the point was a large cove surrounded by high trees which did a great job of blocking the wind. The entire cove is mainly a muddy flat with an average depth of four feet. The cove faced in the wrong direction for good fishing at this time of year, and the wind was from the wrong direction. However, there was a nice midge hatch going on, and there were baitfish plucking the insects from the surface of the water.

Dad switched to a bobber with live crickets and he quickly began to catch bluegill. Most were way too small to keep, but three made their way into the livewell. I, on the other hand, caught a single crappie on the white plastic grub that I had switched to. Unfortunately, it measured only nine-and-a-half inches long and the minimum length limit at Lamar is ten. The bite was short-lived even with Dad’s crickets, and we were forced to move on.

We continued fishing likely spots but without any further luck. Everywhere that the fish should be, they weren’t. Finally, we returned to the cover where we’d first caught fish. Even though the area was all wrong, we had caught fish there before. We pulled in among the jumping baitfish and dropped the anchor.

It wasn’t long before Dad began landing bluegill on his live crickets. This time, however, they were of a larger size, and he began to load the livewell. After landing a single keeper-sized crappie and three more that were too short, I removed my plastic grub and grabbed the cricket box.

We soon discovered that only a narrow section of water produced the keeper-sized bluegill. If we cast outside that zone, we’d catch nothing but very small sunfish. Also, if we weren’t right on the bottom, we’d catch nothing. The bluegills, both keepers and shorts, kept coming. Finally, as the sun dropped below the trees, the bite slowed drastically. Eventually, after using the last of our crickets, we decided to call it a day and headed back toward the ramp.

Once I was back at the house, I realized that I was quite hungry. Since Karen was still at her conference, I was on my own and headed into the kitchen to raid the refrigerator.

I was peering through the glass door of the microwave, listening to the warming fish fillets as they sizzled and spun on the tray when the phone rang. It was Karen. She was calling to say that although she was having a good time, she was ready to be home. She asked about the fish fry and said that she was eager to try some of the fish that I had saved back for her.

The microwave dinged as I tried to remember how many pieces of that cold fish remained in the refrigerator. Karen was coming home the next day. Dad and I may be cooking a few of those fish that we’d caught sooner than we’d planned.

Address correspondence to Silas Gray at ifish@silasgray.com.