I’m thinking you don’t want more coronavirus or political columns, so today I’m going to share some favorite stories of fishing with my kids and grandkids.

Here’s one.

As I cast a Brown Wulff up to camp toward a Sourdahunk Lake brook trout that had risen about 40 feet from the boat, I was startled by a shout from young Joshua at the other end of the boat.

“I got him!” he exclaimed. The water about six feet in front of me erupted as Josh’s brookie fought to separate himself from my son’s Hornberg. Josh had spotted the trout’s rise right beside the boat while my eyes were looking much farther out, and he had carefully dropped his own fly into the middle of the ring. The fish struck immediately and Josh expertly set the hook. Up went his rod, just as we had practiced, and the battle was on. Keeping a tight line, Josh played the fish well, bringing it in quickly so as not to tire it needlessly if we decided to release it.

But I took one look at that brookie boatside and knew it was a keeper. Josh has released his share of fish and he deserved this one. I dropped it out of the net into the bottom of the boat and almost in unison our two voices said, “Wow, what a fish!”

It was Josh’s biggest fish to date, a colorful and fat 13-inch brook trout. It perfectly matched a fish I’d caught earlier that evening, and we limited our catch to those two fish, releasing the rest.

If there’s a bigger thrill for a 12-year-old than casting a dry fly and catching a hefty 13-inch native brook trout in the shadow of Mount Katahdin, I guess I don’t know what it is. Heck, it was a pretty big thrill for me, watching my son working that rod and bringing in that trout.

Later that week, Josh and I fished the evening mayfly hatch in a stiff wind, very few trout rising, and even fewer taking an interest in our dry flies. I tried a parcel of flies, from grasshopper imitations to the ever-faithful brown wulff, with no luck.

Shortly before dark, Josh cast his Hornberg about 15 feet toward shore, watched it ride on the waves for about a minute, keeping his line tight. Smash! A trout pounded his fly and he brought the rod up to set the hook, cool and calm.

It was a handsome 12-inch trout and we kept it, our only fish of the night. After I continued to cast for about 20 minutes, frustrated with my own lack of action, I looked at Josh and he said, very seriously, “Dad, why don’t you try my rod. I’ve got all the fish I want.”

Boy, talk about being humbled. I thanked him, thanked God for him, and told him to keep fishing. We both had all the fish we wanted. On the Fourth of July, the Smith family enjoyed a feast of three trout.

I can’t remember a finer meal  — and it had nothing to do with the food.

Here’s some more.

Hilary was 8 or 9 when I took her down Sourdahunk Lake in the boat to fish a favorite spot. Hilary was fishing from the front of the boat with the same fly I was using from the back of the boat. And she caught nine brook trout while I caught nothing.

Hilary felt bad for me and suggested that we swap places and rods, so we did. And with her first cast with my rod she caught a nice brook trout. And I told her, “Hilary, you are already a better angler than your dad!”

Up to camp one summer, I took my 8-year-old grandson Vishal fishing in a small pool on Sourdahunk Stream. I would cast the fly and hand V the rod and he would catch and reel in the trout, which I would release.

After a while, V said he’d like to cast, so I showed him how to do it and very quickly he was doing a good job of casting. And he was catching a lot of trout. Eventually he told me he would like to release the fish, so I showed him how to do that and he quickly mastered it.

V’s 25th trout was very big, and as he released it into the stream he looked up and said, “Grampy, we’re both very happy.” Boy, he got that right!

George Smith can be reached at 34 Blake Hill Road, Mount Vernon 04352, or georgesmithmaine@gmail.com. Read more of Smith’s writings at www.georgesmithmaine.com.