MOSES LAKE - This is the first of a two-part series about fishing with the Colonels Guemmer.

The request was simple.

"I would like to come down and try for some walleye sometime this summer," Col. Guemmer said.

Colonel Paul H. Guemmer is the 92nd Air Refueling Wing Commander, stationed at Fairchild Air Force Base and, as such, he is the Fairchild Air Force Base Commander as well.

"Sure," I said, "just name the day."

The tentative dates decided upon were either Monday, July 11 or Wednesday, July 13. It was a week when Col. Guemmer's father, Art, would be visiting from New Mexico.

Col. Paul Guemmer's father is also a Col. Guemmer, an Air Force pilot who has logged many hours in a C-130. On July 13 I pulled into the Bob's Cafe parking lot as they, the Colonels Guemmer, Paul and Art, were exiting the restaurant. They had arrived 10 minutes earlier, checked for me, bought a fresh cup of coffee and were ready to hit the water.

Paul had pulled a small bass boat, just large enough for the three of us. My gear, a camera bag, one rod and a cooler with snacks, was out-of-place in the compact boat.

The interesting and educational aspect of this watercraft was the organization. Yes, I've seen plenty of boats with rods stored here and tackle there, but this smallish boat had every storage compartment filled with an organized collection and selection of rods and tackle.

We first fished for walleye. I tried one rod shallow and the other deep, putting my two-rod endorsement to work. Art and Paul fished deep. The lake north of I-90 was explored and so was south of I-90 to the tip of the Peninsula.

Fishing for bass near the various boat docks was debated and Paul opened one compartment and switched walleye rods for bass rods in an instant. We fished north along the western edge of the Peninsula and then beside the rocky bank of the freeway, under the bridge and around the other side for a few hundred yards. I was shocked as we only experienced one strike to Paul's rod and one to mine.

Next we fished the weed line along the west side of the lake, north of I-90. Nothing, no more hits. What was worse the only fish species showing were carp, lots of them. Plus they were taunting the three of us in a teasing manner, sometimes leaping clear of the water, much as a lip-hooked rainbow trout. I swear more than one was making faces in my direction.

"I would sure hate to be a fishing guide on a day like today," I said out loud, but to no one in particular.

"Yes, it would be embarrassing," Art said.

The conversation next turned to the subject of fishing opposed to catching and the difference between the two. This was a dreadful subject to one who was supposed to help others bring fish to the net.

After several hours of lines-in-the-water and not feeling anything but a nudge, I assessed the situation and made a command decision.

"Let's head for Rocky Ford," I said with authority and domination.

The Colonels Guemmer had been asked to bring their fly fishing equipment, in case time allowed a side trip to the blue-ribbon trout stream. We parked the boat and vehicle in a friend's driveway and jumped into my Dodge Ram for the drive to the creek.

We traveled north, then west, visiting all the way as outdoor enthusiasts do when time on the water, in the blind or on a stand is not possible.

"Did your daughters have a chance to try some of the venison pepper sticks I sent home with you during our last visit?" I asked.

"No they didn't," Paul said. "We have a 6-foot plus son who inhales any food within reach as soon as he sees it."

Interestingly enough, Art and I were in Vietnam close to the same time. He was stationed in Nha Trang, well north of Saigon, when I was stationed east then south of Saigon. Still there was the C-130 flight I was on from the hospital at Cam Ranh Bay, just a few miles south of Nah Trang, to Saigon in 1969.

After takeoff, the crew chief came to me and asked if I was a pilot. I said yes. He said the aircraft commander wanted me on the flight deck. I don't remember the names of any of the Air Force people that day. What if...just what if...

We pulled into the Rocky Ford Creek public parking lot in the early afternoon. Arrangements had been made for us to cook lunch at a friend's house nearby, but because of time constraints, we needed to cook at the creek. This would allow the Colonels more time on the water.

I walked to the creek to show the Colonels Guemmer the many large trout within casting distance of the bridge at the upper end. This, I'm sure, wet their appetite. They began assembling fly fishing gear as I began to prepare the lunch.

"Try a scud and a grasshopper pattern," I told them. "If those fail, try a woolly bugger."

One put on a grasshopper and the other a pheasant-tail nymph pattern. The flies were presented to fish after fish and each would turn away.

"Talk about gin-clear water," Art said.

The Colonels Guemmer cast again and again to trout holding in place and seemingly uninterested in anything the anglers were throwing in their direction.

Next week: Rocky Ford Creek provides a challenge for the fish-savvy Guemmers.