I Remember (a fish story)
Fishing is so much more than it seems to the casual non-fishing observer. It truly is, as Issac Walton knew, the contemplative man’s sport. Any one who goes to all that effort solely to catch fish will not stay with the sport long. It is a restful sport interspersed with brief spells of excitement and action. Fishing provides time to think, time to solve the world’s problems. Time to observe nature around you. Time to be a contemplative soul.
Like most all recreational activities, the joy of the sport extends well beyond the water where you fish. Part of the experience is planning the next trip and recalling past trips. Going to the tackle store and picking out the next “hot” bait. What worked last time? Will it work this time? Who caught the biggest, most, first, smallest, etc.. Telling stories, not lies, stories. Fishing is a chance to own toys: rods, reels, baits, boats, even clothes. And although most people only use one rod and reel at a time, you have to be prepared for any situation, so you own multiple rods and multiple reels. Toys have to be maintained. Those days when it’s too miserable to fish are prime opportunities to clean and lube reels, wrap new guides on a pole, tie a few poppin’ bugs, and to recall fishing trips and the ones that got away.
My earliest fishing memory comes from when I was five or six years old. Dad, my brother and I are in the car. It’s dark. Dad was always one for hitting the road early to get there when the fish were biting best. I remember the little bait shop we pulled into to buy worms and crickets. A small building at the edge of an enormous gravel parking lot. I don’t remember much about the fishing, but that bait shop clings to my memory.
We camped and fished for trout as a family. Mom was always ready to go along, but I don’t remember her fishing much. When we camped, she’d stay in bed while Dad, my brother, and I went off to fish. We’d fish until a decent hour, come back to camp, get Mom, and go to the lodge to eat breakfast. The lodge always impressed me. It was big, with stone walls on two sides, a gigantic fireplace, and log beamed ceiling. There was a rack for rods out front; nobody ever thought of touching someone elses rod. The plates and cups all had dogwood blossoms on them. I remember the time we camped under the burr oak behind the lodge one fall. It was past the season so the lodge wasn’t open. Mom did all the cooking on an old Coleman white gas stove. We set up the tent in the dark. We kept hearing what sounded like rocks hitting things all around us. It wasn’t until the next morning that we saw the burr oak; its acorns are a little larger than golf balls and every bit as hard.
My brother fished for trout with a little rubber worm on a fly rod. Dad always used woolly worms that he tied himself and little spinners as did I. My Grandmother was a worm fisher through and through; no hoity toity flies for her. Dad always caught his limit first. I remember the first time I caught my limit. For me it was as important a rite of passage as a young Sioux killing his first buffalo. My family may not have had to rely on the meat I brought home, but those fish where every bit as meaningful to me.
I remember catching goggle eyes in the Gasconade River and pumpkin seeds in the Saline River. I remember catching trout at Bennett’s Spring and in the Arkansas River. I remember the day I hooked a sailfish, fought it for a while, and it got fed up and left. It was a good fight. I remember the day Dad and I caught small mouth bass all day long on Crooked Creek. I remember the day on Lac Suel I was fishing with Cameron and caught an 18 pound northern pike. I remember fishing with Harold the day we caught all those walleye. I remember days on Reelfoot Lake, Lake of the Ozarks, the pond at the prison farm, Binder Lake, DeGray Lake, Lake Truman, the Eleven Point River, the Jack’s Fork, the Current, the ... Cane poles, fly rods, crank baits, crickets, poppin’ bugs, casting rods, ... I also remember many days when we, or I, didn’t catch a thing. After all, it’s called fishing, not catching.
I remember a day on the Gulf we were drifting back and forth across the line marking the edge where the brown Mississippi River water and the clear blue Gulf water meet. There was a mat of sargasso weed along the line. Each time we drifted from the brown side into the blue side, dolphin would dart out from the protection of the weed to hit out baits dangled just at the surface of the water. They were beautiful, bright turquoise-blue and gold. We were catching fish faster than the mate could take them off our hooks and throw them in the box. All he had time to do was cut bait and toss pieces to us. The fish died on the deck of the boat, their color changing to grays and black, blood splashing everywhere. After twenty or thirty minutes of this we left for another oil rig. The captain knew we had killed enough fish from this school. We all came home with bags of mahi mahi.
What will my next fishing memory include; I can’t wait to find out.
Like most all recreational activities, the joy of the sport extends well beyond the water where you fish. Part of the experience is planning the next trip and recalling past trips. Going to the tackle store and picking out the next “hot” bait. What worked last time? Will it work this time? Who caught the biggest, most, first, smallest, etc.. Telling stories, not lies, stories. Fishing is a chance to own toys: rods, reels, baits, boats, even clothes. And although most people only use one rod and reel at a time, you have to be prepared for any situation, so you own multiple rods and multiple reels. Toys have to be maintained. Those days when it’s too miserable to fish are prime opportunities to clean and lube reels, wrap new guides on a pole, tie a few poppin’ bugs, and to recall fishing trips and the ones that got away.
My earliest fishing memory comes from when I was five or six years old. Dad, my brother and I are in the car. It’s dark. Dad was always one for hitting the road early to get there when the fish were biting best. I remember the little bait shop we pulled into to buy worms and crickets. A small building at the edge of an enormous gravel parking lot. I don’t remember much about the fishing, but that bait shop clings to my memory.
We camped and fished for trout as a family. Mom was always ready to go along, but I don’t remember her fishing much. When we camped, she’d stay in bed while Dad, my brother, and I went off to fish. We’d fish until a decent hour, come back to camp, get Mom, and go to the lodge to eat breakfast. The lodge always impressed me. It was big, with stone walls on two sides, a gigantic fireplace, and log beamed ceiling. There was a rack for rods out front; nobody ever thought of touching someone elses rod. The plates and cups all had dogwood blossoms on them. I remember the time we camped under the burr oak behind the lodge one fall. It was past the season so the lodge wasn’t open. Mom did all the cooking on an old Coleman white gas stove. We set up the tent in the dark. We kept hearing what sounded like rocks hitting things all around us. It wasn’t until the next morning that we saw the burr oak; its acorns are a little larger than golf balls and every bit as hard.
My brother fished for trout with a little rubber worm on a fly rod. Dad always used woolly worms that he tied himself and little spinners as did I. My Grandmother was a worm fisher through and through; no hoity toity flies for her. Dad always caught his limit first. I remember the first time I caught my limit. For me it was as important a rite of passage as a young Sioux killing his first buffalo. My family may not have had to rely on the meat I brought home, but those fish where every bit as meaningful to me.
I remember catching goggle eyes in the Gasconade River and pumpkin seeds in the Saline River. I remember catching trout at Bennett’s Spring and in the Arkansas River. I remember the day I hooked a sailfish, fought it for a while, and it got fed up and left. It was a good fight. I remember the day Dad and I caught small mouth bass all day long on Crooked Creek. I remember the day on Lac Suel I was fishing with Cameron and caught an 18 pound northern pike. I remember fishing with Harold the day we caught all those walleye. I remember days on Reelfoot Lake, Lake of the Ozarks, the pond at the prison farm, Binder Lake, DeGray Lake, Lake Truman, the Eleven Point River, the Jack’s Fork, the Current, the ... Cane poles, fly rods, crank baits, crickets, poppin’ bugs, casting rods, ... I also remember many days when we, or I, didn’t catch a thing. After all, it’s called fishing, not catching.
I remember a day on the Gulf we were drifting back and forth across the line marking the edge where the brown Mississippi River water and the clear blue Gulf water meet. There was a mat of sargasso weed along the line. Each time we drifted from the brown side into the blue side, dolphin would dart out from the protection of the weed to hit out baits dangled just at the surface of the water. They were beautiful, bright turquoise-blue and gold. We were catching fish faster than the mate could take them off our hooks and throw them in the box. All he had time to do was cut bait and toss pieces to us. The fish died on the deck of the boat, their color changing to grays and black, blood splashing everywhere. After twenty or thirty minutes of this we left for another oil rig. The captain knew we had killed enough fish from this school. We all came home with bags of mahi mahi.
What will my next fishing memory include; I can’t wait to find out.
posted by steve | 9:55 AM
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