I can see myself fly fishing. Standing in a pristine mountain stream with golden late afternoon sunlight streaming behind me as, with the skill and patience of a Zen master, I carve a graceful arc with my line before reeling in a trout of epic proportions. I release the fish, return it to the water and admire the way the light plays off its silvery scales as it swims away. Think Brad Pitt in “A River Runs Through It” and you’ll have the general idea.
Still, I barely have time for the hobbies I have now and fly-fishing isn’t all that cheap a sport in which to get started. Until fairly recently I wasn’t aware that I had any special interest in taking up fishing at all but after giving the sport a go for the first time in years during a camping trip in the summer (where I was the only one in the group to catch a fish – a monster of at least 4 inches) the desire was formed.
I also hadn’t realized how comparatively inexpensive simple spinning rods are. Sure there are the pricey ones for people who take the sport seriously, but ambling round a sports shop one day, I came across some on sale starting at around $20 – $30. That’s well within my price range but first I consulted my friend Ed. Ed’s been kicking around a lot longer than me (well, 7 years longer) and knows about these things.
“So is a $30 fishing rod OK to buy, or is it just a waste of $30?” I asked. Having received confirmation that the rod on which I’d caught my record breaker back in the summer probably only cost about that much, the decision was made. I was to become an angler.
Of course time passed, real life got in the way and if it hadn’t have been for another friend, Melissa, I probably wouldn’t have done anything about it.
“OK, I’m picking you up from work on Friday,” she told me authoritatively last week. “We’ll go to Sportsman’s Warehouse” (a kind of retail toy box for enthusiasts of outdoor pursuits) and pick out a fishing rod for you.” Of course, it wasn’t just going to be just me and her. Christmas is coming and too many other people wanted an excuse to visit the place so the simple act of choosing a rod for me, turned into a team event. Ed was there, of course, along with Robin and The Light of My Life™ so the five of us descended on the place like locusts with charge cards.
Once inside, the wimminfolk spread out and headed for their respective interests. Robin took off for the shoes, The Light of My Life™ for the hats and Melissa for the jeans while Ed and I manned the shopping trolley and gave helpful advice. While waiting Ed, found a camouflage bathrobe, which he thought, would be ideal for hiding among the potted plants, while I came across a pair of shoulder length camouflage gloves. To avoid being spotted during formal evening functions I suppose.
Soon it was time to hit the fishing section and after Melissa rejected my first choice, a 3 ft “My Little Pony” type number in a shade of pink which would match my eyes some mornings, we moved onto my next selection. It was a cool looking silver thing but Ed decided it wasn’t flexible enough. Apparently flexible is a good thing when it comes to fishing rods so he moved along the row and picked out another for me. This one was black and the tip zipped up and down like a whip when I swung it. OK, decision made, but of course – that was just the beginning.
I needed line, hooks, bobbers, sinkers, scissors, a tackle box and of course, the all-important bait. You would think it would simply be a case of walking along the shelves and grabbing the stuff but instead the process involved a level of discussion which would have made a Bedouin camel trader weep. Melissa learned her fishing in West Virginia where the fish are very different animals to our Colorado natives. Ed’s the local expert while I was utterly clueless so we went back and forth over the merits of # 8 hooks versus # 10s, bobbers or not, light line or heavy, the debate went on.
Ed’s an aficionado of the fishing vest, while Melissa’s a tackle box devotee. Being blessed with skinny, weedy looking arms I knew that a bulky vest wouldn’t be much of a fashion statement on me as you probably know, anglers are a stylish bunch so I decided on the tackle box.
“You’ll want one with a shoulder strap,” explained Melissa, “because you’ll have your rod and stuff in one hand, your beer cooler in the other and you won’t want to be messing with a tackle box in your third.” Sound advice that, so we picked out a green one and moved on.
Selecting my first supply of bait was another big decision. Back in the days when I last fished, you either purchased a small bag of some unidentified marine life from a crusty old guy in a kiosk at the head of the pier, or you went into the back yard and dug up worms. I haven’t seen a worm in Colorado and I doubt they would keep ’till the warm weather so instead we checked out the endless supply of commercial offerings. It would never have occurred to me that fish would go after some of these fluorescent concoctions but it seems those are the “in” colours. Bright red salmon eggs, neon orange Power Bait, “Drag Queen Bait” and even “Glitter Balls”, which caused juvenile fits of giggles all round – it was all here. Even little jars of multi-coloured paste which you use, presumably, to roll your own. It’s all very hi-tech these days.
Finally we were done and I headed for the checkout to hand over a sum of cash considerably higher than the $20-$30 I had originally anticipated. I’ll need Melissa and Ed to show me how to work most of this stuff, but I did spend a happy hour on Saturday unwrapping it all and placing it neatly in my new tackle box. I also picked up my first fishing injury, drawing blood when the snap of the box ripped open my index finger. How manly is that?
Still, I’m all set to go now. The gear is primed, I’m ready for the hunt and fish had best beware. Everything is in place.
So how long is it ’till the ice melts?
Tag: angling
To Catch a Fish
The seaweed was biting that day, my friends.
Every few minutes the fishermen (and fisherwomen, and fisherkids) would haul in their lines to find yet another long string of glistening fauna. Come to think, it probably wasn’t even seaweed, seeing as how we were at a lake some 1,300 miles from the nearest ocean. But there was certainly lots of it and they excitedly compared hauls. “Maybe we should take it back to the campsite,” said Mary. “Make a seaweed salad?”
I’ve only been fishing a handful of times in my life. The very first time was off a pier in Tarbet, Scotland where the fish were so easy to catch the whole sport seemed rather pointless. Drop in the line, watch while the mackerel came up to check out the bait, jerk the pole (Note: This is called ‘striking’ – write that down kids!) then haul up the fish. Take out the hook; drop the fish back in the water, lather, rinse, repeat.
Any guilt I may have felt over the lack of sportsmanship on my first fishing trip was absolved on all my subsequent outings when I never came close to catching a single fish.
“I practice cruelty free fishing” I explain to anyone who will listen. “No fish were harmed in the making of this day out.”
Possibly for that reason, I never really got into fishing and if I did go, it was usually to tag along with others who knew more about the sport than I. Although curiously, they never seemed to catch anything either. Maybe I was a jinx who had used my lifetime’s supply of fisherman’s luck on that first day out.
But really, that was OK with me. I like fish well enough when they’re coated in batter and deep fried with chips but getting up close and personal with a wriggly one on a hook doesn’t particularly appeal. Also, I’ve never had a desire to be one of those hardy souls you’ll see up to their privates in icy cold water while they try to trick the fishes into their nets. No, when I go fishing, I want it to be a pleasant day out, preferably in beautiful scenery.
Which was the case today as I sat cross-legged on the shore of one of Colorado’s more picturesque lakes, with the sun on my face and the breeze gently ruffling my hair, simply watching as others went through the motions.
We were pretty sure there were fish in the lake. The campsite host was certainly charging enough for the privilege of attempting to catch them, although as I noted, this would be the scam to end all scams. Charge campers just to fish in a lake with no fish. How neat would that be? Sometimes I wonder why I’m not filthy rich.
Innyhoo, I questioned why Mary was using limburger cheese as bait.
“It may smell like old socks, but one of the old ladies I visit told me it’s the only thing to use. She hasn’t fished in years, but she perked right up when I told her I would be going this weekend and she swears by it.”
“Not doing much good so far, is it?” observed Ed, “Why don’t you try some salmon eggs?”
“I dunno, they don’t seem to be working too well for you so far, do they Hotshot” came the retort.
Ed looked sadly at his own pile of seaweed and had to conclude that she was right. So, he hauled in his line and cast once more out into the big blue yonder. Or at least, 30 feet or so out into it – he was only using a small fishing pole.
After a while, Sophie lost interest and wandered off to chat to the rest of the group who were busy catching seaweed further down the shore. Her fishing pole lay unused near my feet and after watching Ed and Mary for a few minutes longer, I decided I could catch seaweed just as skilfully as them.
I checked to make sure both hooks were properly baited. Sophie had been using a curiously unnatural looking attraction called ‘PowerBait’. These were pea-sized balls of putty like material in a shade of orange not found in nature. I would have thought this would scare the fish away, but what do I know. Everything appeared to be in order, so I laid the pole over my right shoulder and deftly cast out into the deep.
The hook barely reached the water.
It took another two equally abysmal efforts before I noticed that the reel had a wee lever on it, which I discovered, was the brake. Slide it the other way and the line has the opportunity to unwind as well as be reeled in. Probably fairly important, that. Flicking the lever to one side, I tried once more and this time, the line whizzed out across the water. That’s better.
After a few minutes of not very much happening, I decided I would give my new found casting skills another go and hauled in the line. I had to fight the urge to jump up and down when I felt an unmistakable tugging on the line. Could it be? Could I have caught a fish on my first cast while all these pros were hauling in nothing but seaweed? Could it be?
Well, no of course it couldn’t.
I had however, caught a twig. And quite an impressive one too; at least 6 inches long and quite formidable looking. I added it to the seaweed pile and tried once more. I didn’t catch a fish that time either. Or the next time, or the next. But you know what? I caught one on the next.
Oh, it wasn’t exactly a record breaker. At 5 inches or so, it was well under the limit which required me to throw it back, so no visit to the taxidermist for me. And it was an ugly little bugger too.
“A sucker fish” explained Ed. “A bottom feeder”.
OK, so not exactly the sort of thing you’d read about in Hemingway’s work. Melville probably wouldn’t have written a novel about it (although if he had, it couldn’t have been any worse than Moby Dick.) But it was the only fish anyone caught that day. Mr. Rugged-Outdoorsman, that’s me. When civilization crumbles around us, I’ll be able to provide for my family.
So, (lowering voice an octave and hitchin’ up pants) if you need any advice on fish catchin’, I’m your man.
Just don’t ask me what’s in PowerBait.
The Gunsmoke Diaries 