I took a day off work so my wife and I could go canoeing up in this mountain lake. I took along a spinning rod and a small amount of tackle, but I didn't have plans to fish properly -- to work structure diligently, to key in on certain areas. I just figured as long as I was on the water, I might as well fling some lures about. The lake is supposed to have brookies, rainbows, largemouths, catfish, and bluegill in it, so I took some general stuff and figured something would hit.
No luck early on, so I tied on one of my favorite crankbaits, a little blue-and-silver job that has teeth marks all over it from Pennsylvania pike. Still no luck, so I suggested to Nicole that we try a little trolling. She could row as fast as she could, and I'd let out about 30 or 40 feet of line and drag the crankbait behind us. I didn't feel very optimistic as I'd never done this from a canoe, but we set off across the lake. When the lure reached the middle of the lake, I felt a hit, and we slammed on the brakes. Or, rather, we coasted, then spun a funny way, and the bass politely hung on.
Fishing from a canoe is a fun way to go about it. It's not easy, but when you're bringing in a fish, you feel as if you're at eye level with it. Nicole was thrilled to see the fair-sized bass coming up. I boated him and turned him loose, and we resumed cruising about the lake. We didn't have a single hit the rest of the day, but I didn't care that much.
I hadn't ever caught a fish that had been so much a team effort. The closest I can remember is working the trolling motor while a friend threw bait against a bank in a bass tournament. The weather was lousy, and the fish only wanted to hit if we were moving the right speed at the right angle. The fish we took that day (none big enough to enter in the tournament) felt like a team effort, but the catching wasn't nearly as fun as this one fish, taken high in the mountains with my wife as captain. I think she's hooked, and I couldn't imagine a better way to spend the day.
Unless I had used a little more sunscreen on my knees...
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
What's a Catch?
In my first post, I mentioned I lost a brookie when I hoisted him out of the water. There's no way I'd call this a catch; it fits the description of what I recently heard termed a "jack fish," as in you jack it out of the water if you set the hook with any force (sorry I can't credit whoever's writing I read this in). It did get me thinking about what constitutes a fish being officially "caught".
We all like to pretend that it doesn't matter whether or not we catch fish, and to a point, at least on certain days, that's true. But at the same time, when you get back and someone asks you how many you caught, it's nice to have an honest answer. Sometimes it's hard to say.
When I was in high school, I learned two things that changed how I thought about a catch. The first was that some saltwater anglers -- and I don't know if this was simply for tournaments or not -- consider a fish caught if they can reach down and grab the leader, partly because it wasn't practical to lift big fish out of the water. Second, I read in one of my magazines, almost certainly Field & Stream or Outdoor Life, that if you reel in a little fish, you can often release it by simply holding onto the eye of the hook. The fish gives one wriggle and he's free. It lets you release your catch with virtually no handling. [Note: this is a far cry from Tom Waits's "catch, put it in your pants, and release" program.]
My fishing buddies and I always had contests. "Most Fish" was the key category, but we'd also break it down into whatever categories favored the person behind: "Biggest Fish," "Most Bass," "Most Unusual Fish," "Most Unusual Way to Catch a Fish," etc. Integral to all categories was determining what was and what wasn't a catch. We finally came to the conclusion that if you touched the last six inches of line with the fish under control, it counted. This made everyone, including the fish, happy, and I don't think count totals went up any because of it.
But it's not always so clear, and here's my real story: I was trout fishing alone in a special regulation stream in PA. I had usually caught a few fish there, but nothing huge, although I had seen some big fish. This day I was in a run that I always knew held fish, but had never had so much as a hit, when something big grabbed my nymph. The trout took me up and down the river, and my skills then (and probably now) weren't up to it. I was trying to keep tension on my line and making it up as I went along. When he ran past me just a few feet away, I was sure I would lose him, but I didn't.
Eventually I tired him and brought him in. An enormous rainbow, bigger at that time than any fish I had ever caught (and still bigger than any trout), finned at my feet. I bent down to pick him up, and discovered he was so thick I couldn't get my hand around him. He launched himself back into the river. I got him back under control and tried -- with a horrible tactic -- to net him. He was longer than the opening of my net, I bungled it, and one of the flies became tangled in the net, breaking the line as the fish drifted away. I lunged for him, but he was just out of reach. I still feel bad that I didn't have the chance to revive him.
I crawled up onto the bank and sat down. It's one of only a few times I've been so excited that afterwards my hands were shaking and my heart was pounding and I don't know that I could have moved. Eventually I tied back on and started half-heartedly fishing again, more stuck in that moment than in what I was doing. I felt exhilarated, but a little disconcerted by the ending of the encounter.
I ran into a young angler about my age on the way back to the car. We chatted a few minutes and I told him my story, hesitant to say exactly that I "caught" the fish. He felt bad about it and consoled me for losing a big one, but that didn't feel quite right either. Landing a fish is part of the deal, but the fact that I had picked the fish up out of the water and just couldn't hold him still to unhook him seemed to count for something. At this point, I can't say I'm entirely concerned with what the officially ruling would be on it, but it would be nice to feel confident in saying that this trout was the biggest one I ever caught.
[Note: Yes, we'll eventually start having pictures here.]
We all like to pretend that it doesn't matter whether or not we catch fish, and to a point, at least on certain days, that's true. But at the same time, when you get back and someone asks you how many you caught, it's nice to have an honest answer. Sometimes it's hard to say.
When I was in high school, I learned two things that changed how I thought about a catch. The first was that some saltwater anglers -- and I don't know if this was simply for tournaments or not -- consider a fish caught if they can reach down and grab the leader, partly because it wasn't practical to lift big fish out of the water. Second, I read in one of my magazines, almost certainly Field & Stream or Outdoor Life, that if you reel in a little fish, you can often release it by simply holding onto the eye of the hook. The fish gives one wriggle and he's free. It lets you release your catch with virtually no handling. [Note: this is a far cry from Tom Waits's "catch, put it in your pants, and release" program.]
My fishing buddies and I always had contests. "Most Fish" was the key category, but we'd also break it down into whatever categories favored the person behind: "Biggest Fish," "Most Bass," "Most Unusual Fish," "Most Unusual Way to Catch a Fish," etc. Integral to all categories was determining what was and what wasn't a catch. We finally came to the conclusion that if you touched the last six inches of line with the fish under control, it counted. This made everyone, including the fish, happy, and I don't think count totals went up any because of it.
But it's not always so clear, and here's my real story: I was trout fishing alone in a special regulation stream in PA. I had usually caught a few fish there, but nothing huge, although I had seen some big fish. This day I was in a run that I always knew held fish, but had never had so much as a hit, when something big grabbed my nymph. The trout took me up and down the river, and my skills then (and probably now) weren't up to it. I was trying to keep tension on my line and making it up as I went along. When he ran past me just a few feet away, I was sure I would lose him, but I didn't.
Eventually I tired him and brought him in. An enormous rainbow, bigger at that time than any fish I had ever caught (and still bigger than any trout), finned at my feet. I bent down to pick him up, and discovered he was so thick I couldn't get my hand around him. He launched himself back into the river. I got him back under control and tried -- with a horrible tactic -- to net him. He was longer than the opening of my net, I bungled it, and one of the flies became tangled in the net, breaking the line as the fish drifted away. I lunged for him, but he was just out of reach. I still feel bad that I didn't have the chance to revive him.
I crawled up onto the bank and sat down. It's one of only a few times I've been so excited that afterwards my hands were shaking and my heart was pounding and I don't know that I could have moved. Eventually I tied back on and started half-heartedly fishing again, more stuck in that moment than in what I was doing. I felt exhilarated, but a little disconcerted by the ending of the encounter.
I ran into a young angler about my age on the way back to the car. We chatted a few minutes and I told him my story, hesitant to say exactly that I "caught" the fish. He felt bad about it and consoled me for losing a big one, but that didn't feel quite right either. Landing a fish is part of the deal, but the fact that I had picked the fish up out of the water and just couldn't hold him still to unhook him seemed to count for something. At this point, I can't say I'm entirely concerned with what the officially ruling would be on it, but it would be nice to feel confident in saying that this trout was the biggest one I ever caught.
[Note: Yes, we'll eventually start having pictures here.]
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Catching is Seeing
You gone tear them up lil man?
I guess so.
Aw you got to meanit lil man. You got to see yo self catchin fish befo you can catch them fish.
Papa laughed and the crown of his cigar ash tumbled down his shirt. We had loaded up on crickets and minnows. Papa had grabbed a carton of worms, a few artifical lures that we'd probably never use. The man behind the counter was twice the size of Papa and he burst from his Liberty overalls. His neck hung thickly in rings as a dog's and his wide veined hand rubbed at his beard, white and wiry as a scrub brush.
Aw hell, he laughed. You gone tear them up, lil man. You mark my word. You watch.
We got back in the El Camino and drove. I watched as the sky went from black to indigo. I watched as it went to navy to thin blue to white with light. The sun splinttered though the cracked windshield. The AM radio crackled and stilted voices spoke of things that did not concern me. We stopped to get gas and Papa bought Tampa Nuggets and Cokes and pre-packaged sandwiches and chips. He bought cans of Vienna sausages and Chunky candy bars.
It won't be long, Sturt, he said.
I was fine with it. I danced my arm in the warm wind. The air was hot and the cicadas sawed and screeched and sounded as the summer itself, alive and humming. I thought about the bugs that I did not see as Papa backed the boat up into the pond. The boat slid silently into the warm green water. Bugs lit thickly in the air. Swarms of them danced in pockets over the water. Papa parked the El Camino and we pushed the boat on.
We rowed. We baited up. I watched Papa grab a minnow and slip the hook under his throat. The barb winked from its silver belly. I tried. The minnow danced from my fingers. Plop. I watched as the silverfish vanished into the green water. I tried again. I watched it as I dug the hook into its throat. Its eye widened as the barb woke from its tail. It straightened and then twitched, adjusting to the hook. I picked the rod up from the boat and raised back and shot the line out over the bow. I watched as the bait and bobber tumbled in air and then splashed upon the surface and steadied.
Nice cast, Sturt.
Papa lit a Nugget and the gray smoke puffed over his face and shrank away. He cast one rod and then another. He watched their bobbers steady and then he baited a third with a worm. I watched as the thin red line danced and throbbed about the sting of the hook. He shot the line towards the bank and its bobber steadied and a dragonfly set upon it.
I reeled in. I checked the minnow. Its eyes held quiet, spooked. It was dead. I cast out and watched the line straighten and fall.
You aint gonna catch any fish castin and reelin, castin and reelin. Let it set in there, Sturt.
I watched the bobber. I imagined a fish surging from the bottom to ravage the bait. I thought about how I might set the hook, how playing that fish might go, how I would get him on the reel and let that Zebco do the work. Maybe I'd get a largemouth. Maybe it'd be a record Crappie. Two-hands. Two adult hands. Bigger than a teenager's calf. Maybe it would be.
I watched the bobber. Down and over, down and over. It seemed like the line moved. But it didn't. I thought about that fish surging again and I thought about what I'd do. Papa threw me some Fritos and a Coke. I watched the bobber. The salt of the chips and the sugar of the Coke was good. I burped.
That man at the shop was right you know, Papa said. You got to see yourself catchin fish before that line'll go tight for you, Sturt. He aint lyin.
I watched the bobber. And then I thought of that fish.
I guess so.
Aw you got to meanit lil man. You got to see yo self catchin fish befo you can catch them fish.
Papa laughed and the crown of his cigar ash tumbled down his shirt. We had loaded up on crickets and minnows. Papa had grabbed a carton of worms, a few artifical lures that we'd probably never use. The man behind the counter was twice the size of Papa and he burst from his Liberty overalls. His neck hung thickly in rings as a dog's and his wide veined hand rubbed at his beard, white and wiry as a scrub brush.
Aw hell, he laughed. You gone tear them up, lil man. You mark my word. You watch.
We got back in the El Camino and drove. I watched as the sky went from black to indigo. I watched as it went to navy to thin blue to white with light. The sun splinttered though the cracked windshield. The AM radio crackled and stilted voices spoke of things that did not concern me. We stopped to get gas and Papa bought Tampa Nuggets and Cokes and pre-packaged sandwiches and chips. He bought cans of Vienna sausages and Chunky candy bars.
It won't be long, Sturt, he said.
I was fine with it. I danced my arm in the warm wind. The air was hot and the cicadas sawed and screeched and sounded as the summer itself, alive and humming. I thought about the bugs that I did not see as Papa backed the boat up into the pond. The boat slid silently into the warm green water. Bugs lit thickly in the air. Swarms of them danced in pockets over the water. Papa parked the El Camino and we pushed the boat on.
We rowed. We baited up. I watched Papa grab a minnow and slip the hook under his throat. The barb winked from its silver belly. I tried. The minnow danced from my fingers. Plop. I watched as the silverfish vanished into the green water. I tried again. I watched it as I dug the hook into its throat. Its eye widened as the barb woke from its tail. It straightened and then twitched, adjusting to the hook. I picked the rod up from the boat and raised back and shot the line out over the bow. I watched as the bait and bobber tumbled in air and then splashed upon the surface and steadied.
Nice cast, Sturt.
Papa lit a Nugget and the gray smoke puffed over his face and shrank away. He cast one rod and then another. He watched their bobbers steady and then he baited a third with a worm. I watched as the thin red line danced and throbbed about the sting of the hook. He shot the line towards the bank and its bobber steadied and a dragonfly set upon it.
I reeled in. I checked the minnow. Its eyes held quiet, spooked. It was dead. I cast out and watched the line straighten and fall.
You aint gonna catch any fish castin and reelin, castin and reelin. Let it set in there, Sturt.
I watched the bobber. I imagined a fish surging from the bottom to ravage the bait. I thought about how I might set the hook, how playing that fish might go, how I would get him on the reel and let that Zebco do the work. Maybe I'd get a largemouth. Maybe it'd be a record Crappie. Two-hands. Two adult hands. Bigger than a teenager's calf. Maybe it would be.
I watched the bobber. Down and over, down and over. It seemed like the line moved. But it didn't. I thought about that fish surging again and I thought about what I'd do. Papa threw me some Fritos and a Coke. I watched the bobber. The salt of the chips and the sugar of the Coke was good. I burped.
That man at the shop was right you know, Papa said. You got to see yourself catchin fish before that line'll go tight for you, Sturt. He aint lyin.
I watched the bobber. And then I thought of that fish.
Tying On
I like the drive out. It's just after dawn, and I pass the spot where my wife and I, when were still dating, took hot chocolate and our sleeping bags into someone's farmland to watch a meteor shower in the middle of the night. After that the white lines disappear from the road and I go by the church with the handwritten sign that reads PRAY FOR ASHLEY WALTON AND HER FAMILY EVERY DAY. I turn off the main road and start to see the "Road Narrows" and "One Lane Bridge" signs. It feels good to be someplace like this. I used to fish on a daily basis, but after I moved to Virginia, I got away from it. It means something to me now to take the road that's barely wide enough for two cars.
I'm not too optimistic today. I'm out primarily to test my new 4wt rod. I'm not expecting quite the fun I had last week, when on my first time in the mountains I took four fish, three of them native brookies, while exploring new terrain, climbing over boulders in what felt like true backcountry, admiring the string of waterfalls, and wondering at how I could walk within ten feet of a whitetail. The smallest brookie came entirely out of the water for my fly. The biggest was seven inches, full of blues and oranges, and pretty near perfection.
But today I'm fishing the other fork of the river, the one that isn't catch-and-release water, and that I know gets hit. We've just come out of a long heatwave and the water is low. I know there are some brookies and 'bows up this stretch, but I'm not confident I can catch them. In fact, I don't do too much, even though the new Cabela's Stowaway casts beautifully. I land two tiny fish that I assume are juvenile rainbows, but I'll admit I'm not positive. Then I lose a little brookie. I hoisted him out of the water and he flopped off. I miss two more fish, one pretty nice, and that's it for the day.
Still, I'm satisfied, and when I reach the car after a lengthy hike (far enough going in that I was worried I had missed a turn-off) I see another car has arrived. A van unloads some kids with swimming trunks and towels, destined, I'm sure, for the hole where I just missed the nice fish. There's a rope swing there, and I remember jumping in a few years ago, the water so cold that my back clenched as soon as I went under. I considered stripping to my shorts and jumping in today.
I'm still learning the area. Figuring out that last week my leader was longer than necessary. That I shouldn't leave the floatant at home. That if I wonder if I tied a bad knot, I probably have. More important, I'm learning the river. The pool last week that I approached from the wrong direction, not realizing how the river splits and comes back in from the side. Or the spot today where I spooked a trout by coming down from the trail just above a little hole I didn't know was there. It's getting very late in the season for this water, and I'm not sure I can wait until October to use this new knowledge.
With that in mind, I pull away from the water. The drive home's nice. Coming in last week I had turned the stereo off once I reached the forest, unwilling to let anything else in with me. This week I left it on, and turn it up when I get back to the main road. I roll down the window and let the cows get a listen to "All My Friends" and remain reasonably satisfied even after I come to the slow-moving traffic. I'm late for work, but not in any hurry.
I'm not too optimistic today. I'm out primarily to test my new 4wt rod. I'm not expecting quite the fun I had last week, when on my first time in the mountains I took four fish, three of them native brookies, while exploring new terrain, climbing over boulders in what felt like true backcountry, admiring the string of waterfalls, and wondering at how I could walk within ten feet of a whitetail. The smallest brookie came entirely out of the water for my fly. The biggest was seven inches, full of blues and oranges, and pretty near perfection.
But today I'm fishing the other fork of the river, the one that isn't catch-and-release water, and that I know gets hit. We've just come out of a long heatwave and the water is low. I know there are some brookies and 'bows up this stretch, but I'm not confident I can catch them. In fact, I don't do too much, even though the new Cabela's Stowaway casts beautifully. I land two tiny fish that I assume are juvenile rainbows, but I'll admit I'm not positive. Then I lose a little brookie. I hoisted him out of the water and he flopped off. I miss two more fish, one pretty nice, and that's it for the day.
Still, I'm satisfied, and when I reach the car after a lengthy hike (far enough going in that I was worried I had missed a turn-off) I see another car has arrived. A van unloads some kids with swimming trunks and towels, destined, I'm sure, for the hole where I just missed the nice fish. There's a rope swing there, and I remember jumping in a few years ago, the water so cold that my back clenched as soon as I went under. I considered stripping to my shorts and jumping in today.
I'm still learning the area. Figuring out that last week my leader was longer than necessary. That I shouldn't leave the floatant at home. That if I wonder if I tied a bad knot, I probably have. More important, I'm learning the river. The pool last week that I approached from the wrong direction, not realizing how the river splits and comes back in from the side. Or the spot today where I spooked a trout by coming down from the trail just above a little hole I didn't know was there. It's getting very late in the season for this water, and I'm not sure I can wait until October to use this new knowledge.
With that in mind, I pull away from the water. The drive home's nice. Coming in last week I had turned the stereo off once I reached the forest, unwilling to let anything else in with me. This week I left it on, and turn it up when I get back to the main road. I roll down the window and let the cows get a listen to "All My Friends" and remain reasonably satisfied even after I come to the slow-moving traffic. I'm late for work, but not in any hurry.
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