My best friend, Chuck, walked down from his house to mine to borrow my impact driver. Apparently, he hadn’t completed his set of all my tools. He found me in my back half-acre with two of my fishing poles.
“What’s up with the two fishing poles,” he asked.
“I’m finishing up my final preparations for river fishing tomorrow and I wanted to see which of these poles will cast a 2-ounce sinker the furthest since I want the lure to make it at least into the middle of the river.”
Chuck looked at both poles closely.
“They are the same length. They both have spinning reels with approximately the same amount of line on the spools. The eyes on the poles are made for a spinning reel.”
He took one and waved the tip up and down rapidly. Then he took the second and did the same with it.
“Very close in the flex of the poles. I think that they will both cast your sinker about the same distance.”
Chuck and I spent many a day fishing when we were growing up, both in lakes and rivers. We would even take our sleeping bags and hike up into the hills to sleep overnight next to a pond or a creek we wanted to spend time fishing in. I valued his opinion of my fishing gear.
“It’s 125 feet from this fence line, across to the other fence line on the far end. I have an unobstructed mowed field, and the only obstacle is that 100-year-old apple tree off to the right side. The poles are labelled ‘A’ and ‘B’, and the 2-ounce lead sinker is attached to ‘A’. I’ll just cast the sinker and pace off the feet where it lands.”
Flipping the bale over, I brought the pole back over my head and gave the sinker a mighty cast, keeping the pole parallel to the fence line on my left side. The sinker arced high into the air, curved to the right and landed in the top of the apple tree.
“Nasty slice, Mitchell,” Chuck snarked. “It’s almost like the sinker was magnetically attracted to the tree.”
Looking at the sinker dangling high up in the old dead limbs and realizing that it would be a lost cause to try to retrieve it, I growled to myself.
“I’m going to have to work on my follow-through. That sinker is a goner. I’ll cut the line and use another 2-ounce sinker on pole ‘B’.”
Clipping another sinker onto the line of pole “B”, I took a slow practice cast without opening the bale. Watching the tip of the pole go over my head, I pointed it directly at the far fence line.
“Perfecto,” I said, and opening the bale, I brought the tip of the pole over my head and gave the sinker a mighty cast. It too arced to the right and landed in the high branches of the apple tree.
“Cripes!” I muttered.
“I’d say that both poles are about the same and they really aren’t the problem,” Chuck said. “It’s the same problem you had in elementary school when you were pitching in a baseball game. You were aiming for home plate, but the ball went consistently between home and third base. It was always an easy walk for the batter.”
“Yah, I think my right shoulder is a little tight. I’ll have Cheryl massage the muscles.”
“It all depends on what you were trying to accomplish, Mitchell old boy. If you were trying to land the sinkers in the top of the apple tree, you were spot-on accurate. Now, about that impact driver.”
Those sinkers still hang from the apple tree like ornaments on a Christmas Tree.
Fishing is an addiction for me. Once I get started, it’s hard for me to stop until I catch my fill of fish. Sadly enough, it is like someone who goes to the casino regularly because they are so close to winning the big one. It ruins them financially. This, I’m afraid is also the case with a fish-o-holic.
It’s not all my fault of course. I ride my bike on the dike over the river and I see other fisherman out on the sand bar, and I know that this year there is going to be a great run of Pink Salmon and Coho. The little demon on my left shoulder whispers in my ear, “You want to go fishing, don’t you?”
My guardian angel, who is on my right shoulder, slaps me on the side of the head and reminds me of the toll it will take on me and that I better get that thought right out of my mind.
But when I go home and tell Cheryl that I saw fishermen out on the sandbar, she says, “I think you ought to go fishing. What else do you have to do with your day? You can’t sit at your computer all day writing stories.”
“But it’s addicting,” I remind her.
“You will be able to control your urges,” she assures me. “Go fishing.”
So, you see. It’s Cheryl’s fault. She’s an enabler.
And actually, this year was the reason I started fishing again because I am 70 years old, and my fishing license is free – which was the only thing free for me about fishing. I went to the local sporting goods stores and began buying lures at six to eight dollars apiece. Adding to that, sinkers, barrel clips and shrimp oil. I also grabbed a Washington State Fishing Rules magazine so I would clearly know the type and number of salmon I could catch in the Nooksack River. Included inside are photos and descriptions of the salmon so that if on a long shot, I did catch one, I would know what it was. Once on a deer hunting trip, I accidentally shot a rabbit. A clear misidentification issue.
Putting all the newly purchased gear in my tackle box, I chose pole “B”, and placed everything in the back of my SUV for an early morning start the next day. This also was not something that I was used to – getting up at 6 a.m. The desire to fish is greatly diminished when the alarm goes off at that hour. But with a shove from Cheryl’s foot, I was out of bed and onto the floor, ready for my first day of fishing.
Here is where the similarities between fishing and sitting at a slot machine begin. Standing on the riverbank in a secluded area, I began to lose lures at an average of $7.00 a piece and not just the lure, but the barrel swivels and the lead sinkers too. All this was happening without me ever getting a fish to strike. The lures were hooking up on debris in the water. And being that I was sitting under the low hanging branches of a tree on the bank, I was constantly swatting the limbs with the tip of my pole which greatly reduced the distance a lure would land out in the river.
Here is where fish-o-holism takes over. The fisherman cannot stop from taking another lure out of his tackle box after he has lost the previous one. He doesn’t know when to say enough is enough. I would go home at the end of the day embarrassed that I had a $30.00 day on the river, but not only did I lose that much, I also stopped by the sporting goods store and replaced what I had lost. I was beginning to see that I needed help.
Then, on my third day out, I was sitting on the riverbank in the sunshine. My lure was not in the water. From totally out of nowhere I heard someone say, “Good morning, sir.” Startled, I turned and stared directly into the face of Fish and Game Warden, Steve Michaels. I immediately wondered if I had remembered to hang my Discovery Vehicle Pass on my rearview mirror. From stories I have heard from other fishermen and hunters, these Wardens can be ornery, but Steve was very cordial.
“Can I see your fishing license and salmon catch record card?” he asked.
Reaching into my wallet, I handed him the fresh pieces of paper.
“You haven’t been logging your catches on the record card,” he noted.
“If I ever catch a salmon, I will be sure to do just that,” I assured him. “I consider a good day of fishing, not going home after losing $30.00 worth of lures.”
Steve and I chatted about fifteen minutes on easy ways to properly identify a variety of salmon and then he turned to leave, but only five steps away he again turned to ask me a question.
“I’m just curious, how long have you been trying to get your lure out of that tree? You’re never going to fill your catch card if the lure isn’t in the water.”
“Thank you, Officer Steve. By the way, do you know if there is a fishermens-anonymous meeting anywhere in the county?”
** Title photo salmon was caught by Braydn Kruger.
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One reply on “Fish Tales”
Reminds me of a certain other family member who has lost more lures than I can count in the local trees!