Something from the tackle box:
So the Lord took some soil and
made animals and birds. He brought
them to the man to see what names he would give each of them. Then the man named the tame animals and
the birds and the wild animals.
That’s how they got their names.
None of these was the right kind of partner for the man. (Genesis 2:19-20 CEV)
Last week, as I was getting into bed
on Friday evening, I told my wife that I planned to get up early, before dawn,
and go check out my favorite spot on my favorite trout stream, just to see if
it was fishable yet. The end of
spring has been very wet around here, and Tinker’s Creek has mostly been too
high and muddy for fishing of late.
Kathy said that she thought my plans were a good idea, as we’d had a few
dry days in a row, and I’m easier to live with when I can get in some fishing. She then rolled over, turned off her
reading light, fluffed her pillow and settled down for some sleep. I did the same. That’s when we heard the first rumbles
of approaching thunder, and the first of many raindrops to come pelting the
roof above our heads.
On
awaking in the morning, I decided to continue on with my stated plans of the
night before, despite the rain.
I’d fallen off to sleep quickly, and slept well, and I didn’t know how
long or hard the rain had lasted.
A little sprinkle might not have hurt much. Wishful thinking.
The wet
roads and dripping scenery all along the fifteen-minute drive to Tinker’s Creek
didn’t encourage me. But, as I was
on the way, why stop before seeing for myself? Well, seeing for myself put the question to rest. Even the easiest spot to get into
Tinker’s Creek, equipped with wooden steps installed by the local Trout
Unlimited Chapter, showed water that I would have judged to be near the top of
my hip-boots, if one can accurately judge the depth of churning chocolate
milk. Oh well, nothing to do for
it but to get back in the car and head to town for an early breakfast. So that is what I did.
But, as I was slowing down to make
the turn onto 4th Avenue, just a block from my house, the thought
crossed my mind to continue on down M50 and check out the water by the Veteran’s
Memorial Chapel on the east end of Jordan Lake. It’s a good spot, where I like to fly-fish for bluegills and
bass early in the season, before the algae blooms take over the shallows in the
summer months. When I had last looked
at it, just a week earlier, the top was already starting to get a bit too green
for my taste. I had figured then that
I wouldn’t be back to fish there until September, when things would likely have
cleared up a bit, but what harm could it do to look at it again this morning?
To my surprise
and delight, that water didn’t look that bad. Maybe the rain had knocked the scum down to the bottom, or
broken it up for an easterly breeze to push over to the other side of the
lake. Either way, I could fish
without spending more time cleaning my line than casting it. The sun had just risen to a full red
orb above the horizon and I could see, from expanding ring on the water’s
surface around a couple of nearby weed banks, that the morning feed was
underway. I quickly put on my gear and waded out.
Just four
steps out from the bank I could reach the edge of the nearest clump of weeds,
just to the south of me, where I could see some activity in the water. My second cast to the near edge of the
weeds resulted in a hit and I hauled in a nice hand-sized bluegill. As I was putting this first catch into
my creel, I noticed a much larger rise just a few feet to the left of where I’d
hooked my first fish. Undoubtedly,
a good-sized bass was prowling this weed bed too.
My first
fish stowed away, I immediately started casting to the bigger splash I’d just seen. Most of the bass I catch down by the
chapel are undersized, which doesn’t really matter to me, as I don’t keep bass that
I catch, legal sized or not. Bluegills
are better on the plate and I don’t mind leaving the legal bass for others to
take home if they want them. That
being said, I do enjoy catching bass.
I enjoy catching those athletic fighters very much! Especially if it’s on a lightweight fly
rod, like I was handling now.
Just a
few casts in the area of the rise I’d seen brought the results I was hoping
for. A violent splash an my
slender, nine foot long, #3 weight rod bent over in a deep bow. I had all I could do to keep the fish
steered away from the heavy weeds he was ambushing from, without his breaking my
line off, but I managed to do it. It
was a good fight, and long one on that light tackle. I had to give him line several times. Thankfully, doing so didn’t allow him
to get into too much cover and, just as thankfully, he always allowed me to get
my line back soon after. He also came
up top and jumped clean out of the water four different times in the tussle,
which is a lot of jumping even for a big bass. But, despite all his aerial acrobatics, he was never able to
shake off the little yellow popper I had him hooked on.
Finally
spent, he let me get his head up out of the water at my feet just enough that I
could get my thumb in his mouth and pick him up. I’ll not lie, he was no great lunker of a bass, but he was
easily a couple of inches over a foot long, and every inch of him had been
energetic fight, let me tell you.
But now he was tired. The
popper removed from his jaw, I lowered him into the water and held him upright
while he worked his gill covers in and out, breathing deeply for a while. Finally, when he gave a solid shake of
his tail on his own, I let him go.
He then swam lazily around both of my ankles and parked then himself,
right next to the outside edge of my right foot, to rest for a while
longer.
This
phenomenon may seem strange to the non-fisherman, and I’ll admit that it is not
the normal behavior of a released fish, but it is not unheard of. I can recall many of my released fish
hanging around close by, taking a breather, before moving off after being let
go. But I have never had one
settle down right next to my foot, his side actually rubbing up against my
ankle, as he held his place for a spell.
I smiled at this anomaly in fish behavior and returned my attention to
the fishing at hand.
Another
few casts brought another strike near the weed bed. I pulled in my second keeper sized bluegill and, while
packing it away, noticed that the bass I’d caught was still at me feet. The old boy was experiencing a long
recovery, to be sure. Another
minute or two brought a third “eater” into my creel, and the bass was still
there, holding at my heel like a well-trained dog! This was becoming remarkable. So I remarked.
“So, down
there, - are you a bass, - or are you
a dogfish?”
He did
not answer, but held his place just alongside my right foot.
“If a dogfish you be, then I think I shall
name you Rex, if that will do. And you shall be a working dogfish,
rounding up and penning panfish into my creel. Understood?”
Again, no
response from my piscis companion of the moment was forthcoming, but neither
did he move off in protest to my suggestions. So I gave him his first working dogfish command.
“Away to
me, Rex!”
With
that, he darted off quickly in the direction of the weed bed where I’d hooked
all of my morning catch so far. I
smiled at the coincidence in this sequence of events and figured that was
that. He was gone. As a salute I made my nest cast in the
general direction he had taken in leaving me. Well, imagine my astonishment when I caught three keeper
bluegills on my next three consecutive casts to that spot. If you can, it was nothing compared to
my astonishment when, just after dropping that last ‘gill into my creel, I saw
Rex, ambling back out of the weeds towards me at a leisurely pace, dorsal fin
cresting the surface of the water.
I stood there, mouth gaping, as Rex circled my ankles once and then came
to rest alongside my right foot again!
This was more than remarkable.
This was becoming phenomenal!
“Well
done, old boy.” I said, and again gave the command, “Now, away to me,
Rex!”
Again,
the fish-herding bass darted off quickly from my heel, this time in the
direction of the lily pads along the bank to my left. I had to move a dozen paces or so in that direction to reach
them with a cast, but you can bet your bottom dollar that I did just that. Doing so, I was soon rewarded with
another three meaty bluegills for my larder in a very short amount of
time. And then, just as before,
Rex returned to heel as the last was being pocketed. As he did so this second time, I knew in my heart that this
could not go on.
“That
will do, Rex. You’re a good
boy. I would take you home with me
now if I could, but you must live IN this lake, while I cannot. Away to your own home then, Rex, as I go off to mine.”
And with
that, he swam off.
Still in
amazement, I tuned around, waded out, packed up and drove home. I had my nine nice bluegills filleted
and ready for the frying pan before Kathy came home from helping out with a few
chores at her mother’s house that morning. I did not know how to tell her the details of my morning’s
expedition. At least not without risking
her looking at me with that blank stare that one gives to the four-year-old
who, with crumbs still on his chin, has just told you that a monster ate the cookies. And so I didn’t tell her. I simply said, “I caught some nice fish
this morning, let’s have them for lunch.”
And we
did have them for lunch. They were
very good. I ate them with a silly
smile on my face.
Something to take home in your creel:
While I have given you this
story just for the fun of it, believe it or not, this is not one of my fiction
stories. Well, at least it is not
totally fictitious. It is based on
the actual circumstances, as I experienced them, of an outing I had on the morning
of June 24 of this year.
OKAY! Yes! I admit that I have stretched some of the details of this
adventure just a wee bit. I have
always understood that to be any fisherman’s prerogative, if not his bounden duty. And, as my grandpa Carr always used to say,
“Any story worth telling is worth embellishing,” an adage that I find myself in
deeper agreement with the older I get, just as did he.
This all being said, there is
also a good dose of truth in the tale I’ve set out for you here. Really! While the words and commands I spoke to the dog-fish in this
story are an addition to the facts of what actually happened, the sequence of
events set out is nearer the truth than most readers would be willing to
accept, even without the conversational embellishments I’ve added. Knowing this full well, I must accept
and allow for it. If I am to be held
as a fibber, it might as well be for a story that is startlingly fantastic in
all of its details, as for another which is merely unbelievable in its facts. Please do forgive me for that
indulgence on my part. I hope you have
enjoyed my story, all the more so, nonetheless.
