It's pretty common for guys who live in Michigan to go on Canada fishing trips. Some guys go several times a year, some go annually, and some just go once or twice in a lifetime to try it out. I'm a try it out guy. I've actually been up there to fish 3 times. The success rates varied on these trips, but they were all interesting in their own right.
My first time up there was actually with Michelle and a bunch of couples. They were all married and we were engaged at the time. It was one of those deals where we knew one couple really well, but the rest of them were more their friends than ours. I'm not great with people I kind of know. I'm the epitome of social awkwardness, introvertedness, quiet, shy . . . whatever you want to call it. If I'm in a social situation and the natural shuffling of the people leaves me alone in a room with some other poor sap, there always seems to be this jolting, silent vacuum that sucks the air out of our lungs when we both realize, "Oh crap, it's just me and this guy." Most of Michelle's friends' husbands have given up on me. Still, she tries valiantly to pull me into conversations with them. "Really, you like Mountain Dew? Oh my gosh, Matt likes Mountain Dew! Tell him hon!" "Yeah, Mountain Dew is pretty good." I've noticed that sometimes when the "kind of know" people are women, they turn me into their social charity case. They nod at me really big with their eyes all wide, laugh too loud, act way too interested, and basically treat me like I'm 3. If whatever I do elicits responses like this, then I must be some kind of a social dolt.
So here we were, on a long weekend trip with a bunch of people that I really just wanted to get away from. This sentiment was punctuated the first night when the conversation turned to everyone's pooping habits. This is what married people talk about? I felt like one lonely prude in that room, because I seemed to be the only one who wasn't giving up his/her proctological habits. This even included this very pretty model who announced, "I have to poop every time we go to the mall, don't I hon?!" "Yep, it's true. Everytime we set foot in the mall, the first thing she has to do is go poop." Everyone was delighted. I wanted to be anywhere but there. Bedtime finally rolled around, and our close friends actually slept in a bed between us to keep us pure. I was starting to look for the cameras and Ashton Kutcher. I agreed with sleeping separately from Michelle before we were married, but couldn't I sleep on a couch or something?
The payoff came the next morning when we headed out to fish for smallies in this beautiful clear lake with a rocky bottom. My friend caught a huge bronzeback from the dock on his first cast. I couldn't stay off of the lake after that. The smallmouth were everywhere and they were aggressive. I caught monster after monster, slipping around the edge of the lake in a small canoe. Of course, I was supposed to be doing couples stuff, so I got myself into quite a bit of trouble. Michelle was mad, the other wives were looking at me with disdain, and my good friend had to give me a "C'mon, dude . . . " speech. Actually, I think this might have been the first time that Michelle realized that she was in trouble. My obsession with fishing and avoidance of the pooping couples must have been pretty scary to witness for the first time. She stayed with me for some reason, but she still fights me on it from time to time.
My other two trips were with my dad. We went once with some guys from church and once with Tim and Jared. There is a group of guys at the church where I grew up who went every year. I think that they even had a waiting list of guys who wanted to go with them. My dad has always been held in high regard by these guys, so we were extended a special invitation. The trip started with a long drive up into Ontario in the middle of a foggy night on winding roads. I offered to drive a couple of times, but I don't think they quite trusted the boy. We made it to the outfitters, loaded our boats, and then took an hour or so boat ride in to our cabin. The cabin was set on a small rocky point that was surrounded by extremely thick woods. The only walking that we would be doing was up and down the short path between the cabin and the dock. We weren't going to be getting much exercise.
The fishing up there was good. We caught a lot of walleye between 12 and 17 inches. We mostly trolled crawler harnesses. I was put in a boat with this big, happy teddy bear of a guy who liked to sing "Coca Cabana" at the top of his lungs while we fished. I was also with a guy who was simply fun to be around and a crafty fisherman. The big guy snuck in a few cigars and they let the kid try one. I remember the 3 of us pounding down peanuts to get rid of the cigar breath before we headed back to the cabin. I commented that you know your breath is bad if you have to eat peanuts to improve it. The kid made a joke! They liked that. In the end, I caught the fewest fish, but I did take home biggest fish honors. We ate fried fish all week, got no exercise, and I found myself unable to perform in the outhouse-speaking of proctological habits. When we got back, our women said that we looked fat.
The trip with Tim and Jared was the least productive fish-wise, but we had a lot of fun. We knew that the fishing might not be too hot when the fishing guide that my dad hired got excited when he saw a frog by the lake. "Amphibian, that's a good sign." No, catching a huge bass on your first cast is a good sign. Seeing a frog by a lake is supposed to be so normal that it doesn't get mentioned. Old Eugene. He was a piece of work. Jared nicknamed him "Eu-weenie" and it stuck. He came wandering up about 30 minutes late the morning that we first met him. He was a greasy, sinewy, scraggly looking fellow with a thick accent and nose hair curling breath. We were pretty sure that he hadn't slept at all the previous night but was just getting in from God knows where. He took us out in a tub of a boat and we trolled all morning. As I recall, he had me using a big red leadhead jig with a whole crawler on it. I picked up a rock bass and he again got way too excited. He told me to keep it and he'd clean it for me. Just as he was starting to blame our lack of success on high clouds and a blue sky, I announced that I had a snag. He said, "Do you have a snag or do you have a fish?" Turned out that it was a fish. It was a nice walleye that he also cleaned and cooked for us.
The highlight of that trip for me was when the outfitter set us up in canoes on a lake that was supposed to hold pike. The canoes were those red plastic kind that are riveted to a frame. It felt like the shell could pull away from the frame at any time and it was incredibly unstable. My dad worried about flipping the thing during the whole outing. We stayed dry, but we did lose one rod and reel. What made this the highlight started with the outfitter advising us to throw a live minnow just off of a rock face. He said that there is a ledge under water just off of this face. The idea was to land the minnow on top of the shelf and then pull it off and let it fall straight down off of the drop. I did this and hooked into a 29-inch pike. At that time in my life, this was a really big fish and I was pretty impressed that the guy's advice panned out for us.
When we got home from that trip, I took Jared to a local lake with a lot of bass. I promised him that we'd catch more fish in one day than we caught all week in Canada. I'd like to tell you that we killed them and made up for the slow week, but I honestly don't remember. I'd like to do the Canada thing again sometime. Maybe when I'm done paying for diapers and sippy cups I can get some guys together and fly in to one of those isolated lakes with the monster pike that are fabled to hit on empty beer cans. Truthfully, it will probably be decades before I'm able to do something like that. In the mean time, I'll keep it in the daydream vault.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Everyone Showed But the Perch
In the earliest hours this morning, not long after the bartenders told their soggy patrons, "You don't have to go home, but you have to get up out of here!" my alarm went off. A small army of friends and relatives was planning on coming fishing shortly after sun up and I decided that I wanted to have a nice pile of crappies on the ice and some tip-ups set before they got there. Not wanting to wake the wife at 3 AM, I slept on the couch. This move unwittingly made me the first line of defense when my daughter woke with a sore throat and my youngest began screaming for his mommy, both at about midnight. I was glad to be able to field these late night issues and let Michelle sleep, but I knew that my short night just got shorter and it was going to take its toll.
I was glad when my fitful sleep on a too short couch was ended. All of my gear was lined up and ready to go, so it didn't take long for me to hit the road. I fell into a bit of a sleepy euphoria on the ride up to the lake. I had the heat on way too high, but it seemed to suit the mood. The rock station that I had been listening to the last time that I drove, however, was carving on the back of my skull. Country went with the mood. Kellie Pickler was asking me didn't I know how much she loved me. Frankly, I had no idea, but it was nice to hear. The last 4 or 5 miles after the exit are back roads, so I shook off the stupor and kept an eye out for deer and black ice. What had been an occasional snowflake in the headlights when the ride started out had turned into steady flurries. I hadn't noticed snow in the forecast, but I'd take it over a brisk wind.
I pictured having that "only person on earth" feeling, walking out on the ice at shortly after 4 AM. Surprisingly, 3 or 4 homes on the lake already had their lights burning bright. A couple of backyard dogs spotted my headlamp and went into a hysteria. In my head, I apologized to the sleeping neighbors. After hauling my gear and dropping the tip-ups, trudging through over a foot of snow the whole way, I had a pretty good sweat going. I knew that this would turn into a chill later, but I'm not sure how else I could have played it. I would just have to deal with it.
I found the crappies in 40 feet of water. There was a huge school that covered most of the bottom half of the water column, and an occasional fish showing up just 10 feet under the ice. I haven't done a ton of concentrated crappie fishing, but my limited experience has been that if you drop a minnow just above them, they slide up to it and eat it without hesitation. This school hadn't read the same manual that I read. They couldn't care less about the minnows that I was putting right in front of their snooty noses. The only reaction that I could get out of those fish was fleeing the minnow in a panic. I didn't have anything else to do, so I continued to toy with them. Just as it was getting light, I finally talked just 2 into grabbing on. They were about the same size, decent but not huge. So much for trying to act like a big shot. A pile of 2 wasn't going to get very many "attaboys."
A friend from work, Chris, was the first to show up. He came out just after 7:00. He fished with me in the deep water for awhile and managed to hook a couple of small gills. Just as we were heading back to my normal spot, our first flag popped. It was the 40-incher hole that I marked with a dead branch. I had a good feeling about this one and saw that it was running as we approached. It continued to take out line as I picked up the tip-up and gave the line a sharp yank. Nothing there. I'm guessing I pulled the hook right out of the fish's mouth, but I never even felt the slightest bit of weight on the line. Frustrating, but still good to get a flag this early.
Josh and Elijah showed up next and the other guys followed fast on their heels. I lost count of exactly how many guys we had out there, but it must have been close to 15. We had a good half ton of Elyea on that ice, plus friends and in-laws. It would have been good to have Jeff and Mike with us, but maybe we can catch them on a summer excursion.
Because of some recent catches, we were pretty sure that the perch were going to pile up. Didn't happen. Most of the perch that we caught were pencils and we never really found a school. Whatever the phenomenon was that I experienced last week, it seemed to mark the peak of the ice season. Something about today just felt like the beginning of the end of this winter's fishing season. Even though the perch weren't doing much, Jared's brother-in-law, Tim, did find some hungry crappies and a few decent bluegills. I have to admit that the chase for the panfish is probably where my short night took the toll that I talked about earlier. I just didn't have the energy to keep moving through that deep snow and drilling hole after hole. I was content to stay in the first hole that I drilled and if I got into them, then great. If not, don't care.
Something else that probably helped diminish my concern for pannies was the fact that we got flags relatively steady all day. We decided that most of them were bass. We had a lot of pop and drops. We pulled in a number of empty hooks or dazed minnows. They looked like Linsay . . . wait, I already used that one. We did manage to land a couple of nice bass that pushed 20 inches. My Uncle Tim caught a really healthy looking 29-inch pike. He'll tell you it was over 30. Just agree with him. We landed a few more smaller bass.
The party broke up around 2:00. There was some disappointment at not hammering the perch. Josh bought a fillet knife for the occasion and now he has to dig through the trash for the receipt. My only complaint is the excruciating charlie horses that I'm getting in both legs from high stepping through snow all day. I've had to walk them off a few times just in the last hour. Despite the bite not being as hot as it has been and my hamstrings getting tied in knots, I really enjoyed today. What a great bunch of guys! I look forward to getting out with them again. In the mean time, I think my next fishing trip is going to be back to the muskie lake. I have a goal of catching one on the ice before they go out of season. Getting a little nervous about following through with that one.
I was glad when my fitful sleep on a too short couch was ended. All of my gear was lined up and ready to go, so it didn't take long for me to hit the road. I fell into a bit of a sleepy euphoria on the ride up to the lake. I had the heat on way too high, but it seemed to suit the mood. The rock station that I had been listening to the last time that I drove, however, was carving on the back of my skull. Country went with the mood. Kellie Pickler was asking me didn't I know how much she loved me. Frankly, I had no idea, but it was nice to hear. The last 4 or 5 miles after the exit are back roads, so I shook off the stupor and kept an eye out for deer and black ice. What had been an occasional snowflake in the headlights when the ride started out had turned into steady flurries. I hadn't noticed snow in the forecast, but I'd take it over a brisk wind.
I pictured having that "only person on earth" feeling, walking out on the ice at shortly after 4 AM. Surprisingly, 3 or 4 homes on the lake already had their lights burning bright. A couple of backyard dogs spotted my headlamp and went into a hysteria. In my head, I apologized to the sleeping neighbors. After hauling my gear and dropping the tip-ups, trudging through over a foot of snow the whole way, I had a pretty good sweat going. I knew that this would turn into a chill later, but I'm not sure how else I could have played it. I would just have to deal with it.
I found the crappies in 40 feet of water. There was a huge school that covered most of the bottom half of the water column, and an occasional fish showing up just 10 feet under the ice. I haven't done a ton of concentrated crappie fishing, but my limited experience has been that if you drop a minnow just above them, they slide up to it and eat it without hesitation. This school hadn't read the same manual that I read. They couldn't care less about the minnows that I was putting right in front of their snooty noses. The only reaction that I could get out of those fish was fleeing the minnow in a panic. I didn't have anything else to do, so I continued to toy with them. Just as it was getting light, I finally talked just 2 into grabbing on. They were about the same size, decent but not huge. So much for trying to act like a big shot. A pile of 2 wasn't going to get very many "attaboys."
A friend from work, Chris, was the first to show up. He came out just after 7:00. He fished with me in the deep water for awhile and managed to hook a couple of small gills. Just as we were heading back to my normal spot, our first flag popped. It was the 40-incher hole that I marked with a dead branch. I had a good feeling about this one and saw that it was running as we approached. It continued to take out line as I picked up the tip-up and gave the line a sharp yank. Nothing there. I'm guessing I pulled the hook right out of the fish's mouth, but I never even felt the slightest bit of weight on the line. Frustrating, but still good to get a flag this early.
Josh and Elijah showed up next and the other guys followed fast on their heels. I lost count of exactly how many guys we had out there, but it must have been close to 15. We had a good half ton of Elyea on that ice, plus friends and in-laws. It would have been good to have Jeff and Mike with us, but maybe we can catch them on a summer excursion.
Because of some recent catches, we were pretty sure that the perch were going to pile up. Didn't happen. Most of the perch that we caught were pencils and we never really found a school. Whatever the phenomenon was that I experienced last week, it seemed to mark the peak of the ice season. Something about today just felt like the beginning of the end of this winter's fishing season. Even though the perch weren't doing much, Jared's brother-in-law, Tim, did find some hungry crappies and a few decent bluegills. I have to admit that the chase for the panfish is probably where my short night took the toll that I talked about earlier. I just didn't have the energy to keep moving through that deep snow and drilling hole after hole. I was content to stay in the first hole that I drilled and if I got into them, then great. If not, don't care.
Something else that probably helped diminish my concern for pannies was the fact that we got flags relatively steady all day. We decided that most of them were bass. We had a lot of pop and drops. We pulled in a number of empty hooks or dazed minnows. They looked like Linsay . . . wait, I already used that one. We did manage to land a couple of nice bass that pushed 20 inches. My Uncle Tim caught a really healthy looking 29-inch pike. He'll tell you it was over 30. Just agree with him. We landed a few more smaller bass.
The party broke up around 2:00. There was some disappointment at not hammering the perch. Josh bought a fillet knife for the occasion and now he has to dig through the trash for the receipt. My only complaint is the excruciating charlie horses that I'm getting in both legs from high stepping through snow all day. I've had to walk them off a few times just in the last hour. Despite the bite not being as hot as it has been and my hamstrings getting tied in knots, I really enjoyed today. What a great bunch of guys! I look forward to getting out with them again. In the mean time, I think my next fishing trip is going to be back to the muskie lake. I have a goal of catching one on the ice before they go out of season. Getting a little nervous about following through with that one.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Week of Freedom
Having 3 small children, I just can't leave whenever I want to spend some time on the river. Most of my trips are the result of some planning and more than a little bargaining with the wife. It's only fair. I know that being at home with all 3 kids is quite a bit of work. If I'm going to leave Michelle with this responsibility, it's only fair that I offer to reciprocate at some time in the near future. The thing is, my whole being is screaming to fish much of the time, so all of my planning and focus is on fishing trips. It gets old. The wife wonders when I'm going to actually plan a little family vacation, a day for the two of us to get away, a date, anything. I don't have a good answer for this. There are plenty of good intentions, but admittedly not much follow up as of yet. On my end, I do spend almost all of my time either at work or with my family. I consider myself an active and involved dad. Is it too much to ask to spend one or two nights a week fishing, especially when most of my time away is after bedtime?
You're probably getting the idea that this can get pretty complicated in our home. That is why I couldn't believe my ears a few years ago when Michelle was talking to her sister, Heather, in Boston and it sounded like they were planning for Michelle and Hayden to go out there for a week. I was pretty sure that the grandmas would be willing to watch Luke for me (We didn't have Lincoln yet). A full week of nothing but fishing hadn't even been close to my radar before this. As it began to sink in that this was, in fact, going to happen, I calmly walked into the bedroom away from the family and threw down the best white boy dance I could muster. Until then I hadn't dared to dream of a full week of freedom, of 168 straight hours in which I could fish whenever I wanted. Now, it was coming and it was all that I could think about.
It was 4 or 5 months between that phone call and the actual trip, but it eventually rolled around. Luke was already up at Grandma's and I dropped Michelle and Hayden off on a beautiful Sunday morning. As luck would have it, Michelle knew someone who worked at the airport and he was able to get me into the terminal to wait until it was time for them to board the plane. Oh, good! Thanks, guy! My drop and run turned into an hour-and-a-half in a crowded airport terminal. I was thrilled. I was just starting to twitch when their flight was called and I was finally sprung to the river.
Murphy showed up a few days before Freedom Week and dropped several inches of rain on West Michigan. I knew the river was high, but I had no idea what I was in for. I pulled into the parking lot and found the launch and most of the dock under water. The river was swelled far beyond its banks. The current was pushing by at an extremely high rate and it was full of everything from small branches to huge uprooted trees. I've got a stubborn side, so instead of heading to a local lake, I backed the trailor into the dirty foam that was swirling in the submerged gravel drive above the launch and got ready to head up river.
The bridge generally sits several feet above the water surface, but with the river in the state that it was I could practically touch its girded underbelly as I past by. There was so much junk floating in the current that I couldn't go at much more than idle speed for fear that I'd run up on a bobbing tree trunk. For months I dreamed of 18 hour days on the river filled with big green flatties and an assortment of other gamefish. Those dreams were quickly being replaced by a sickness in the pit of my stomach. I knew that the fish were just down there holding onto something. They wouldn't think about eating for well over a week. Still, I found a big snag outside of the main river channel and anchored. I figured that maybe something was sitting down there trying to stay out of the current. If I was lucky, it would hit a big piece of cut bait. I sat at my first spot for close to 2 hours. I quickly developed the frequent habit of looking over my shoulder to make sure that I didn't get run over by an errant tree. Three times I had to pick up anchor and move out of the way while the waterlogged remains of an oak or maple with branches still full of bright green leaves pushed through my spot. I found too that it was useless to try to keep my lines in the water, as there was just as much stuff bouncing along the riverbed as there was on the surface. I stayed until dark, and then went home fishless and defeated.
I kept a close eye on the water level that week and tried it a few more times as the river dropped a couple of feet per day. Eventually, the posts of the dock were most of the way out of the water. I used it once, but discovered that hundreds of spiders were taking refuge on those posts. I still get a shiver thinking about laying my hand on the post nearest to shore and having the surface go fluid as a layer of big, white spiders either moved to get out from under my hand or climbed aboard in hopes that my arm was the way to solid ground. I sputtered unintelligible curse words and shook my hand with an adrenaline charged violence. I could feel them crawling inside of my clothes for the rest of the night.
Eventually the river shrank back down to something close to normal. The first fish I caught that week was a sucker. This is probably the happiest I've ever been to see one of these dumb looking fish. I picked up a few channel cats, but things just never got right until a week or so after the family returned. My dad talked me into hitting a local lake during one of the evenings, but we happened to hit it on tournament night. We stopped fishing to watch 25 boats race to their spots, and then decided to head in early as there wasn't much shoreline left to fish.
I've had a few more Freedom Weeks with the family in Boston since then. I look forward to them with intense anticipation each time they are made available. I probably shouldn't admit this, but by the time the ends of those weeks roll around, I'm ready to get off of the river and spend some time with the family. I think that I'm in the best situation that I can be in. I fish just enough to keep the hunger. Having all of the responsibility that I do and having to work for my outings makes them all the more enjoyable. If I could go all the time, I think that my outings would actually lose a little of their luster. I wouldn't mind testing that hypothesis. I don't think Michelle would go for it.
Speaking of Michelle, this Sunday is Valentine's Day. To demonstrate some growth, I've devised a plan and I'm actually going to follow through with it. She's been extremely busy and stressed with a new teaching position this year. The spa is her ultimate relief. I've saved a little money and I'm planning on taking Monday off to be with the kids while I send her to the spa. There's hope for me yet.
You're probably getting the idea that this can get pretty complicated in our home. That is why I couldn't believe my ears a few years ago when Michelle was talking to her sister, Heather, in Boston and it sounded like they were planning for Michelle and Hayden to go out there for a week. I was pretty sure that the grandmas would be willing to watch Luke for me (We didn't have Lincoln yet). A full week of nothing but fishing hadn't even been close to my radar before this. As it began to sink in that this was, in fact, going to happen, I calmly walked into the bedroom away from the family and threw down the best white boy dance I could muster. Until then I hadn't dared to dream of a full week of freedom, of 168 straight hours in which I could fish whenever I wanted. Now, it was coming and it was all that I could think about.
It was 4 or 5 months between that phone call and the actual trip, but it eventually rolled around. Luke was already up at Grandma's and I dropped Michelle and Hayden off on a beautiful Sunday morning. As luck would have it, Michelle knew someone who worked at the airport and he was able to get me into the terminal to wait until it was time for them to board the plane. Oh, good! Thanks, guy! My drop and run turned into an hour-and-a-half in a crowded airport terminal. I was thrilled. I was just starting to twitch when their flight was called and I was finally sprung to the river.
Murphy showed up a few days before Freedom Week and dropped several inches of rain on West Michigan. I knew the river was high, but I had no idea what I was in for. I pulled into the parking lot and found the launch and most of the dock under water. The river was swelled far beyond its banks. The current was pushing by at an extremely high rate and it was full of everything from small branches to huge uprooted trees. I've got a stubborn side, so instead of heading to a local lake, I backed the trailor into the dirty foam that was swirling in the submerged gravel drive above the launch and got ready to head up river.
The bridge generally sits several feet above the water surface, but with the river in the state that it was I could practically touch its girded underbelly as I past by. There was so much junk floating in the current that I couldn't go at much more than idle speed for fear that I'd run up on a bobbing tree trunk. For months I dreamed of 18 hour days on the river filled with big green flatties and an assortment of other gamefish. Those dreams were quickly being replaced by a sickness in the pit of my stomach. I knew that the fish were just down there holding onto something. They wouldn't think about eating for well over a week. Still, I found a big snag outside of the main river channel and anchored. I figured that maybe something was sitting down there trying to stay out of the current. If I was lucky, it would hit a big piece of cut bait. I sat at my first spot for close to 2 hours. I quickly developed the frequent habit of looking over my shoulder to make sure that I didn't get run over by an errant tree. Three times I had to pick up anchor and move out of the way while the waterlogged remains of an oak or maple with branches still full of bright green leaves pushed through my spot. I found too that it was useless to try to keep my lines in the water, as there was just as much stuff bouncing along the riverbed as there was on the surface. I stayed until dark, and then went home fishless and defeated.
I kept a close eye on the water level that week and tried it a few more times as the river dropped a couple of feet per day. Eventually, the posts of the dock were most of the way out of the water. I used it once, but discovered that hundreds of spiders were taking refuge on those posts. I still get a shiver thinking about laying my hand on the post nearest to shore and having the surface go fluid as a layer of big, white spiders either moved to get out from under my hand or climbed aboard in hopes that my arm was the way to solid ground. I sputtered unintelligible curse words and shook my hand with an adrenaline charged violence. I could feel them crawling inside of my clothes for the rest of the night.
Eventually the river shrank back down to something close to normal. The first fish I caught that week was a sucker. This is probably the happiest I've ever been to see one of these dumb looking fish. I picked up a few channel cats, but things just never got right until a week or so after the family returned. My dad talked me into hitting a local lake during one of the evenings, but we happened to hit it on tournament night. We stopped fishing to watch 25 boats race to their spots, and then decided to head in early as there wasn't much shoreline left to fish.
I've had a few more Freedom Weeks with the family in Boston since then. I look forward to them with intense anticipation each time they are made available. I probably shouldn't admit this, but by the time the ends of those weeks roll around, I'm ready to get off of the river and spend some time with the family. I think that I'm in the best situation that I can be in. I fish just enough to keep the hunger. Having all of the responsibility that I do and having to work for my outings makes them all the more enjoyable. If I could go all the time, I think that my outings would actually lose a little of their luster. I wouldn't mind testing that hypothesis. I don't think Michelle would go for it.
Speaking of Michelle, this Sunday is Valentine's Day. To demonstrate some growth, I've devised a plan and I'm actually going to follow through with it. She's been extremely busy and stressed with a new teaching position this year. The spa is her ultimate relief. I've saved a little money and I'm planning on taking Monday off to be with the kids while I send her to the spa. There's hope for me yet.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
The Sissy Hole
When I was in college, my dad and I went on a fishing trip to Canada with some guys from our church. There was a certain spot that got nicknamed "The Sissy Hole" because it was such a good producer for walleye. The guys who went straight to that spot got ribbed pretty good by the others. My dad found this to be pretty funny and has given the nickname to some of our fishing spots around here. I think that it's time to officially give this title to my in-laws' lake. While you hear about mostly mediocre outings on lakes around here, every trip to my in-laws' has been outstanding in one way or another this year. Yesterday was no exception.
I stepped out on the lake at about 8:30. I had pretty good ice fishing weather. The sky was overcast, there was just a hint of a breeze, and the temperature was hovering around freezing. This is pretty warm by ice fishing standards. Just enough of a chill to keep a layer of skim ice on unattended holes and put the sting on the end of wet fingers. Overall, it was completely comfortable. I felt like I lost 20 pounds not having to wear the extra 3 layers that the sub zero weather called for my last time out.
Stopping at the crest of the hill that leads down to the lake, I noticed that I had it all to myself. Loner that I am, this was a big bonus. It also meant no fishing pressure. When I caught that 40-incher last time, I marked the hole with a branch. My first move yesterday was to drop a tip-up into that same spot. Once the tip-ups were set, I went in search of the perch. I drilled my first hole in 12 feet of water and found them immediately. I felt pretty lucky to hit them on my first shot. I also caught them in some kind of feeding frenzy. Most of the time I couldn't even get my minnow to the bottom before one shot up 5 feet into the water column and grabbed it. I found myself scrambling to get my bail flipped and line tight time and again. I kept waiting for the school to move and for the action to slow down. You usually run through the aggressive fish and it slows, or maybe the rest of the school gets the idea when their pals keep disappearing through the roof. This one hole kept this kind of action up all morning. I'd stop for awhile to let my hands warm up or to get a quick cup of coffee. As soon as I picked the rod back up and dropped the next minnow in, the madness would continue. I limited out and ended up culling down to 36 nice eaters. The fish that I culled swam away to fight another day. It's amazing how long they will live out of the water when the temperature is just right. After being on the ice for at least a couple of hours, those fish sprang right back to life as soon as they hit the water.
I messed around with a couple of jigging rods, one with a spoon and one with an airplane jig. Both had big minnows on them. When I put the Vexlar on them, I noticed that both of these big minnows were getting harassed by something down there. I drilled a hole next to one of them and dropped in a smaller minnow. I got slammed one more time by a nice perch. It seemed that I hadn't necessarily drilled a lucky hole earlier in the day, but that every perch in the lake was eating anything that moved.
I started thinking about picking up my tip-ups at around 5:30. I had gone all day without a single trip. Just to prove me foolish for thinking this way, that flag popped that was in the 40-incher spot. After looking at it 153 times that day and finding it down, it gave me a nice little jolt to find it up and blowing in the wind. The paddle was spinning nicely as I approached. I stuck the fish while it was running and started the gentle tug-of-war. The fish buried itself in the weeds once and I had to pull with a little extra force to bring it out. This brief moment was slightly nerve racking. The battle wasn't quite as epic as last time and pretty soon I guided a 29-incher through the hole. I quickly got the hook out and ran it over by the perch to shoot the above picture. After a few shots, I slipped her back into the lake.
I always kind of laughed along with those guys about the "Sissy Hole," but I never quite understood the joke. Of course you head straight to the spot where the fish are. When most of the lakes around here, with the incredible pressure that they get, stuggle to produce, I'll come to this sissy hole every time. Judging by the talk on the ice fishing forums in the area, a lot of guys would give their left arm to fish a lake like this one. I don't think I'll call it the "Sissy Hole," though. "Glory Hole?" No, I think that means something bad. Don't look that one up. It will give your computer a virus. Better get away from the word "hole." You know what? It doesn't matter what you call it, I'm just thankful that I have access to this little piece of heaven. God bless the in-laws!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Take A Kid Fishing
This is a noble mantra that is plastered throughout fishing magazines and is ritually cited at the end of a number of fishing shows. It sounds good. What can be better than a day on the water with a mini-you? Before any of my kids were born, I pictured how it would be to share my passion for angling with them. I'm sexist so the picture was generally of a little boy. Detroit Tigers hat pulled tight and low over his eyes to guard from the sun, he'd sit next to me with fishing pole in hand. All focus would be narrowed in on the end of that rod, and all conversation would revolve around the excitement of catching the next fish. I'd look down at him with pride, and he'd look up at me wanting to make me proud. It was going to be a beautiful moment between father and son.
At the same time, I've always said that I wouldn't pressure my kids into fishing or any other sport or hobby. I would support them in whatever interests they had. The reality of it is, when Dad talks fishing, watches fishing, constantly tinkers with his fishing gear, and is gone on these mystical fishing adventures, the kids are naturally drawn to it. My oldest son, Luke, was 3 last summer. He started asking to come out on the river with me. He seemed ready, so I came up with a plan to fish with him for a few hours one evening and then have my parents pick him up and let him sleep at their house while I stayed out to fish for cats.
I've heard that the key to any successful fishing trip with a kid is to stock up on snacks. Luke and I stopped at the gas station on the way up to my parents' and picked up several kinds of candy and this sugary liquid called "Bug Juice." This stuff made the whole trip for him. Not because it tasted good, but because of the name. I think he'd drink motor oil if they put it in a squirt bottle, covered it in cartoon spiders, and called it Bug Juice.
Luke was excited to drive the boat, so I put him on my lap and let him feel like he had full control of the great vessel. Once we were pointed into open water, I let him push the throttle forward and more or less steer us up river. I stopped at the first spot and helped him cast his Spiderman rod out. I was so into this being a trip all about Luke, I even kept myself from fishing with my own rods and reels. The line wasn't out for more than a few minutes before Luke declared, "I don't think this is a very good spot. We better move." "Really? Okay." Out came the half drowned worm, up came the anchor, and off we went. I picked another spot that was a pretty good producer and got us all set up again. "I don't think this is a very good spot. We better move." I was sensing a pattern. "Why do you want to move again, Luke?" "Dad, I don't really want to catch a fish." "What's that?"
You know all of that mumbo jumbo about not pressuring my kids into becoming master anglers? I was finding that easier said than done right at that moment. Somehow, I was able to reach deep inside and not allow myself to get stuck there for too long. I realized that Luke's favorite part about coming out on the river was driving the boat. Sitting in one place must have felt pretty boring to him when he compared it to captaining the ship. Out came the half drowned worm, up came the anchor, and off we went. If this was an episode of Super Nanny it would be time to roll the credits as she squeezed into the back of her little car feeling all good about herself. The ignorant parent had finally realized what a fool he had been and he had changed his evil ways.
I always wonder what really happens after the Super Nanny crew leaves those families. I'm pretty sure that they all fall apart again within a few days, maybe a few hours. I got it, Luke would rather drive the boat than sit in one place. I let him. You would expect that he would be just as happy as he could be. Instead he got mad because we were going too slow. "Go ahead and open it up, boy." Pretty soon we were going too fast. "C'mon, buddy. Let's go ahead and get back down by the bridge and you can take a break and drink your Bug Juice." "I've got to pee."
Throttle down, shorts down, hang him over the edge. Like his dad, the boy gets the stage fright. Everything has to be just right to get the stream flowing. I guess spinning down a river with his dad hoisting him over dirty water wasn't Luke's idea of "just right." I looked around the boat and my eyes landed on the Bug Juice bottle. Luke wouldn't have any of it. Finally, I had to get out my tupperware container that usually holds my cut bait. I figured the flatties might like a little salt flavoring on their sucker backstraps that night. This larger container allowed Luke to finally relax enough to flip that psychological pee switch. We were both pretty relieved.
We finally made it back down between the bridge and the launch. Our new plan was to use Luke's fishing pole to catch some suckers for Dad to use later in the night. "Dad, I have to poop." "Where's my cell phone? I'm pretty sure that Grandma is ready to pick you up."
Take a kid fishing, but don't get too set on fishing. Be ready for anything. Despite my depiction of that evening, we really did have fun and Luke still talks about it. Somewhere in there, he caught his first catfish. It was a tiny little channel cat that jabbed me in the hand with its spine when I went to release it. My hand swelled a little bit and itched for the rest of the night.
Just the other day, Luke asked me when we could go back out in Grandpa's boat. "Really, you want to go fishing again?" "Yeah, I want some of that Bug Juice."
At the same time, I've always said that I wouldn't pressure my kids into fishing or any other sport or hobby. I would support them in whatever interests they had. The reality of it is, when Dad talks fishing, watches fishing, constantly tinkers with his fishing gear, and is gone on these mystical fishing adventures, the kids are naturally drawn to it. My oldest son, Luke, was 3 last summer. He started asking to come out on the river with me. He seemed ready, so I came up with a plan to fish with him for a few hours one evening and then have my parents pick him up and let him sleep at their house while I stayed out to fish for cats.
I've heard that the key to any successful fishing trip with a kid is to stock up on snacks. Luke and I stopped at the gas station on the way up to my parents' and picked up several kinds of candy and this sugary liquid called "Bug Juice." This stuff made the whole trip for him. Not because it tasted good, but because of the name. I think he'd drink motor oil if they put it in a squirt bottle, covered it in cartoon spiders, and called it Bug Juice.
Luke was excited to drive the boat, so I put him on my lap and let him feel like he had full control of the great vessel. Once we were pointed into open water, I let him push the throttle forward and more or less steer us up river. I stopped at the first spot and helped him cast his Spiderman rod out. I was so into this being a trip all about Luke, I even kept myself from fishing with my own rods and reels. The line wasn't out for more than a few minutes before Luke declared, "I don't think this is a very good spot. We better move." "Really? Okay." Out came the half drowned worm, up came the anchor, and off we went. I picked another spot that was a pretty good producer and got us all set up again. "I don't think this is a very good spot. We better move." I was sensing a pattern. "Why do you want to move again, Luke?" "Dad, I don't really want to catch a fish." "What's that?"
You know all of that mumbo jumbo about not pressuring my kids into becoming master anglers? I was finding that easier said than done right at that moment. Somehow, I was able to reach deep inside and not allow myself to get stuck there for too long. I realized that Luke's favorite part about coming out on the river was driving the boat. Sitting in one place must have felt pretty boring to him when he compared it to captaining the ship. Out came the half drowned worm, up came the anchor, and off we went. If this was an episode of Super Nanny it would be time to roll the credits as she squeezed into the back of her little car feeling all good about herself. The ignorant parent had finally realized what a fool he had been and he had changed his evil ways.
I always wonder what really happens after the Super Nanny crew leaves those families. I'm pretty sure that they all fall apart again within a few days, maybe a few hours. I got it, Luke would rather drive the boat than sit in one place. I let him. You would expect that he would be just as happy as he could be. Instead he got mad because we were going too slow. "Go ahead and open it up, boy." Pretty soon we were going too fast. "C'mon, buddy. Let's go ahead and get back down by the bridge and you can take a break and drink your Bug Juice." "I've got to pee."
Throttle down, shorts down, hang him over the edge. Like his dad, the boy gets the stage fright. Everything has to be just right to get the stream flowing. I guess spinning down a river with his dad hoisting him over dirty water wasn't Luke's idea of "just right." I looked around the boat and my eyes landed on the Bug Juice bottle. Luke wouldn't have any of it. Finally, I had to get out my tupperware container that usually holds my cut bait. I figured the flatties might like a little salt flavoring on their sucker backstraps that night. This larger container allowed Luke to finally relax enough to flip that psychological pee switch. We were both pretty relieved.
We finally made it back down between the bridge and the launch. Our new plan was to use Luke's fishing pole to catch some suckers for Dad to use later in the night. "Dad, I have to poop." "Where's my cell phone? I'm pretty sure that Grandma is ready to pick you up."
Take a kid fishing, but don't get too set on fishing. Be ready for anything. Despite my depiction of that evening, we really did have fun and Luke still talks about it. Somewhere in there, he caught his first catfish. It was a tiny little channel cat that jabbed me in the hand with its spine when I went to release it. My hand swelled a little bit and itched for the rest of the night.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Sideshow
If you do anything as much as I fish, you're bound to build a cache of stories about how things went different than planned. I've found that the results can sometimes be scary, like in the case of sudden storms or running the river in the black of night. They can also be kind of funny like when my dad absent mindedly released a hammer handle pike with the mouth spreader still holding his maw agape or when some old guy on the wooded bank caught me trying to sneak a pee in the middle of the river. Here's a little mix of the scary and the funny.
I try to keep some kind of watch on the weather before I set out for a long night on the river. I've noticed that my dad does too. He's pretty quick to give me a call if something is coming at us. He let's me know when it's out over Lake Michigan so that I have plenty of time to at least get anchored under the bridge. He's saved my hide, or at least kept it dry, a number of times. The irony about storms is that when they're pushing into your area, the fishing generally gets pretty hot. I don't mind rain. I've got pretty good rain gear and the channels especially seem to turn on when the surface of the water starts getting pelted with big drops. Wind and lightning are what I watch out for, but sometimes I'm stubborn about even letting these two dangers push me off of the water.
Two summers ago I was out on what started as a normal trip. I had fished all day in the hot sun, chasing after smallies and getting a nice supply of bait. I anchored up at The Elbow just before dark. With lines out, I was enjoying the coolness of the evening when I heard a freight train coming through the woods immediately adjacent to my boat. I was trying to get some kind of fix on the source of that thunderous noise when the trees on the edge of the water went into a sudden frenzy. Without warning, I was blown off anchor and at the mercy of gale force winds. Wondering how a storm of this magnitude could have fallen off of my own and my dad's radar, I scrambled to get my lines in and everything that wasn't tied down thrown into the bottom of the boat. With the rain and the lightning starting up, I pointed the bow down river and drove that little boat as fast as it would go. I could see huge gusts of wind sweeping across the water in front of me. I found myself in a wrestling match, trying to keep the boat in the middle of the river and headed in my intended direction. Out of nowhere I got smacked in the side of the face with a huge leaf. It stuck there for a few seconds and I thought that it was a bat. I'm glad I was alone because I screamed like a little girl and flailed at it with both hands. I wasn't going to let that little demon get its fangs into my neck. I finally made it to the shelter of the bridge. Knowing that my parents would be worried sick, I called to let them know that I was safe. Just a few miles away at their home, there was no sign of a storm and they didn't have a worry in the world.
Later that same summer, I was fishing the shallow snag halfway up to The Elbow when a good old fashioned thunder storm rolled in on top of me. The rain was amazing. Anyone in their right mind would have fled for safety immediately. Both of my rods started jumping with channel cat bites, so I couldn't tear myself away. The panic growing from within me was screaming at me to get off of the river, especially as lightning flashed around me and the thunder seemed to get louder and follow the flashes more closely. I fought the panic for 10 or 15 minutes before I remembered that I have a wife and 3 kids who were planning on me coming home in one piece that night. When I got back to the launch there was actually a sheriff deputy waiting for me. He must have noticed the empty trailer in the parking lot. He didn't bother to speak to me or even get out of his cruiser. When he saw that this fool was safe, he showed me the tail lights. Despite my rain gear, I was soaked to the bone. So much so that I walked right in the river to get the boat on the trailer. That poor little bilge pump was working with all it had to empty the swamped boat. I helped it out by pulling the plug. Hint, put those things back in right away. I foolishly decided to leave it out until my next trip. Of course, I forgot all about it and the next time out I was met by a half sunk boat after I launched and parked my Jeep and trailer.
Speeding back down the river at 2 AM after each trip is probably the most dangerous thing that I do. I thought that it finally caught up with me late this past summer. I dropped off of The Elbow and opened it up in what is probably the darkest section of the river. Before I could react I was right on top of something. For a split second I thought that I was slamming into another boat T-bone style when all around me was the explosion of wings and the wild honks of a flock of Canada Geese. I didn't go back to see if there were any casualties, but I'm pretty sure that I tagged at least a couple of them. I didn't sleep much that night because my adrenaline soaked heart was shaking the bed.
I fish alone a lot mainly because I'm selfish. I absolutely love the freedom of fishing exactly where and how I want. A few people close to me have broken through my guarded insistence on solitude and ventured out with me. A friend of mine lives on a small private lake with a million 13-14" bass and just as many hammer handle pike. A little 12-foot john boat came with his house when he bought it and I spent a lot of time in my early 20's fishing in this dingy. My brother-in-law, Evan, came out with me one morning in early fall. I remember it being cold enough that we wore jeans and jackets. I think that Evan was used to larger boats, because he stepped off of the dock and into that boat like it was a 45-foot Bayliner. The corner that he stepped in immediately went under, bringing in water by the gallon. All I could do was yell, "Evan!" To his credit, he made the split second decision to save me, the trolling motor, and the deep cycle battery, and without hesitation dove head first into the chilly water. Talk about tough, he dragged himself out, shook the water off like a dog, helped me bail the boat, and got in to fish like nothing ever happened.
Back in our early river days my dad had a rather small boat with an oversized motor that was as loud as a jackhammer. My brother came out with us one morning. After still fishing for awhile, we decided to try our luck at trolling. Mike was in the front of the boat and I was right behind him. Noticing that his line was stretching right past me, I became giddy at the thought of giving it a good pull to see his reaction. Mike went from half asleep to standing at attention and reeling with everything he had. When nothing was there, he simply said, "That was a good one." and sat back down with a shrug. I waited a few more minutes and gave it a good triple yank. He jumped like a hornet had stung him and started in again with the speed reeling. This time he was shaking his head and muttering to himself like a schizophrenic homeless fellow. It's a good thing that the motor was loud because I was convulsing with laughter just a few feet behind him and he had no idea. I got him a couple more times before mercy prevailed. To this day, Mike doesn't know that his encounter with a river monster was really just his immature brother acting on an impulse. If the fishing ever gets slow and you find yourself with the opportunity to pull this little prank, I highly recommend it. I found it to be extremely entertaining.
I'm feeling a little guilty about telling stories on family, so I better end with a little story about myself. In the first few months after I started having some success with catfish, I brought my dad out to give him a taste. We were fishing in the basin just up from the bridge when I tied into the biggest flathead in the river. My fishing pole bent and strained with the weight of this behemuth. Feeling my oats, I stepped right up on the bench to increase my profile as I went into battle. The guys in the boats around us stopped fishing and turned to watch the show. Traffic on the bridge came to a stand still as people got out of their cars and lined the railing to see what wonder I could have sunk a hook into. After a long, muscle straining fight, a huge dark shadow began to emerge from the depths. What finally broke the surface was not a flathead at all, but a hissing, sputtering leatherback turtle. Luckily it was only in my "Ralphy" (A Christmas Story) like imagination that all of those people were watching me. My embarrassment was really only met by my dad's chuckle as he reached for the needle nose pliers.
I'm sure that if I thought about it a little longer, I could come up with a few more. Instead, I'll save them and maybe come back to this topic again sometime. By then I'll probably have a few new ones to add. I just hope none of them are about that time I hit a log and sunk the boat in the middle of nowhere at 1:30 in the morning. I might be writing that one from Heaven.
I try to keep some kind of watch on the weather before I set out for a long night on the river. I've noticed that my dad does too. He's pretty quick to give me a call if something is coming at us. He let's me know when it's out over Lake Michigan so that I have plenty of time to at least get anchored under the bridge. He's saved my hide, or at least kept it dry, a number of times. The irony about storms is that when they're pushing into your area, the fishing generally gets pretty hot. I don't mind rain. I've got pretty good rain gear and the channels especially seem to turn on when the surface of the water starts getting pelted with big drops. Wind and lightning are what I watch out for, but sometimes I'm stubborn about even letting these two dangers push me off of the water.
Two summers ago I was out on what started as a normal trip. I had fished all day in the hot sun, chasing after smallies and getting a nice supply of bait. I anchored up at The Elbow just before dark. With lines out, I was enjoying the coolness of the evening when I heard a freight train coming through the woods immediately adjacent to my boat. I was trying to get some kind of fix on the source of that thunderous noise when the trees on the edge of the water went into a sudden frenzy. Without warning, I was blown off anchor and at the mercy of gale force winds. Wondering how a storm of this magnitude could have fallen off of my own and my dad's radar, I scrambled to get my lines in and everything that wasn't tied down thrown into the bottom of the boat. With the rain and the lightning starting up, I pointed the bow down river and drove that little boat as fast as it would go. I could see huge gusts of wind sweeping across the water in front of me. I found myself in a wrestling match, trying to keep the boat in the middle of the river and headed in my intended direction. Out of nowhere I got smacked in the side of the face with a huge leaf. It stuck there for a few seconds and I thought that it was a bat. I'm glad I was alone because I screamed like a little girl and flailed at it with both hands. I wasn't going to let that little demon get its fangs into my neck. I finally made it to the shelter of the bridge. Knowing that my parents would be worried sick, I called to let them know that I was safe. Just a few miles away at their home, there was no sign of a storm and they didn't have a worry in the world.
Later that same summer, I was fishing the shallow snag halfway up to The Elbow when a good old fashioned thunder storm rolled in on top of me. The rain was amazing. Anyone in their right mind would have fled for safety immediately. Both of my rods started jumping with channel cat bites, so I couldn't tear myself away. The panic growing from within me was screaming at me to get off of the river, especially as lightning flashed around me and the thunder seemed to get louder and follow the flashes more closely. I fought the panic for 10 or 15 minutes before I remembered that I have a wife and 3 kids who were planning on me coming home in one piece that night. When I got back to the launch there was actually a sheriff deputy waiting for me. He must have noticed the empty trailer in the parking lot. He didn't bother to speak to me or even get out of his cruiser. When he saw that this fool was safe, he showed me the tail lights. Despite my rain gear, I was soaked to the bone. So much so that I walked right in the river to get the boat on the trailer. That poor little bilge pump was working with all it had to empty the swamped boat. I helped it out by pulling the plug. Hint, put those things back in right away. I foolishly decided to leave it out until my next trip. Of course, I forgot all about it and the next time out I was met by a half sunk boat after I launched and parked my Jeep and trailer.
Speeding back down the river at 2 AM after each trip is probably the most dangerous thing that I do. I thought that it finally caught up with me late this past summer. I dropped off of The Elbow and opened it up in what is probably the darkest section of the river. Before I could react I was right on top of something. For a split second I thought that I was slamming into another boat T-bone style when all around me was the explosion of wings and the wild honks of a flock of Canada Geese. I didn't go back to see if there were any casualties, but I'm pretty sure that I tagged at least a couple of them. I didn't sleep much that night because my adrenaline soaked heart was shaking the bed.
I fish alone a lot mainly because I'm selfish. I absolutely love the freedom of fishing exactly where and how I want. A few people close to me have broken through my guarded insistence on solitude and ventured out with me. A friend of mine lives on a small private lake with a million 13-14" bass and just as many hammer handle pike. A little 12-foot john boat came with his house when he bought it and I spent a lot of time in my early 20's fishing in this dingy. My brother-in-law, Evan, came out with me one morning in early fall. I remember it being cold enough that we wore jeans and jackets. I think that Evan was used to larger boats, because he stepped off of the dock and into that boat like it was a 45-foot Bayliner. The corner that he stepped in immediately went under, bringing in water by the gallon. All I could do was yell, "Evan!" To his credit, he made the split second decision to save me, the trolling motor, and the deep cycle battery, and without hesitation dove head first into the chilly water. Talk about tough, he dragged himself out, shook the water off like a dog, helped me bail the boat, and got in to fish like nothing ever happened.
Back in our early river days my dad had a rather small boat with an oversized motor that was as loud as a jackhammer. My brother came out with us one morning. After still fishing for awhile, we decided to try our luck at trolling. Mike was in the front of the boat and I was right behind him. Noticing that his line was stretching right past me, I became giddy at the thought of giving it a good pull to see his reaction. Mike went from half asleep to standing at attention and reeling with everything he had. When nothing was there, he simply said, "That was a good one." and sat back down with a shrug. I waited a few more minutes and gave it a good triple yank. He jumped like a hornet had stung him and started in again with the speed reeling. This time he was shaking his head and muttering to himself like a schizophrenic homeless fellow. It's a good thing that the motor was loud because I was convulsing with laughter just a few feet behind him and he had no idea. I got him a couple more times before mercy prevailed. To this day, Mike doesn't know that his encounter with a river monster was really just his immature brother acting on an impulse. If the fishing ever gets slow and you find yourself with the opportunity to pull this little prank, I highly recommend it. I found it to be extremely entertaining.
I'm feeling a little guilty about telling stories on family, so I better end with a little story about myself. In the first few months after I started having some success with catfish, I brought my dad out to give him a taste. We were fishing in the basin just up from the bridge when I tied into the biggest flathead in the river. My fishing pole bent and strained with the weight of this behemuth. Feeling my oats, I stepped right up on the bench to increase my profile as I went into battle. The guys in the boats around us stopped fishing and turned to watch the show. Traffic on the bridge came to a stand still as people got out of their cars and lined the railing to see what wonder I could have sunk a hook into. After a long, muscle straining fight, a huge dark shadow began to emerge from the depths. What finally broke the surface was not a flathead at all, but a hissing, sputtering leatherback turtle. Luckily it was only in my "Ralphy" (A Christmas Story) like imagination that all of those people were watching me. My embarrassment was really only met by my dad's chuckle as he reached for the needle nose pliers.
I'm sure that if I thought about it a little longer, I could come up with a few more. Instead, I'll save them and maybe come back to this topic again sometime. By then I'll probably have a few new ones to add. I just hope none of them are about that time I hit a log and sunk the boat in the middle of nowhere at 1:30 in the morning. I might be writing that one from Heaven.
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