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I’m betting that just reading the word, “fishing”, has conjured up, for many of you, childhood memories involving Dad, nature, and photos of a smiling you holding a stringer-full of trout. In fact, I don’t remember the actual fishing as much as just being with my hero-Dad in a beautiful outdoor setting, and the pride I felt when I could finally cast my line out in the lake by myself. At that time, the art of fishing seemed fairly straight-forward. You stick a worm or lure on the end of your hook, throw the thing into the water, and wait for a tug to tell you a fish has taken the bait.
The most fun I ever had fishing was in a little stream of water called “Deer Creek.” Be sure you pronounce “Creek” as “Crick,” if you don’t want to show your city-boy ignorance. This was about 50 miles north of Howe, and in our dating days, UltraDad took me there a couple of times. Later on, we would take the kids.
This little crick was probably no more than 3-4 feet wide, at its widest, and the banks were lined with scratchy wild rosebushes, willows, grasses and the occasional wild flower. Once, I remember, UltraDad’s mother fell and got wedged in a narrow spot in the crick. She had to be pulled out, much to everyone’s amusement, particularly her own. Now, here’s how to fish a crick. You set out with your pole, container of worms and a forked willow branch. (I remember having a handy little belt-attached worm holder for awhile. When I needed a fresh worm, I reached to the worm box at my hip, popped open the top and got one.) Mainly because of the rosebushes, there are only certain places where you can get in close to the stream. When you spot one of those, as you walk along, you work your way in and look things over. Could you drop a line in there without getting snarled on roots or rocks? Was there a shady little pool where a fish might lurk? Usually you just try it anyway. If you do get a snag, its usually not that hard to reach in and extricate your hook from the mossy log. But chances are good that you catch a fish, or at least get a nibble. The trout aren’t that big, but they sure are fun to catch. If they are too small, and haven’t swallowed the hook, you could let them go, but mostly we kept them. For keeping and transport, just slide one side of your willow creel through the fish’s gill, and don’t forget to pick up your fish when you move to the next spot. You can nearly always catch your limit, 10 in the early days, later dropping to 6.
Fishing now is an iffier proposition, but just a couple of miles from my house is a little pond. I got the fishing bug again the day I watched Amy catch two fish there. Amy and her sister, Rachel, and mom, Debbie were visiting me for a few days, and, as Amy had never been fishing before, that was one thing on her wish-agenda. With patient UltraDad as teacher, Amy quickly perfected her casting technique, but it wasn’t until nearly dark, when the mosquitoes had sent her mom and sister back to my house, that the fish finally started biting. I tried to fish too, but was pretty rusty with my own casting technique, and got my line hopelessly snarled before I could get the worm near the water. I told Amy that, as she only had a one-day license, she needed to do any and all fishing she wanted to do right then and there. “But what happens if I get caught fishing one minute past midnight?” she wanted to know. UltraDad was quick with the comeback, “Let’s just say, you’ll be shopping at Kathy’s store!” Kathy’s store, you will remember, is in a men’s prison! “Well,” shot back Amy, “At least I’d get to see her every day.” Thanks, Amy.
We, UltraDad, Pat and I tried the pond ourselves, just last weekend, but the only bites we were getting were from the numerous mosquitoes. Just between you and me, I don’t think our fishing was helped much by the two young men who showed up with a couple of hunting dogs. They turned the dogs loose to run and play, and then couldn’t get them to come back. The pair raced around the pond, splashing in the water, completely ignoring the frantic humans chasing and calling. One of their names was “Train,” I believe. “Those dogs remind me of “Thing 1 and Thing 2” from “The Cat in the Hat,” I observed humorously. “They are running around wrecking everything, and those guys can’t get them back.” In response, I got blank, confused stares from my fishing partners. Some people have no appreciation for good literature.
The next day, UltraDad wanted to try something different. I read “Joe’s Fishing Hole” in the local paper to get the fishing report. That was when I realized that fishing was, perhaps, a more complicated, or at least incomprehensible sport than I had realized. The report for one fairly local lake read: “Everything from flashy flies to crankbaits to jiggs and bait are working for the perch. Rubber gear and crankbaits are working for the smallmouths. One wiper 15 inches or longer may be kept.” What kind of wiper? A windshield wiper? The report for Angel Lake sounded promising: “Fishing here has been good one day and fair the next when it is windy. When they are hitting, it doesn’t seem to matter what you throw at them. Spinners, PowerBait, worms, flies, the kitchen sink, it just doesn’t matter. The lake is stocked with rainbow and brook trout. The occasional tiger trout is even caught. The really great thing about Angel Lake is that it is about 10 degrees cooler than the lower elevation lakes making for a very pleasant day. ”
Pat agreed to come along, which we were glad of for several reasons. First, we really enjoy her company. Second, she drove her car which has air conditioning, a convenience currently lacking in all of the Ultra vehicles. We packed a picnic, folding chairs, fishing gear, two poodles, and we were off.
When we arrived, UtraDad was ecstatic to behold two men getting ready to launch pontoon boats onto the lake. One, the FishCat Panther, was just like the one he had been thinking about getting. The friendly fishermen, recreating firefighters from Reno, were more than happy to answer all his questions. Meanwhile, UltraMom and Pat were rooting around in the trunk for coats/jackets. It was a very cold, windy day, though UltraDad stubbornly claimed it was ‘comfortable.’ We had many exciting adventures, which included nearly having a chair or two blow into the lake. Murphy and Rowdy considered it their sworn duty to bark at any dog in the vicinity, of which there were many. UltraMom was extremely hit and miss with her casting. Once for every 5-6 casts, the worm made it into the water, but when the cast was good, it was very good. At the end of the day, we had each caught a fish. UltraMom’s, a tiger trout, was by far the biggest. The other two were cute little baby rainbows. UltraDad got several pictures of the pontoon boats in action.
UltraMom was very glad to finally get a chance to indoctrinate her last-year’s birthday gift of a new fishing pole. Maybe there will be more fishing in her future; maybe even more ‘catching.’ And just maybe, if she uses the right crankbaits and rubber gear, she might even catch a wiper.
UltraMom