Then there are the aficionados of lures and plugs, terminal tackle to use the vernacular. They ply the waters with shiny metal spoons or brightly painted pieces of wood or plastic. They carry tackle boxes the size of suitcases full of neon rubber jigs. They spend thousands on every imaginable device to tempt a bass, perch, or pike.
On the bottom of the pecking order are the bait fishermen. They chuck simple hooks, on which is skewered a worm or minnow,beetle or leech. Something juicy and tempting. I am a charter member of this fraternity. In fact I am a legacy; my father and his father before him were also bait fishermen of some renown. I learned the ropes at their feet.
n fact the gathering of the bait was part of the magical process of getting ready for our weekly fishing trips. Truth be told the process was as much fun, or sometimes even more fun than the trip itself. For in the planning is the concept of the trip. It is the sine qua non, the ne plus ultra of fishing trips. While preparing the trip we build the trip in our minds. We paint it stroke by stroke like some massive canvas. Every cloud is light and fluffy every trout rises to our hook. The very trail rises to meet us. The fish bite and the flies don't. What follows is reality, a flat tire, running out of bug dope. Rain. The fish don't bite. That is reality. But the worst day fishing really is better than the best day at work.
For my Dad and I gathering bait meant a trip down the eastern shore for minnows. This necessitated a twenty minute drive along some of the prettiest roads in eastern Canada. We would look for the hand painted signs, a piece of cardboard in the case of the johnny come lately bait guys. A tired looking plywood affair for the seasoned veterans of the bait world. "Always look for the oldest tiredest looking sign." my Dad said. "They will be back next year, they won't cheat you!" He had a favorite and we always went there first. The guy was short and stocky. He kept his minnows in an old coke cooler. He dipped them out onto an old window screen and asked what size you wanted then he quickly scooped out more minnows packed the chosen ones in tobacco cans filled with dry leaves. They would stay alive for another two days. He usually had worms too, if we didn't have any in our garden we would buy them too. Night crawlers were extra. The deal sealed, hands shook and luck wished, we headed back home to pack.
On this one particular trip there were just the three of us. Me, Dad and Dad's best friend John, with whom he had fished for over fifty years. We left home in the wee hours, long before dawn broke. Dew still clung to the windshield and I would wipe it off while Dad started the car. We drove the half hour or so to Johnny's house. He met us in the driveway, with his pack at his feet. We took our gear out of the trunk and started the seven mile walk that would take us back to the lake.One of the things I like about heading back into the bush is that all you need and all you have to rely on is on you back. I suppose that it could be said that we did have some things at the camp, but all food, except trout we brought with us. This creates scarcity. It also makes you value the things you have with you. Often they are simple things. It takes you back to your roots. It strips away the dependency on society and makes you a creature like the other creatures that wander the forest. You cease to be apart from nature and you become a part of nature. You are a self contained unit dependant for survival on what you have with you.
What we had with us was considerable. Dad and Johnny carried homemade packs the size of a bar fridge. I always marveled at what they carried in these massive one compartment canvas boxes. The straps were old seat belts. Everything went in there from spare clothes to food and fishing gear. Johnny could reach into his massive pack, the third day out on a long weekend trip and pull some home made treat his wife Lottie had prepared. My pack was tiny by comparison, it was my Dad's army pack, it had 1942 stamped into the flap. My spare clothes, toiletries, and rain gear. A pair of runners hung from the strap. They come in handy after a long day wearing rubber boots. My fishing tackles was carried outside my backpack in a respirator bag identical to the one my dad used for his tackle. I had bought it in a surplus store. Over my other shoulder I carried the creel which held the bait for the trip in.
This particular trip had gone well. We had some trout to take home. We had some more in our bellies after a couple of shore lunches. We always carried a bag of "Fixins". with us. This was a mixture of flour, salt, pepper and corn meal, with some secret spices in it for dredging the trout in after they had been splashed with some canned milk. Fried in a cast iron pan the size of a hubcap, whose handle had been broken off many decades ago, they tasted wonderful. The weather had been beautiful, something that was never guaranteed in Hants County. The lake ran north south and wind could whip up in minutes and trap you in the south end of the lake. But on this May weekend the weather was picture postcard perfect. Maybe even a bit too good for trout fishing. Brookies are shy and like a little overcast. The fishing had been good and for every one we landed there were the inevitable two that got away. With the bait. Remember I mentioned scarcity? The bait was running low. and there was still half a day of daylight left. I had baited my hook with my last worm and threw it out into the dark waters of the lake, whose waters were the color of strong tea. As I began my retrieve I had a sudden hit, my line shook violently left and right. I raised my rod tip only to feel the fish slip away. With my bait! I reeled in my line, staring blankly at the bare hook. What now?
Desperate, I rummaged through my tackle bag. There were; snelled hooks, floats, a few flies, bug dope, leaders, spinners and a couple of metal spoons. "How about this?" I said holding a gaudy metal lure aloft. It turned in my hand on the built in swivel. It was hard to tell which was brighter the gaudy neon paint or the highly polished nickel chrome metal side. "GOOD GOD, boy!" piped Johnny "You'll scare everything away for three lakes in every direction." "I don't think those things work on trout, maybe dumber fish like bass or perch!" My dad added. "Well it's either this or I stand here twiddling my thumbs!" I said testily. "Well alright, son.But walk out to the point and fish in that direction."
"Ever catch anything on one of those lures John?" Dad said. " Nah, I don't place much stock in them." Johnny replied. I took up my new position. I hooked the lure to my line and determined to make the best of it. I regarded it as a challenge. I was the representative of the next generation. Sure the old ways were good but I would be the champion of the new way. I am sure that lots of research had gone into this lure, choosing the right color, testing the shape in a wind tunnel. Surely science would conquer all. I would make converts of Dad and johnny, soon they would be begging me to use the other lures in my bag.
I made a monstrous cast, the lure sailed out over the water. After allowing it time to sink I begam my retrieve. Slow and steady. The lure was just becoming visible on the edge of the granite shelf that stuck out into the lake at my feet when he hit. Hard. My rod bucked I let out a cry. There was only a few feet of line left to play him on. I watched as he tore at the hook. I raised the rod to set the hook and was so excited I lifted the trout clear out of the water he skittered across the rock and to my horror came off the treble hook. I made a diving tackle that sent me, rod and trout flying. I clutched him to my chest and we rolled across the rock, stopping just short of the water. "Hold on to him, boy!" shouted Johnny. "Nice one, son!" Dad said/ I stood up wiping the slime from my shirt. He was a beauty about twelve inches and half a pound. A keeper.
I lay him on the rock to admire him. "First cast!:" I yelled. "With the new lure!" It was then that I noticed the tail of a minnow coming out of the mouth of the trout. I gently pulled on it and a three inch shiner slid out of the trout's mouth. As it did a two inch chunk of night crawler slid out too. "Hey dad! Look at this he had a minnow and a worm in his mouth and he still took the lure, pretty good , eh?" Dad and Johnny jumped up, obviously they were impressed. They came straight for where I was standing. "Worm, eh?" Dad said. "Minnow too?" added John. "Yep! and he still took the lure." I was beaming. Dad and Johnny did not seem to notice. Dad scooped the worm and put it on his hook. Johnny took the minnow and they both went back to fishing.
Soon they both had trout of there own. Caught with the bait they had filched from me. "You just can't beat the old ways can you?" Dad said to Johnny. "I'll never get used to those new metal things. Better off with a minnow."
1 comment:
Me and my friend were arguing about an issue similar to this! Now I know that I was right. lol! Thanks for the information you post.
Zydot ultra clean shampoo
Post a Comment