The calendar indicates that we’re in the month of April.
Some years in our climate, it’s easy to tell that spring is on the way; other years, not so much.
There was a time when I would anxiously await the beginning of trout season, which was a preview of other fishing season openers to come. I would find myself wading along muddy creeks and soggy, brush-choked paths through the woods for the purpose of catching a fish I never particularly wanted to take home and eat.
There were many years, I recall, when it was a bit hard to recognize that it was spring, with a light coating of snow on the ground and ice forming on my rod guides and reel. Among some unpleasant trout memories includes the time I was fishing a small creek in New York state with some friends.
This was shortly after having surgery on my right knee. I approached an old beaver pond which, I discovered, was full of hungry trout. Every cast was producing a bite or a fish and I kept working my way happily around the edge of the pond. Since the water dropped right off to four or five feet deep, I had to stay on the soft creek bank and fight through the brush to make some short casts. Without warning, the ground gave way, burying my left leg up to the hip in mud and roots. This resulted in my weak right leg being fully bent at the knee with my right foot on the ground. I was stuck and embarrassed but I resolved to sit down and wriggle until I got free, not wanting to call my friends for help. Once freed, the pain in my knee told me it was time to quit for the day.
But my mom and aunt liked trout, so I enjoyed catching a few and proudly presented them to those who appreciated them. After those folks passed away, I continued to fish for trout, concentrating on learning some of the finer points of fly fishing, just for fun. The last trout I brought home was an exceptionally big rainbow (honest, it was THIS big!). I tried cooking it two different ways and still didn’t like it. I had a good friend who enjoyed fishing for crappies with
me (we called them calico bass.) After work, we would catch some live minnows with a seine net and take off for Red House Lake or Willow Bay for a pleasant evening which often produced a mess of fish. Those were critters, it seemed, that everyone liked to eat.
The only problem was after fishing at dusk and then by lantern light until maybe 11 p.m., we had to then drive back home and clean fish. That these fish usually traveled in large schools was both a blessing and a curse. If we started catching a few, we would usually end up with several dozen to process before we could clean up and get some rest, but being young, we didn’t mind.
I also experienced musky and bass fishing at Lake Chautauqua and other spots. Both proved to be labor-intensive and time-consuming forms of the sport to me. Occasional trips for walleyes, when successful, were appreciated in the form of Friday night fish fries. The most fun for me was after a few hours of any “serious” fishing, I would revert to my childhood love of fishing for perch, bluegills and any other pan fish that might be biting. A few of the larger specimens might end up on the menu that night.
Several trips to Northern Ontario convinced me that there were places and methods of fishing that could be more productive and less frustrating. On our first hunting trip to Canada, Dad and I were camped on a small lake. As soon as we got settled in, I asked our guide if there were any fish in that lake. He looked at me as if I was really dumb and with a heavy French accent advised me “all these lakes have fish.”
Next, I opened a sizable tackle box and displayed my largest spoons and plugs, asking the guide what he thought the pike and walleyes might prefer. He glanced over the collection, picked up a red and white spoon, at least three inches long. “Is this the biggest one you have?” My first cast with the spoon produced a pike about 28 inches long. I was happy until the guide suggested that I should put that little one back in the water and try again. (That was OK, I don’t eat pike, either.) He was right; the pike got bigger and most casts produced fish of some kind. Now, I thought, this was real fishing.
My kids liked fishing and I enjoyed the time I spent drowning worms with them. But as they grew older, we all had other things occupying our time. Somewhere along the way, it occurred to me that I really like fishing, as long as I’m catching something. It didn’t matter so much what was biting, as long as there was some action. Unfortunately, that doesn’t always happen.
I guess I slowly drifted away from fishing in favor of spending more of my free time on the shooting sports. Summer evenings were now spent waiting for a shot at a distant woodchuck or more time on the range.
Who knows – maybe sometime I’ll dig out my old tackle, sort out some gear and find time to go fishing again – but I still don’t like trout.
(Roger Sager, an Era outdoor columnist, can be reached at rogerjsager@gmail.com)
