Village Squire, 1979-06, Page 34P.S.
Whoever said
fishing
wasa fun thing?
We went for a walk the other morning
back to the creek that runs through the
back of the farm we live on. There were two
fishermen standing on a big rock in the
middle of the water and immediately the
kids sang out "When can we go fishing
daddy".
Ah the memories it brought back. Oh the
degradation.
Fishing, you see is just one of those
areas of complete failure in my life.
Growing up in the country, one is just
expected to be a fisherman if he happens to
be a male. I don't remember just how old I
was the first time I went fishing. I do
remember I went with my best friend and
bis family to a little lake a couple of miles
from our home for a picnic. I seem to
remember a long bamboo pole that we
used to fish from the shore. We were so
small that we needed help to hold the pole.
But the trip was successful. I remember a
rainbow coloured sun bass that seems like
the rarest catch possible, I was proud as
punch. Unfortunately, it was the highlight
of my fishing career.
When my chum and I got old enough to
be out on our own we seemed to wander
near the water a lot. There's something
about being a kid that just makes you
imitate Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, even if
you don't even know about Huck Finn and
Tom Sawyer. We wandered the bushlots
and creek beds of the concession line like a
couple of wayward pioneer explorers. The
days were long and the fun was there for
the making. Our imaginations ran wild.
The lazy muddy creek that was little
more than a drainage ditch running
through the back of my friend's parents'
farm was a mecca to us. We built makeshift
boats that looked more like leaky coffins
and stuffed the cracks with rags to hold out
the water while we explored the pond
where the water trickled out of the swamp.
The rags didn't hold the water out but it
didn't matter if the boat did sink because
the "pond" was only a foot deep in the
deepest place. Down stream was the "deep
hole" where the water was all of three or
four feet deep, just about the right height
for two fearless country boys who couldn't
swim. Still further was the fishing hole, at
the back of the neighbouring farmer's
place. There we'd dangle a line from a
reasonably straight tree branch chosen for
32 Village Squire, June 1979
a pole. We'd sit on the timbers of a bridge
the farmer had built over the ditch ,and pull
in fish with great excitement. They were up
to 10 or 11 inches long, either chub or a fish
we called horny day. although I have no
idea what the proper name was.
The problem was this was only fun for so
long. It wasn't long before the kids we met
at school began to talk about catching trout
or bass or pike and soon the joys of chub
and horny day were gone forever. There
followed a period of getting serious about
fishing. The stick and line weren't enough
anymore, not when the "real" fishermen
we knew were going to rods and reels and
were even fly casting. Money, however,
was the problem. The fancy outfits
advertised on the back of the comic books
were a long way beyond the means of a
couple of farm boys in the 1950's.
Somewhere I got a rather beat -up rod and a
reel that was in even worse shape. It at
least looked presentable, even if it hardly
stood up on close comparison with the
other young fishermen.
It became an annual date in our
neighbourhood in those days for all the
young men along our "line" to get
together and go out the first day of the
fishing season. Year after year all I ever
caught was a cold because no matter what
day the fishing season opened on, it
invariably snowed. We'd tramp around the
river bed trying to find the' elusive good
spot until we all had wet feet and were
thoroughly chilled. Then we'd go home.
My own lack of fishing luck was catching. I
never remember anyone ever catching
anything on one of those trips.
Every spring started out with a rush of
enthusiasm: this was the year I was going
to catch a real fish, a trout or a pike or some
kind of bass except rock bass. The first few
weeks the drive would continue but by the
time the warm weather came the
temptation had passed. What was the use.
After a few fruitless seasons I resigned
myself to the fact I just wasn't a fisherman.
Then a few nights ago an acquaint-
ance invited me to come and try
his private stocked fishing pond. I went
along, feeling slightly cheap because after
all, how fair was it to catch fish in such a
sneaky manner. Still, if I finally caught a
trout, maybe all the humiliation of all those
years would go away. I felt even more
sneaky when he tossed handfuls of fish
food into the pond and we threw our lines,
bated with more fish food right into the
middle of the churning water where the
fish rose to swallow the food.
Well, I needn't have worried. I didn't
even have a nibble. Neither did the guy
who owned the pond.
Sure kids, you can go fishing sometime.
I'll help you make the poles and show you
how to bait the hooks. After that, you're on
your own. It's for your own good.
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