The old men and the lake
Yesterday morning a brief but intense thunderstorm broke through the drought, filled the gutters and cleared out the drainspouts -- rousting the chipmunks who had settled in for a long stay. The sky soon cleared, though, if I squint I see just a touch more green amidst the brown and stiff grasses. I had a dentist appt early that morning, which I decided to parlay into an excuse to return to Lake Mendota, a sort of low-key Old Man and the Sea, with apologies to Hemingway.
I had a few left-over nightcrawlers and saw no point in letting them die for no good reason. The storm had stirred up the waters quite a bit, waves were slapping against the rock riprap that lined the neck of the small lagoon that's become my personal fishing hole. I decided to move to the other side, around a bend, where the water was much calmer. A bit of a letdown -- last week I caught an 18-inch smallmouth at my usual spot, and had planned to return to his hangout to see if we could meet again (catch-and-release).
I've taken to fishing with a float now, a sort of modified return to the bottom-fishing of my Nebraska childhood, which consisted of casting out a weighted gob of worms into a reservoir or sluggish little river, and awaiting a tug on the line by a catfish or bullhead or carp. Now I use a small balsa float, white and flourescent yellow, with a long point that projects up. Much more sensitive than the cheaper red-and-white bobbers, and more absorbing to watch. Sometimes as I drift off to sleep I get an image of it twitching and jerking, making concentric circles in the still water, then dashing about before disappearing altogether -- I am invariably reminded of the beginning scene of "Jaws " when the girl swimmer finds herself flung about on the surface of the water before being drawn under.
Anyway, I was pleased to find that the perch were active in this spot, and caught quite a few, some of whom were almost keepers, and would be if I were so inclined. But I have several in the freezer already, and I'm not all the much for eating them. Also, these had cooperatively gotten themselves hooked through the lip rather than swallowing the hooks, so returning them to the water was an easy option, and one for which they seemed appreciative. I was going to say "grateful" but I realize that involves a level of interaction which I don't think the fish and I shared. They were no doubt relieved to be safely back in the water, but I doubt they had any conception of me as a benevolent being.
Shortly after I settled in, an older Asian man showed up, Hmong I think, with a long bamboo-type pole and a folding chair. Quite a few of those folks fish these local lakes, most though nearer to downtown, in the shallow water of Monona Lake Bay. They are usually fishing for sustenance rather than sport, and tend to keep just about any fish legally allowed. Moments later a pair of middle-aged African-American fishermen rumbled past as they headed their bright fiberglass boat toward deeper waters, fancy fishing poles silhoutted, their conversation drifting across the water. I heard one comment that "an old cane pole, that's the way to do it, that's the fishing I grew up with." Though they didn't stop, and their full-fledged fancy rigs festooned the deck.
Watching the old Asian man, and watching the few boats going out, I realized what I have perhaps become -- one of the old guys fishing the shore, while the younger or more determined types glide by on their way to bigger things. Brought to mind, incongrously perhaps, the lines from Whitman's Song of Myself about timidly staying close to shore, not far, rhetorically, from another line in the same poem, "the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with bitterness worse than gall." But, old man or not, timid or not, gallish or not, I was mostly content, in the warm sun, hearing the birds, smelling the freshly stirred water.
Catching the perch was interesting, but I knew the moment I hooked a bluegill -- perch hit strong, but then they more or less give in. Bluegills circle and fight. Not the savage runs of a bass, but tight circles. This one was about handsized, and very beautifully marked, perhaps even a pumpkinseed -- and he swallowed the hook. I didn't want to try and extricate it -- I've done that often enough, with the mute rigidity of the fish as I work the hook around in its innards, so I cut the line instead. He was large enough to keep, but I didn't want to take him home as a solo, so I gestured toward the Hmong man and pantomimed whether he wanted it. He made it clear he would do so happily, so I took it over there. About an hour later I caught another, smallish, perch, who also swallowed the hook. I again cut the line and released him. It was getting on toward noon, and I sort of had other obligations, so rather than put on another hook, I packed things up. I gave the last nightcrawlers to the Hmong man, who was most grateful.
I had a few left-over nightcrawlers and saw no point in letting them die for no good reason. The storm had stirred up the waters quite a bit, waves were slapping against the rock riprap that lined the neck of the small lagoon that's become my personal fishing hole. I decided to move to the other side, around a bend, where the water was much calmer. A bit of a letdown -- last week I caught an 18-inch smallmouth at my usual spot, and had planned to return to his hangout to see if we could meet again (catch-and-release).
I've taken to fishing with a float now, a sort of modified return to the bottom-fishing of my Nebraska childhood, which consisted of casting out a weighted gob of worms into a reservoir or sluggish little river, and awaiting a tug on the line by a catfish or bullhead or carp. Now I use a small balsa float, white and flourescent yellow, with a long point that projects up. Much more sensitive than the cheaper red-and-white bobbers, and more absorbing to watch. Sometimes as I drift off to sleep I get an image of it twitching and jerking, making concentric circles in the still water, then dashing about before disappearing altogether -- I am invariably reminded of the beginning scene of "Jaws " when the girl swimmer finds herself flung about on the surface of the water before being drawn under.
Anyway, I was pleased to find that the perch were active in this spot, and caught quite a few, some of whom were almost keepers, and would be if I were so inclined. But I have several in the freezer already, and I'm not all the much for eating them. Also, these had cooperatively gotten themselves hooked through the lip rather than swallowing the hooks, so returning them to the water was an easy option, and one for which they seemed appreciative. I was going to say "grateful" but I realize that involves a level of interaction which I don't think the fish and I shared. They were no doubt relieved to be safely back in the water, but I doubt they had any conception of me as a benevolent being.
Shortly after I settled in, an older Asian man showed up, Hmong I think, with a long bamboo-type pole and a folding chair. Quite a few of those folks fish these local lakes, most though nearer to downtown, in the shallow water of Monona Lake Bay. They are usually fishing for sustenance rather than sport, and tend to keep just about any fish legally allowed. Moments later a pair of middle-aged African-American fishermen rumbled past as they headed their bright fiberglass boat toward deeper waters, fancy fishing poles silhoutted, their conversation drifting across the water. I heard one comment that "an old cane pole, that's the way to do it, that's the fishing I grew up with." Though they didn't stop, and their full-fledged fancy rigs festooned the deck.
Watching the old Asian man, and watching the few boats going out, I realized what I have perhaps become -- one of the old guys fishing the shore, while the younger or more determined types glide by on their way to bigger things. Brought to mind, incongrously perhaps, the lines from Whitman's Song of Myself about timidly staying close to shore, not far, rhetorically, from another line in the same poem, "the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with bitterness worse than gall." But, old man or not, timid or not, gallish or not, I was mostly content, in the warm sun, hearing the birds, smelling the freshly stirred water.
Catching the perch was interesting, but I knew the moment I hooked a bluegill -- perch hit strong, but then they more or less give in. Bluegills circle and fight. Not the savage runs of a bass, but tight circles. This one was about handsized, and very beautifully marked, perhaps even a pumpkinseed -- and he swallowed the hook. I didn't want to try and extricate it -- I've done that often enough, with the mute rigidity of the fish as I work the hook around in its innards, so I cut the line instead. He was large enough to keep, but I didn't want to take him home as a solo, so I gestured toward the Hmong man and pantomimed whether he wanted it. He made it clear he would do so happily, so I took it over there. About an hour later I caught another, smallish, perch, who also swallowed the hook. I again cut the line and released him. It was getting on toward noon, and I sort of had other obligations, so rather than put on another hook, I packed things up. I gave the last nightcrawlers to the Hmong man, who was most grateful.
posted by GrahamLewis at 8:36 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home