For Whom the Bell Tolled
Last week’s bit about the bullhead, got me thinking even more about fishing. Specifically, about fishing during the dog days of summer, when the water is warm and the "decent" fish all move out to the deeper water. When I was a kid, we did some of our best fishing on hot summer afternoons, for the aforementioned bullheads, catfish and carp. So I decided next time I go out I would make a special effort to catch catfish, since the trendier species had moved out there where the boat people go.
I got some nice rancid stink bait -- chicken liver type -- and bought some medium treble (three-pronged) hooks and some egg-sinkers, kind of oval-shaped with a hole through the center, so that when a catfish tests out the bait, the line pulls through the sinker and thereby minimizes the odds that the fish will sense something amiss. Then, to top it off, so to speak, I splurged (if $2.99 is a splurge) on something I've always wanted -- a brass bell attachment for the end of the rod, so that when the fish begins to nibble the bell will tinkle, drawing my attention from whatever else I might be doing, probably messing with another rod, with a traditional bobber and bait. And I could use my other reel, the spinner, which is harder to use and tends to tangle, but would work fine if I just cast it out and let it sit. So Friday night, just before bed, I carefully attached the sinker above a new swivel, and as I fell asleep, I visualized how it would go the next morning.
Which arrived dark and still. I got to the fishing spot just as things were pale gray, walking alone beneath the dark trees, the lake shining palely before me, only one or two cars in the lot, and a couple guys getting ready to launch the first boat of the day. I picked my way over the rocks, trying to settle into my usual spot, suspecting what my wife thinks she already knows, that my balance is not quite what it was, and that carrying two rods, a tackle box, and a live net under one's arms on uneven and shifty riprap in irregular light is probably not the wisest course. But I made it and settled in. My first discovery was that while walking from the car the line with the egg sinker had somehow managed to wrap itself intently around the bobber on the other line, in that miraculous way that knots seem to blossom. In good light I could maybe untangle it in half an hour or so, but holding a small smelly flashlight in my mouth while trying to unsort the lines was not so productive. So I cut the sinker off and set that rod aside. I baited my bobber line and tossed it out, waiting to see what would happen, and for the sunrise.
Nothing doing in the water, so I began working on the egg-sinker, reattaching it and a new swivel, packed a glob of dark purple and smelly bait onto a treble hook, tossed the whole mess into the center of the channel, and set the butt of the rod down into the rocks. I got out the bell attachment, a sort of alligator clip, and attached it to the rod. It seemed rather loose, so that I doubted it would ring unless the rod were whipping so violently that I would hear it anyway. I readjusted the bell, onto the top of the end of the rod. And I waited. A few twitches on the bobber of the other line, and I landed a small perch. Which I tossed back. Then nothing more.
I reeled in the egg-sinker line, which gathered a lot of weeds as it came in. I cleaned it up, made a few adjustments, and flung it all toward the center of the lagoon. Two plops followed -- one was the bait and sinker, the other the bell, which had detached and gone off on its own trajectory, landing with a solid and final plunk into the water, leaving a series of perfectly concentric circles. That was an outcome I had not visualized. So I cursed a moment, then set the rod back into its rock base, making a mental note for next time, and next bell.
I looked back toward my bobber, which twitched a second, then disappeared altogether. I set the hook, and the rod bent, I tussled for a few moments, and the line went slack -- the hook came back clean. So I rebaited and dropped it back in the same spot. Two minutes later the bobber vanished again, I set the hook, and immediately the drag on my reel began growling, as line pulled out against my cranking. I wound in, and line went out. But ever so slowly I was making progress. The line ripped through the water from one side to the other, and the water boiled. I saw a flash, and lost more line. I cranked more, and more, and the dull green, bewhiskered, vaguely irritated face of a large catfish appeared at the surface, then submerged, then reappeared. Finally I had the line almost all reeled in, but couldn't draw in anymore. He was obviously tired, and didn't struggle much. We were at a standoff. I couldn't reel in, he couldn't get off -- I could see that the small single hook was solidly into his lip, but I was afraid to put too much raw tension onto the line.
A guy on a boat edged past. I asked if he had a net, and he said no, "but it looks like you've got a nice one there." Thanks for nothing. Out of desperation, I reached out, grabbed my line, and hoisted the fish up and onto the rocks. "Good job," my boat friend said, kind of reminding me of other animals talking to the little red hen. But anyway I pushed the catfish, a channel cat about as long as my arm, into the live net, removed the hook and rebaited it, and cast it out into another area. Where I bagged another perch, this one so small that I didn't even know he was on until I checked the worm. But at least he was hooked through the lip, so I was able to release him unharmed.
A couple more small perch, and I decided to go back to the spot from where I had dragged the catfish -- maybe his absence opened up some space for other fish, perhaps a bluegill or larger perch. About ten minutes later the bobber vanished again, I set the hook again, and went through the same long struggle. This time I conciously measured the intake and outgo of the line, and measured how close things were getting. Again the ripped water and the boils, the flash of pale green, and another equally ugly channel cat, this one even a bit larger. I hoisted him out and over the rocks, at which point the line did break, but I dropped onto him and held him to my chest -- fortunately not impaling myself with his evil-looking spikes. As I carried him over to the live net, a voice called to me from across the channel -- "nice fish." A guy and his girlfriend were over there, with their dog, and they'd been watching. "Thanks, " I said, and heaved out the live net, and slid this one in next to the other. "You have two of them?" came an incredulous voice. "Yep," I said with a false air of indifference.
I rebaited the hook and tossed it out. Nothing more doing, the sun was growing hot and my allotted time was running out. I watched the ducks, and heard a jay, and a couple doves. Suddenly a clatter arose from the other, forgotten rod, which was bent double. I grabbed for it, knocking over the uncapped container of worms, picked up the rod and set the hook, and began to reel in. Again the ripping and boiling, and soon a flash of blue-green – could this be a blue catfish, even bigger than the channels? -- and I began wondering if lightning could strike three times; but something was missing -- the growl of the drag as it released line. It wasn't set on this reel, and I didn't know how to adjust it. As I pondered that, the pole bent over even more as the fish made another run. I held on, then came a sudden snap, the pole whipped back, and the line whirled briefly and faintly about, looking as wispy as a strand from a spider web, and about as useful.
I set the rod down and spent the next few minutes rummaging under the rocks, trying to pull the worms from beneath the rocks, feeling a bit unfinished, wondering what might have been, and telling myself to be content with what I had. Nothing else bit on the bobber line, and I didn't bother to fix the other. A few minutes I gathered up my gear, including the now-hefty and bulky live net, and picked my way back over the rocks, onto solid ground. I walked across the parking lot and noted a few glances from boat people, some intrigued by the size of my catch, others purporting to sneer – or suppress a sneer – at the idea of catfish as anything more than trash and welcome to it. I knew better, and drove home happy, hauling the two fish in with what my wife later described as a look of accomplishment. My teenaged daughter was amazed, asked me if I had caught them at "our spot" and demanded to go with me next time. I cleaned the fish -- a major undertaking at that size, we froze one and baked the other, which came out flaky, white, and tender (though also more than ample); my Asian-born wife also cooked up the heads, which is a cross-cultural issue to be addressed at another time. That night as I drifted off to sleep I didn't have to visualize -- I replayed. Except that, in my reconstructed memory, I heard the soft tinkle of a bell, and the perfect whirr of a reel with the drag set right, and that third one was a blue cat, and the biggest and baddest of all.
I got some nice rancid stink bait -- chicken liver type -- and bought some medium treble (three-pronged) hooks and some egg-sinkers, kind of oval-shaped with a hole through the center, so that when a catfish tests out the bait, the line pulls through the sinker and thereby minimizes the odds that the fish will sense something amiss. Then, to top it off, so to speak, I splurged (if $2.99 is a splurge) on something I've always wanted -- a brass bell attachment for the end of the rod, so that when the fish begins to nibble the bell will tinkle, drawing my attention from whatever else I might be doing, probably messing with another rod, with a traditional bobber and bait. And I could use my other reel, the spinner, which is harder to use and tends to tangle, but would work fine if I just cast it out and let it sit. So Friday night, just before bed, I carefully attached the sinker above a new swivel, and as I fell asleep, I visualized how it would go the next morning.
Which arrived dark and still. I got to the fishing spot just as things were pale gray, walking alone beneath the dark trees, the lake shining palely before me, only one or two cars in the lot, and a couple guys getting ready to launch the first boat of the day. I picked my way over the rocks, trying to settle into my usual spot, suspecting what my wife thinks she already knows, that my balance is not quite what it was, and that carrying two rods, a tackle box, and a live net under one's arms on uneven and shifty riprap in irregular light is probably not the wisest course. But I made it and settled in. My first discovery was that while walking from the car the line with the egg sinker had somehow managed to wrap itself intently around the bobber on the other line, in that miraculous way that knots seem to blossom. In good light I could maybe untangle it in half an hour or so, but holding a small smelly flashlight in my mouth while trying to unsort the lines was not so productive. So I cut the sinker off and set that rod aside. I baited my bobber line and tossed it out, waiting to see what would happen, and for the sunrise.
Nothing doing in the water, so I began working on the egg-sinker, reattaching it and a new swivel, packed a glob of dark purple and smelly bait onto a treble hook, tossed the whole mess into the center of the channel, and set the butt of the rod down into the rocks. I got out the bell attachment, a sort of alligator clip, and attached it to the rod. It seemed rather loose, so that I doubted it would ring unless the rod were whipping so violently that I would hear it anyway. I readjusted the bell, onto the top of the end of the rod. And I waited. A few twitches on the bobber of the other line, and I landed a small perch. Which I tossed back. Then nothing more.
I reeled in the egg-sinker line, which gathered a lot of weeds as it came in. I cleaned it up, made a few adjustments, and flung it all toward the center of the lagoon. Two plops followed -- one was the bait and sinker, the other the bell, which had detached and gone off on its own trajectory, landing with a solid and final plunk into the water, leaving a series of perfectly concentric circles. That was an outcome I had not visualized. So I cursed a moment, then set the rod back into its rock base, making a mental note for next time, and next bell.
I looked back toward my bobber, which twitched a second, then disappeared altogether. I set the hook, and the rod bent, I tussled for a few moments, and the line went slack -- the hook came back clean. So I rebaited and dropped it back in the same spot. Two minutes later the bobber vanished again, I set the hook, and immediately the drag on my reel began growling, as line pulled out against my cranking. I wound in, and line went out. But ever so slowly I was making progress. The line ripped through the water from one side to the other, and the water boiled. I saw a flash, and lost more line. I cranked more, and more, and the dull green, bewhiskered, vaguely irritated face of a large catfish appeared at the surface, then submerged, then reappeared. Finally I had the line almost all reeled in, but couldn't draw in anymore. He was obviously tired, and didn't struggle much. We were at a standoff. I couldn't reel in, he couldn't get off -- I could see that the small single hook was solidly into his lip, but I was afraid to put too much raw tension onto the line.
A guy on a boat edged past. I asked if he had a net, and he said no, "but it looks like you've got a nice one there." Thanks for nothing. Out of desperation, I reached out, grabbed my line, and hoisted the fish up and onto the rocks. "Good job," my boat friend said, kind of reminding me of other animals talking to the little red hen. But anyway I pushed the catfish, a channel cat about as long as my arm, into the live net, removed the hook and rebaited it, and cast it out into another area. Where I bagged another perch, this one so small that I didn't even know he was on until I checked the worm. But at least he was hooked through the lip, so I was able to release him unharmed.
A couple more small perch, and I decided to go back to the spot from where I had dragged the catfish -- maybe his absence opened up some space for other fish, perhaps a bluegill or larger perch. About ten minutes later the bobber vanished again, I set the hook again, and went through the same long struggle. This time I conciously measured the intake and outgo of the line, and measured how close things were getting. Again the ripped water and the boils, the flash of pale green, and another equally ugly channel cat, this one even a bit larger. I hoisted him out and over the rocks, at which point the line did break, but I dropped onto him and held him to my chest -- fortunately not impaling myself with his evil-looking spikes. As I carried him over to the live net, a voice called to me from across the channel -- "nice fish." A guy and his girlfriend were over there, with their dog, and they'd been watching. "Thanks, " I said, and heaved out the live net, and slid this one in next to the other. "You have two of them?" came an incredulous voice. "Yep," I said with a false air of indifference.
I rebaited the hook and tossed it out. Nothing more doing, the sun was growing hot and my allotted time was running out. I watched the ducks, and heard a jay, and a couple doves. Suddenly a clatter arose from the other, forgotten rod, which was bent double. I grabbed for it, knocking over the uncapped container of worms, picked up the rod and set the hook, and began to reel in. Again the ripping and boiling, and soon a flash of blue-green – could this be a blue catfish, even bigger than the channels? -- and I began wondering if lightning could strike three times; but something was missing -- the growl of the drag as it released line. It wasn't set on this reel, and I didn't know how to adjust it. As I pondered that, the pole bent over even more as the fish made another run. I held on, then came a sudden snap, the pole whipped back, and the line whirled briefly and faintly about, looking as wispy as a strand from a spider web, and about as useful.
I set the rod down and spent the next few minutes rummaging under the rocks, trying to pull the worms from beneath the rocks, feeling a bit unfinished, wondering what might have been, and telling myself to be content with what I had. Nothing else bit on the bobber line, and I didn't bother to fix the other. A few minutes I gathered up my gear, including the now-hefty and bulky live net, and picked my way back over the rocks, onto solid ground. I walked across the parking lot and noted a few glances from boat people, some intrigued by the size of my catch, others purporting to sneer – or suppress a sneer – at the idea of catfish as anything more than trash and welcome to it. I knew better, and drove home happy, hauling the two fish in with what my wife later described as a look of accomplishment. My teenaged daughter was amazed, asked me if I had caught them at "our spot" and demanded to go with me next time. I cleaned the fish -- a major undertaking at that size, we froze one and baked the other, which came out flaky, white, and tender (though also more than ample); my Asian-born wife also cooked up the heads, which is a cross-cultural issue to be addressed at another time. That night as I drifted off to sleep I didn't have to visualize -- I replayed. Except that, in my reconstructed memory, I heard the soft tinkle of a bell, and the perfect whirr of a reel with the drag set right, and that third one was a blue cat, and the biggest and baddest of all.
posted by GrahamLewis at 11:25 AM
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