I have two
friends who swim in Lake Michigan. I
know two more who ride in bicycle races like the Tour de Troit.
At least half a dozen acquaintances run or walk in the Crim races. The parents of a dear colleague and friend
skied in Idaho until they were over 80.
Every year
it seems the Flint Journal has a photo and article about old timer hockey games. I am moved by the retirees who walk with
difficulty to the rink, lace on their skates, and swoosh onto the ice---their
crinkled faces light up as legs and ankles remember the moves.
I regret
that I do none of these things. In
fact, I have arrived at the end of my sixth decade of life with no athletic
skill that, if learned young, you can continue to enjoy it at a later age.
Then I
discovered fishing.
My partner
Dennis would always remark on lakes or rivers we’d pass when we travel by
car. What a great place to fish, he’d
say, wistfully. I had no idea why he’d comment
longingly about one body of water or another.
No one in my
family fished.
As a
ten-year-old kid, Dennis went with his parents in the summertime to the Sierra
Mountains in California. They’d camp for a week and spend the days fishing at
one of the lakes.
Fishing
organized the day. Out in the boat in
the early morning, return about noon to the campsite for sandwiches, then out on
the lake again in the afternoon. They
would come back with the day’s catch on a stringer. Dennis and his dad cleaned the fish; his
mother fried them in cornmeal for dinner.
In those years,
the 1950s, the limit was 15 fish per person.
Some days the three of them would get their limit: 45 fish. Dennis said that often his mother caught the
most fish, even though she often took a book with her out on the boat. She’d cast her line and then sit in the middle
of the boat and read while she waited for a tug on the pole.
Dennis pondered
my non-athletic background; he concluded that I might enjoy fishing.
My first
experience was a couple of years ago; we drove to the Kern River in the western
Sierras, about three hours north of Los Angeles.
Dennis
packed all the camping gear---big tent, air mattress, stove and kitchen set up,
and “sky” chairs. The sky chairs are a
hippie-artisan invention Dennis discovered at the Renaissance Faire one year. A spider web arrangement of ropes and seating
that you hang from a tree like an armchair hammock. You get up in it and sway in the breeze.
We had a big
ice chest stocked with good food. Red wine
for the evening and an old Bialetti moka pot for espresso in the morning. Camping with class and Dennis knew how to do it all.
My task was
to learn how to fish.
We camped by
the river, under trees but with enough sandy shelf to walk out into shallow
water. Dennis had equipped me with a rod
and reel; he taught me how to cast into the rapidly flowing stream. At first I got tangled on the rocks, but
gradually I cast out farther into the river.
The icy, rushing water cooled my legs in the heat of the July day.
To my
surprise I reeled in a small rainbow trout.
Dennis scooped it into the net.
We caught a few more and we had enough for dinner.
Alas, this
inaugural fishing experience was cut short.
In Bakersfield, the last ice stop before we drove up the twisting
mountain highway to the Kern, I’d eaten something that made me very, very sick. I was feverish and weak, able to fish only
for short periods; I needed to sleep much of the day. The sight and smell of fried fish turned my
stomach. We had to break camp after a
couple of days and come home earlier than planned.
My
initiation into angling was put on hold.
Then last
week we tried fishing again. This time we
drove further, to the Mammoth Lakes in the eastern Sierras about five hours
north of Los Angeles. We returned to
Lake Mary, one of the lakes where Dennis had gone years ago with his family. We rented a motor boat and set out on a cool, sunny
morning in late September.
Dennis
steered us to a quiet spot not far from shore, shallow water. Through the green glassy water we could see
the mossy bottom about 12 feet down. On
the shore, two older men had set up their poles and lines on the rocks at the
water’s edge. Their anglers’ hats shaded their faces in the morning sun and
their conversation traveled across the glinting water. When one of the two codgers caught a fish,
his pal took pictures.
Over and
over, I cast out, reeled back a bit to make the line taut, and then
waited. Over and over, I picked up weeds
and bark. I’d reel in, balance the rod
to grasp the line and carefully tease off the mossy tendrils tangled around the
fluorescent yellow power bait of my hook and sliding sinker.
I must have
cast out four or five times. Then came
the jerking tug-tug-tug Dennis told me I’d recognize. The fish pulled the pole
first left, then right and then in a sharp arc as he dipped downward under the
boat. Dennis coached me, “play with him,” “keep reeling in,” “let him get tired
out.” I moved from one side of the boat
to the other. He was now close enough to
see his speckled silver sides gleaming.
The smacking tail. Dennis netted
him and into the boat about 12 inches of rainbow trout sputtered and flopped.
The old guys on the shore applauded.
The old guys on the shore applauded.
This time
Dennis and I caught five trout---all rainbow.
Dennis even reeled in a 19 inch fish, nearly 4 pounds. He cleaned them all and we brought them home,
packed in an ice chest.
The skillet
is sizzling now as I write, but I am not sure if I can eat any of the fish.
I like my fish speckled and glimmering, breaking water in the lake in the warm sunlight. For the rest---the eating part---it’s not my sport yet.
Read more essays like this one in East Village Magazine at http://www.eastvillagemagazine.org/en/
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