Fishing - Where it all started for me

At the tender age of eight I would visit the River almost every day. It twisted its way from a beginning I had never seen, and I figured it eventually emptied into the big lake somewhere. There, on the edge of the city, I pictured a titanic mouth spewing its spent waters. I visited the River to escape into a world of snakes, toads, pheasants and supposed pet cemeteries. A world where children ruled the day and adults seldom tread, save to call us late for diner or bed.

The River sat in a valley directly behind my best friend’s house. I remember very well the hill leading down to the water being colossal, and overgrown in thick jungle-like vegetation. In reality it was a gentle bush covered slope, dropping all of 10 feet, at the very most. But through child’s eyes it was mountainous and grand. In the summer, we would build various ramps of earth at its base, so that in the winter we could rocket our green plastic sleds – the ones with the useless black plastic hand breaks - down the slope, off the jumps, stopping just short of the always semi-frozen waterway.

The Riverbank was lined with big rocks, some perfect for sitting – others perfect for resting rusty bait cans containing luncheon meat, worms or crickets on. Early on, the water was relatively clean and I remember catching sunfish and rock bass with a deep red fiberglass pole. Later, I’d catch suckers with white horns on their heads with a light blue fiberglass pole. My line was mostly thick and dark blue, and it sprang off the squeaky reel’s spool in noodle like coils. Interestingly, my father had a greasy black reel that was spooled with what looked like a modern braided line, except without anything modern about it. I would always use a large bobber - red and white or sometimes orange and yellow. I’d find them in my garage, mixed in with my father’s tools in a wooden box. I never questioned how they got there, I only knew that whenever I needed one, a bobber would be there - waiting. I honestly thought that tool box was a fantastical bottomless pit. At times when I would scurry up the ladder to dig around in it, I would try and reach the bottom – sending screws, corks and bottle caps crashing to the floor. I never once found the bottom. It’s still there in my father’s garage, but I don’t dare go near it now. Some things need to remain magical.

After finding a suitable spot to sit, usually in the bright sun, I’d impale a worm I had dug out of my dad’s vegetable garden on a large double barbed hook. My best friend would do the same. Few words were shared between us at this time, and for good reason. The first to string a worm was the first to cast for the first fish. Yes, there always was a second fish, and even a third fish waiting on this particular bend in the River, but second and third didn’t win the race.

We all knew which boulder at the edge of the River held the best chance for the most fish or perhaps with a bit of luck, biggest fish or with even more luck, a crayfish. My favorite sitting spot was a big flat rock with a set of smaller rocks behind it. We’d always race for it, but would never argue or tussle over it - fisherman’s code and all that. Truth told however, the one who missed out would always quietly envy the other – at least I did – and would jump at the opportunity to jump claim if the original owner moved, even for a moment.

The River ran deep in spots as best as we could tell - no one would dare jump in it where we fished it. Of course, a few of us slipped in now and then, but we were damn sure to exit quicker than we fell. Collecting lampreys and minnows in the nearby rapids, eddies and small inlets was one thing, but deep, still water held things we couldn’t see - big things, snapping things, or so we guessed. Besides, at least a couple of kids would drown each year in the River - as our mothers would constantly remind us - so we were relatively careful even during our most reckless and ambitious excursions.

Snakes would sometimes visit you as you fished. They came for a drink or for a swim to the other side, and our bobbers made excellent aerial bombs to impede their way. Frogs and toads would fall victim to cherry bombs every now and then, and I regret the torture we subjected them to.

In any event, when the bobbers were in the water, we’d watch them intently, waiting for the telltale vibrations of biting fish. Though I employ much more “highbrow” fishing techniques these days, live bait bobber fishing still fascinates me when I do it with my children. It think it’s the duality of the thing that gets us; half the bobber being under the water, on their side, and half the bobber being above the water, on our side - All things being equal.