I’m going fishing again

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I caught this bass at a private pond in South Carolina a few weeks ago. It was one of several I caught on a Zebco Omega Spincast.

I am, however, going again for trout this weekend, and I have to say, I’ve caught one of those in ten years.

Every time I ask for advice on trout, I get told to get a spinning reel. I cannot use one of those reels without getting so frustrated with it that break it into many pieces.

I have to use the spincast technology. No discussion.  I am stuck using the reel that gives me the least amount of grief, because I cannot go down to the trout stream and have a wild cussing fit at a tangle every three to five casts. It’s supposed to be relaxing. It’s not supposed to be a war.

The Zebco reel I have comes with red “Cajun” line that is about 10-pound test line. That’s a bit much for trout, so I am thinking of just doing a leader on it. I’m not taking that 10-pound test off, because it’s much easier to get on a bass hole than a trout stream in this part of the world.

The odds of me catching a trout are extremely low.  The only way they could be lower is for me not to go or to throw rocks in the creek before I cast.

So I’m going down to play in the creek and dumb around with a stick and some fake worms that look like giant sperm.

Probably to catch jack again.

I wish this stream had other species in it, because then I could try for a smallmouth or a bluegill when I get bored and frustrated with salmonoids.

I am not much of a waterman or an angler. I’m a ridgerunner, landlubber sort.

So I am off again. Waste some time. Deposit a few yards to the miles of line that I can’t retrieve out of a snag, along with my hooks and sinkers,

And watch people who don’t even know that a rainbow trout is a Pacific salmon or that a brook trout is a char catch over their limit and hide from the game warden.

There is no meritocracy in fishing. It’s not like hunting deer, where you figure it out over the trips you take. I can call a white-tail right up to my feet,  But every time I got to the fish, it’s a different hell. The primitive rayfins with minuscule brains have me outsmarted.

I don’t mind hooked a nasty largemouth bass and hauling in it, but that’s not something I’d want to eat.  They come in all spikes and green rage, like some sort of water monster that you’ve roused from the depths.

The one trout I’ve caught fought beautifully and angelically, like a cherub wheeling in the water before landed it. It was a rainbow, the transplanted Pacific salmon whose ocean going form is called a steelhead. It was a native to this land as people with German last names, pale skin, and blue eyes.

But it was more native than I was, more at home in the water than I ever could be in my terrestrial existence.

So humbled by a damned fish.

Who knew?

 

 

 

 

 


Natural History

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