Fishing

The Lures of Addiction

One of the few accomplishments in my life has been avoiding getting an addiction to… much. I’m very proud of that. Not to say that I haven’t fallen once or twice. There was the time that I thought I was addicted to running. Rough times they were too. Fitting in a quick six or a good twelve in all kinds of weather (while claiming I only ran two), secretly stealing bricks to put in my backpack to increase the intensity of my habit, I had the whole thing going. I was “saved” by determined people who were quick to point out that I had a problem. They called me all kinds of names; “over achiever” at best and, “narcissist troglodyte” for the most part. I defended myself, admitting that when you look as plain as me; being a narcissist would be a colossal waste of time. I insisted I did it for my profession, which required a tremendous amount of physical exertion not to mention being put into position to die in terrible ways; all for less than what a welfare check paid. Adding that, at least, I was working and not out doing things that spread societal decay as well as communicable diseases, didn’t help. At that they would get angrier and tell me that I didn’t have the right to judge others (especially being a narcissist troglodyte). Eventually, I kicked that bad running habit and am now just a troglodyte, who feels run down.

For a few crazy years, I was addicted to the phrase, “Imagine that” or actually it went, “Eeeemagin Thaaaaat”. The addiction to the phrase really kicked in after I realized it made pretty girls smile and pay attention to me. Some shrinks may have said that it was a Pavlovian response to making pretty girls giggle but, whatever, the effect eventually wore off and now it only makes my pretty wife produce a low growl…so I don’t do it…a lot.

Currently, I am winning my internal battle against pistachio nut ice cream…it’s been two hours… and I think I’ve grown to enjoy being called a form of extinct knuckle dragger. I’ve recently been informed that salt, pop and McDonalds were bad habits too, of which, if I didn’t take personal responsibility for I’d be out on my own. This caused me to waiver on the idea of not contributing to societal decay and disease so I could finally be relieved of personal responsibility and judging from others. Then while on the very brink of this decisional precipice I happily stumbled into the realization I may have already fallen into a new addiction without even realizing it. Fishing lures.

Ah yes, it all started innocently enough back in my early college days. It was during a boring hot humid day. I was hanging out in a compound scraping the serial numbers off my new brick collection when a friend of mine suggested we go fishing. I wasn’t sure about it but he said he’d loan me a black jitter bug and said it would send me on the wildest night of bass fishing I ever dreamed of. I was skeptical at first but went along with it just to be cool and be, you know, one of the anglers. Someone slipped a jitterbug onto my swivel and next thing you know I was reeling in huge bass one after another. I was hooked, I went out and sold my bricks to buy as many different jitterbugs in as many different colors as I could but being a Troglodyte, I thought I was just hooked on fishing…little did I know.

Years after those wild experimental days I had almost forgotten about the black jitterbug event. Then, while visiting a relative, who happened to be a hardcore lure buyer, a UPS truck rolled up the driveway and started unloading boxes and boxes, all of them were stuffed with different kinds of lures for his planned bass trips that summer. I was enthralled; the memory of the old thrills of my daring night bass fishing experiences came roaring back. As my relative carefully unpacked, categorized and carefully stored the hundreds of different soft baits, crank baits, spoons and rigs with the thousands of other ones in tens of thousands of colors, I was fascinated.

I started discussing with other anglers what fish were biting on, which seems rational enough but it was, mostly, just as an excuse to find a new “need”. It became very exciting to hear about a new color or style that the fish would “only” bite on. Then go look for it, convinced I needed it. I would find it and buy it in a variety of colors and sizes, “just in case something changed”. Nothing thrilled me more than catching nothing with my lures then discovering my buddy had a great day in the same place with a lure that I never heard of.

Recognizing a problem is the first step to solving it. That occurred last weekend when I found myself standing in a store in front of shelves of lures. I was trying to decide between different X-RAP slashbaits, one with a feathered whitetail in size ten and beautiful shad rap deep divers in size nine, plus, in my hand was a thunderstick in perch colors and a purple shad rap among others. Finally, I cradled them all up in my arms, reasoning that I could sell my ten thousand dollar car for at least one hundred dollars to get all the lures I was carefully hugged. I checked them out and hitched a ride home. Back at the house I put the new lures right next to the, still new, ones I bought last, December, May and June (not to mention some jitterbugs left over from 1983). None of which I’ve fished with but was consoled that I have them, just in case, and cozied with thoughts of pike busting this irresistible stash if was ever unleashed on local lake waters. That thought was darkened by realizing that would risk them to getting scratched, rusty and the hooks could get dulled on a the pike’s very bony jaw…Uh oh, just then I realized I may have a problem…for which there is only one cure…I’ll need the X-rap slashbait with stainless hooks, in at least four different colors…

See you along the stream.

ERIE: SPORKING FOR FISH

There, literally, “ain’t no” steelhead in the Driftwood. Since there are no steelheads in the streams convenient to my residence or exactly where I want to catch them, as I previously threatened, I did go to Erie to do some fishing for a few days. (Rather than writing a letter complaining that the government should “fix” that). I could even say that I got myself “sponsored” for the trip and that would be more honest than most political pitches you hear these days. So, for this jaunt, I didn’t have to hitchhike and I got a decent bed and fed. I maintained my usual fishing incognito hobo status mostly because that’s what I am. I didn’t just fish in Erie. I took some time to visit a few local establishments and meet the natives. I even got hit on (I think) by a woman who, for some reason, thought I was in plastics as a spork salesman. (Frankly, it was more appropriate and safer than, “I’m here to catch big fish”.) Listen, I work cheap and was being used for multiple purposes at one time. Is there a big difference between selling sporks and being like a spork? That philosophical “grey area” is much greyer than what I’ve seen portrayed as “grey”. It’s not that I fib; it is more that I manage misconceptions, (even if I want to ask, “REALLY?”). Despite her apparent poor eye condition, she seemed the pleasant sort but I am a happily married fisherman and there were lots of fish in the creek that needed my attention.

I limited my fishing to Twenty Mile, Sixteen Mile, Twelve Mile, and Four Mile, there were more, but I chose those because I’m a firm believer in the school of strategy of only fishing numbered creeks that are divisible by four. I also fished Walnut Creek even though it didn’t have any walnuts but did have nuts that were in numbers which were easily divisible by four.

Steelhead fishing is really just a glorified trout stocking....; am I allowed to say that? I’ve learned that yes, you can, when the streams are low and the fish are few. There were comments from other anglers on the four divisible by four named streams that included the four words, “need” “stock” “more” “fish”. I recognize it could be a coincidence and I don’t want to sound like a conspiracy theorist, but those four words were all put in that order in one sentence. The rules do change, however, regarding calling something a “stocking”. For example, if you refer to the fishing as a product of stocking when the creeks are full of fish you could be stoned right there. The steelhead are hatched in a hatchery and put into the creek as fry, where they grow and eventually migrate to the lake. When they mature, they return to the creek they were patterned to in an attempt to spawn…which they can’t. They have to be caught and taken back to a hatchery to have their eggs and sperm stripped so the cycle can start over again. All of this is perfectly natural…compared to other stocked fish anyway. It does make the fisher wilder than the stocked trout fishing that occurs in our inland streams during the spring, there is still, something…plastic…about it but I’m sure that’s just me.

Last week, the Erie tribs were very low. The fish were stacked up in the lake at the mouths of the streams waiting for more water. There were some fish in the streams which were not only low but very clear. Arguably, the conventional wisdom went like this: Twenty mile has few but big fish. Sixteen mile has more fish (no mention whether or not the sewage plant on it has anything to do with that). The other divisible streams had little worth mentioning and Walnut Creek had fish but they weren’t very big.

The fish weren’t biting but in my opinion not because they’re not hungry but because they were in low water surrounded by dozens of anglers wading in the water and throwing stuff at them, that tends to make fish skittish about eating. Most fish that I saw caught were caught by “lifting”. Lifting is an adjective that comes from the old Erie angler language that means, “Finding fish laying in puddle, skillfully allowing hook to drift into the fish’s open mouth, then snag the unsuspecting fish inside his mouth, thus making it legal.” One guy mistakenly thought it meant lifting them out of the water with a landing net... no, it doesn’t mean that. I can say that “lifting” appears to take skill to do as many tried but the success varied wildly in consistency and result. There were some guys using live and imitation minnows with some success. The other popular attractant was eggs and egg sacks of various colors.

I had limited success, mostly because I’m easily distracted by work. Besides, I had to do some writing and that takes time. I was told that the “secret” was to believe that the fish would bite and be patient. Let me tell you what I’m looking for from a “fishing secret”; The point of it should be how to catch fish without being patient. Does fishing for nineteen straight hours count as patient?

I admit that I had a hard time warding off the shadows of doubt, especially when the shadows of fellow anglers, some wearing bright colors, waded right up to the fish I was trying to catch and scared them off. When things got too crowded, I would wander off the stream and take a break. In a couple areas I found nice woods and checked them out. I was amazed by the big broad crowned sugar maples near the streams. I believe some of them were black maples which are relatively rare in Pennsylvania and are sweeter than sugar maples. I checked the soil conditions in a few orchards (I understand that is best done by tasting the wine) and it seems that I can’t help but to stumble into a few poachers. I hate hanging around poachers, they’re such miserable people, (apply stick a spork in them pun here).

Ultimately, I recommend you wait until some heavy rains hit Erie if you’re planning to go this fall. As for my trip, in the end the fish got properly harassed, the poachers who interrupted my fun were turned in and what needed to be written got written and I finally got to come home. It was nice to see the mountains again and not be selling sporks anymore. That’s a tough job, with long hours but the “chicks” dig it.

See you along the stream.

The Prodigal Tackle Box