When at his worst, a fisherman’s mind wanders to water. That 6 am, grave thick hovering fog above a glassy lake in the north woods. Where the sound of a phantom loon sounds the morning bell that day has arrived and the fishermen will come and play. The winding river in the mountains that labyrinths out into the plains as a trout breaches for a bug basking on a boulder side. And the sweet musk of the bitter salt that lingers in the ocean air off the coast of some sea fairing town where many of their sons, fathers, and brothers have perished under God’s perilous wet thumb they call the great wave.
And there above the lake, within the river and drowned among the ocean’s chosen victims is the mind of a great fisherman. Summoned to each nook of mass of water to fish and fish on. A hobby, sure. A curse, indeed. But, a love. A love of hope and faith and curiosity. Most definitely. For no cast is the same, no fish the best, and no moments in time worth more than the moments spent fishing.
So it is only natural that a true fisherman’s escape is that of H2 Oh so splendid of places that it takes a road trip, a plane, a train, even a horse back ride over a 9,000 foot mountain in the Bob Marshall wilderness of the great back doors of Montana to find it. Find what you may ask. A cure. A cure to life’s BS. A cure to all the drama. A cure for the worst of times. Your job killing you? Good, go fishing. Your wife cheated on you? Fine, go fishing. Your daughter wants to be a stripper? Send her to military school, then go fishing. The sport of angling is just that. A sport. And what’s a sport? Well if you look 3rd down in the dictionary, after a physical activity and particular form of competition, it says it’s a diversion.
A diversion you say? That’s just what I need. I need to go. I need to go to a place where no other man has boldly gone because unlike space, this place has boundaries, and gravity holding down the holes, and weeds, and pools, and wood, and bugs, and rocks, and peddles, and boulders, and sand, and muck, and slate, and fish. Oh does it have fish! I want it to be hard to get too. Hard for others to find. I want fishing to be all mine. Because it is mine. It’s my game baby. Anyway I want it. I can choose my arena; river, lake, ocean. I can choose my artillery; fly rod, casting reel, kayak. And then I can choose my opponent; Smallie, largemouth, trout, sturgeon, salmon. But, then again, we can’t always choose our opponents. Never really sure what’s going to bite that lure and take you for a ride.
And that’s just half the fun. Ah, what do we know? Probably shouldn’t trust our word anyways. we’re fisherman, after all. Riverbums the name and Fishing is our game. So, let’s dive into last week’s play by play….
With a steady temp of 85 degrees and not a cloud in the sky we fished our favorite of rivers in Northern Wisconsin. Of course, we would have to send a trained assassin to your door if the secret were ever to be divulged of the name of that river. And well, where would we be without our readers? So it shall go unnamed for now.
Indeed, we were at the top of our game as we started off slowly 7 am with yellow twisty tails and white jig heads. But, then we found that top water would be the delicacy of the day as green and orange chuggers with some occasional torpedoes were used till the sun went down…
I may have caught the largest of smallies but Dad sure had the bulk of the day with over 55 smallies caught trumping my 45. We were sure at the top of our game as the heat seemed to summon the fish to the top grasping for those invasive torpedoes. Our go to weapon of choice!
So whether your ultimate fix is that of the great big blue wet thing or a private stream in the middle of no where, remember that in the worst of times, stuck in an office cube, by a dying friend’s bedside, or stuck in a build-a-bear factory with your kids, let your mind wander to water. Because soon, it won’t just be your mind that does the wandering.