Author’s Note: In a previous life, I was a reporter for three mid-sized newspapers in central Indiana. While working for the Kokomo Tribune, I also served as a weekly columnist. My first column appears below and is where all of this fish blogging business really began. At the time, I was a rank amateur in the ways of fishing. Little did I know that this very column would lead to me meeting John Martino (now one of my closest friends) who in the parlance of Yoda, would complete my training as a certifiable fishing head case. I’ve spiffed this column up a bit for its appearance here but left the message the same. I was an angler in crisis.
This column originally appeared in the Kokomo Tribune on November 11, 1991.
It was a frustrating summer. And I spent it along the creek and reservoir banks of Howard County trying to beguile some amicable fish into falling for the old baited hook routine. As you might guess, few were as compliant as I might have hoped (hence my earlier reference to frustration). I am a newcomer to these here parts, you see, and I have decided that after seven months of trying to think like a Kokomo fish, that the fish here are just plain weird and wholly un-catchable. I have baited, rigged, jigged, cranked, spun, buzzed, rattled, popped, danced, prayed, begged, and implored a fish—ANY FISH—to bite on my hook that I so faithfully dangled in their general direction almost every night after work. Much to my chagrin, however, I spent many a lonely night on the bank with only a bucketful of minnows to keep me company. And because I was sacrificing them, one by one, to the fish as bait, even they were giving me the cold shoulder, so to speak.
As the summer wore on, the score rose decisively in favor of the fish. Sure, I managed to hook the occasional half-blind, deaf and dumb fish, but given the number of hours I was putting into my new hobby, it certainly was a lopsided affair. I began to feel as though I were the laughing-stock of the entire Howard County fish community, providing entertainment for the fish with nothing better to do.
My first attempt at garnering the favor of the marine gods was to purchase more expensive lures. Even on my diminutive salary, I managed to purchase a healthy assortment of Rapala, Mister Twister, Heddon, Mann’s, and Storm lures—most of which have never seen a real live fish. Sure, they’ve been wet a few times and have managed to grapple the frequent stick or weed bass – as I call the non-fish refuse I frequently crank in—but most have never lived up to their life’s purpose of hooking a fish. On one of my more recent trips, another fisherman who was fishing no more than 20 feet from me and catching fish by the bucket while I simmered quietly a stone’s throw away, was dubbing each fish “dinner” before dropping them into a five-gallon bucket.
At one point, I guess my repressed aggression wasn’t all that repressed any longer and he gleefully told me that I must not be holding my mouth right. Begrudgingly, I suppressed the urge to wrap my new Abu Garcia around his nugget and make off with his fish bucket. I was a little light on cash that week because of all the new tackle I’d purchased and some ill-gotten fish sounded darn tasty.
My next attempt at improving the score was to beef up my rod and reel collection. So, back to the bait stores I went, thin wallet in hand, to purchase professional-grade fishing rods and reels. Much to the combined joy of the rod and reel makers of the world, I now have some 13 spiffy new rod and reel combos—nearly enough to outfit the entire newsroom for a fishing trip on the Wildcat Creek (though I would fear the ensuing humiliation I’d feel when I went fishless in front of my colleagues).
Later, after too many fruitless weeks of fishing, I enlisted the aid of several local fishing gurus, hoping that they might be able to pull me from my despair. I was told, in so many words, that I was not wiggling my worm correctly. So, by Jove, I hit the Wildcat with a vengeance—wiggling, bumping, bouncing, flipping, dangling, and dancing my various-colored works with all the seductive moves I could muster. As you are probably guessing, I only enticed a few fish. I had a heck of a good time sans fish, unless of course, you considered my bucketful of minnows, who incidentally, were still ignoring me.
Determined to make good my last fleeting days of temperate weather, I begged several local fishing legends for help. Despite their advice and suggestions, I watched helplessly as they caught fish by the scores. I caught a cold.
In desperation (and because the weather was turning foul) I began to rent those instructional video cassettes from the local video stores. I even took notes and practiced rigging my worms just like the guy on television. Then, a friend suggested that I join a local fishing club and subscribe to Bassmaster magazine. So, I did both and while I did catch a few keepers, most of my fishing trips nearly ended in tears.
As the summer came to a close and the cold weather settled in, I found myself sitting in my jumbled apartment, amid snarls of spent fishing line, bent fish hooks and scratched bobbers wondering just how it could’ve gone all wrong. And now that Old Man Winter has arrived and the fish are hiding wherever they hide in the winter, I guess I’ll just take my rods, reels, lures, and hurt pride home and begin dreaming about next year (just like those pathetic toys on the Island of Misfit Toys). It’s kind of hard pulling a crankbait through chunks of floating ice anyway. Believe me, I tried.
And just as Charlie Brown always yells after Lucy pulls the ball away when he’s trying to kick it, “Just wait until next year!” Yeah, I’ll get ‘em next year with my new fishing hats, vests, boots, rain gear, and other assorted fishing goodies on my Christmas list.
Hey, wait a minute; did someone say something about ice fishing?
