Reeling In Time with Fish Tales. Brian E. Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ the fishing poles over your shoulder, son, so the tips won’t get hung up and break off in the bushes.” I’m glad he said that because I was coming close to catching the tips in the bushes, while looking at everything, not paying attention. I thought he must have eyes in the back of his head. We hiked a quarter mile. From what I could see, the path went down the middle of a spit of land that separated the main lake from a small bay to my right. The path dead-ended on a point. At the point, there was a thin cut of flowing water connecting the main lake to the small bay behind. On the far side of the bay, a canal came in. Looking up the canal from the point, it meandered and then turned out of sight. A sloping, sandy beach went all around the point.

      Dad sat the bucket down, slid the knapsack off his shoulder, and spread the poles out so they leaned individually against some bushes. I sat the tackle box down and handed him the rods I carried. He leaned them against a bush as well.

      “Champ, do you know what an isthmus is?”

      “Sure, this mus be the place we’re going to fish.” Dad broke into laughter until his eyes watered. He stumbled over to blank-faced me, squatted down, put his arms around me, drew me close and rolled back in the grass still laughing.

      “I love you, son.” We sat up on the grass together enjoying the moment. “Great answer, but let me tell you what an isthmus is.” He spelled it out for me, then took a stick and drew a map on the ground, starting with where we were.

      “This is the point of land we’re sitting on,” pointing to the map with the stick. “A narrow neck of land that connects two larger pieces of land is called an isthmus. This really isn’t an isthmus now, but it once was before the water eroded this channel on the end. I still call it an isthmus because I remember when.”

      Dad jumped up, saying, “Let’s get ready to fish.” He took his pocketknife out and cut a pencil-sized limb from a weeping willow tree. He whittled it until all that remained was an eighteen-inch stick with two trimmed branches forming a Y on the thin ends. He whittled six of those sticks. At the waterline, he shoved three of the sticks in the sand, fat end down, facing the main lake. One stick faced the left side of the channel toward the main lake at the end of the point. He stuck one at the end of the point directly at the cut. He angled one stick toward the bayside of the point on the right. The sticks were evenly spaced about fifteen to twenty feet apart.

      Dad called to me, “Help get the fishing poles.” There were five medium, light spinning rod outfits and my push-button Zebco® Dad gave me a year or so ago. I grabbed two poles, Dad got the rest, and we walked back to the shore. Working left to right, Dad put the butt of the fishing rod in the sand and leaned the pole against the stick, so that the pole rested in the crotch of the little branches.

      “Champ, notice that you lean the poles so the reel doesn’t touch the ground,” Dad said. He continued along, setting a pole in each of the sticks. He placed my push-button on the left side toward the main lake on the point.

      We went back and brought the big bucket of stuff, knapsack, and tackle box, down to the shore. Dad had us set up midway between the two end poles; we could see each fishing pole from that vantage point. He pulled the worm bucket out of the big bucket and flipped it upside down. Then he took out a can of corn and a can opener and cut the lid off, putting the lid in the big bucket. We walked down to the left fishing pole, the one farthest away.

      “Hold out your hands, Champ.” As I did, he dumped some corn in my cupped hands; the juice ran through my fingers. He shook some corn into his right hand and tossed it as far as he could into the lake.

      “Toss a little here and there, son, as we walk the bank.” Dad, with his right hand, and me with my left, tossed corn in the lake all the way to the last fishing pole.

      “Fish-call, Dad?”

      “You bet, Champ; it costs pennies, takes but a moment to do, won’t ever hurt and may just lure in the catch of a lifetime!” Dad said excitedly.

      We returned to base camp. Dad tossed the empty corn can into the five-gallon bucket. Going back to the lake, we squatted at the water’s edge and washed our hands.

      Dad pulled out a plastic bag full of hotdogs, pre-cut into thirds. He picked out one section, closed the bag, and walked down to the last fishing pole on the left as I followed behind him.

      Dad stopped, saying, “Hold this hotdog for me, and I’ll take a moment to explain the fishing rig.”

      Even though it would seem I was just interested in catching fish, I really liked it when Dad took time to explain things to me. I learned a lot when I listened, right from the first time he started teaching.

      “Notice where I secured the hook, Champ.”

      “You hooked it on the pole hoop; I mean on the rod eye,” I blurted. He drew my attention closer, pointing out that he had hooked it secure to the eye-brace, not the eye itself.

      “Never secure a hook to the eye because the hook can chip or burr the inside of the eye, and that tiny bit of damage can shave the line, eventually causing it to break.”

      He released line tension, by quickly opening and closing the bail, loosening the line, freeing the hook from the eye brace.

      “This is a simple slip rig,” he continued. He passed the ten-pound, test main line through the ring of a 3/8 oz. bell sinker, then tied it to a barrel swivel with an improved clinch knot. The swivel keeps the sinker from sliding all the way to the hook. He tied a two-foot section of thirty-pound, test leader to the other side of the swivel. At the end of the leader, a 1/0 long shank, offset hook was tied.

      “A catfish, or any fish for that matter, is apt to drop the bait if it feels the resistance of the sinker. The sinker isn’t fixed to the line with this rig. The fishing line passes through the sinker so the fish doesn’t feel the weight at all.” He demonstrated that on the shore by putting the rig on the sand and telling me to pull on the hook. “Did you feel the sinker?”

      “No, sir,” I replied.

      Dad asked me for the piece of hotdog. I watched as he inserted the point of the hook down the center of the link until it met the bend of the hook out the side of the wiener, pulling enough of the hook out, embedding the point in the other center end of the hotdog. Next, he held the hotdog in one hand and gently pulled the leader away, tightening up the bait on the hook.

      “Remember how I showed you, and toss this toward the middle of the lake.” I’d been practicing in the yard with the spinning rod, so I flipped the bail over after pinching the line against the rod with my forefinger. Slowly I lowered the rod behind my shoulder and with quick motion, I snapped the rod forward, releasing the line about the one o’clock position. The sinker went ten yards and hit the water. The hotdog landed an additional fifty feet further out.

      “Nice try, but we have to keep the bait and hook together so the fish get the point, if you get my point,” Dad said. I reeled in, Dad got another hotdog section. “This time, toss it out a little more softly, Champ.” The second time was the charm.

      With patience, Dad said, “Now, set the rod in the forked stick like I showed you.” I did, making sure the reel didn’t touch the ground. He came behind me, flipped the bail open, and let out just enough line so that a loose swag of line bowed down from the rod tip. Then, at the reel, he pulled some line to the ground and covered it with a small scoop of sand, leaving the bail open.

      “What’s that all about, Dad?” He told me that when a fish picks up the bait it would СКАЧАТЬ