And so it has come down to snow and cold chasing me indoors for the year.
I can't really complain about winter though. I knew it was coming, this is Wisconsin after all, yet I never managed to get out fishing again after the 29th of September, the date of my last post. And now, I must bear responsibility for wasting a perfectly temperate, if a little wet, October. I planned to try maintaining the hellacious two-or-three-times-a-week pace I achieved over the summer. I can normally handle chilly weather; in fact, after the crazy heat wave we had in late August and September, I liked the thought of casting out on fresh mornings amid changing leaves. But I slept straight through alarm after alarm as October galloped past. Before I knew it, cool had turned to chilly, then cold. Hunting season came and went, gave way to Thanksgiving and Black Friday, and the following week, cold temperatures turned bitter, then plummeted to downright frigid, leaving the days suitable for only a certain kind of fisherman, far hardier than I.
Worst of all, I never found Big Missy. I really thought it would happen, really thought Big Missy and I would meet again. I could see myself landing her a second time, taking pictures, and even had my blog post written in my mind for the occasion.
Such a waste...
But there's always next year. I may never see Big Missy again; I may catch her and not realize it's her, the lure long since rusted out...or it may be that someone else caught her and kept her. She was a keeper, I'd say, or damn close. But there's always a 'Big Missy' to be had, a 'Big Missy' story to be told, which is at the very heart of the fishing experience - the unknown. And who knows, depending on regulations, maybe I'll try a little early spring fishing if the water's open, try to catch the northern pike spawn, because Big Missy or no Big Missy, I'm a fan of pike fishing.
Hell, I'm a fan of any fishing. And I'm already waiting out winter.
Two words for next season: hat cam. ;-)
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Operation A-hab, Day 12: Summer's holding on, but the river has changed her clothes
Still warm...not hot, but warm. Around 80 degrees this afternoon, but there are unmistakable signs of autumn. The sun shines with less authority now, and there is color in the trees on both sides of the river that was not there just a week ago. I read somewhere that it isn't cold weather that gets the leaves turning, or birds migrating for that matter, it's the change in sunlight. I don't know if it's true, or how true, but it's a nice thought. And the river water is remarkably clear today, providing me a bird's eye view much deeper down than I've had. Don't know if that has anything to do with the imminent change of seasons, but it definitely makes for pretty fishing.
I'm glad to be out here today; I've been busy with work and other things lately, haven't been fishing as much as I'd like, and last week, of course, I got chased off the river by a gang of hornets at this spot. No hornets here today. Lots of flying insects, water striders, quite a few white butterflies, more seagulls than I've seen all summer, a bald eagle...all basking in the warmth...but no hornets.
I was called out by someone recently, someone who did not believe me when I told the story of Big Missy. This guy has fished this spot/area for years and claims he has never caught - or heard of anyone catching - northerns of three feet or larger in these waters. I wasn't entirely sure if his skepticism was authentic, or if he was just being a negative dick about it. There are plenty of those in the world.
In this case, though, it doesn't matter. I have the truth on my side; I'm positive as to the size of what I pulled to the surface, and the exertion it took to do so. I'm slightly less sure of the species, but given it's size, there are only a few things it could be. A musky, a pickerel, or a northern. It wasn't a sturgeon; no bony ridges along the body, and the color was all wrong. Based on its markings, I'm about 95 or 96% sure it was a northern..
He also expressed skepticism that the particular fish I'm after is still around. This was surely just him being a dick. Granted, it's been almost two months since I had the big girl on the line. Pike, like any predatory fish, follow food sources, and they also prefer cooler water, which means that during this month's surprise heat wave, which lasted several weeks, she and other big animals probably sought out deeper water. But I have found no compelling evidence that pike migrate or travel extensively, and am fairly confident that Big Missy's entire life has been/is being/will be lived close to the stretch of river where I first hooked her. They are solitary and territorial, and the fact that I've caught other northerns in this same spot might suggest disbursement. But there's no reason to think she didn't send the others packing. There's no reason to think she doesn't rule the roost around this specific stretch of the Chippewa.
Finally, he expressed doubt that the fish would survive with a spinnerbait lodged in its mouth. I can't argue this point, really; it's a distinct possibility that when Big Missy bit through the line and wobbled back down into the depths with an inflexible chunk of bent wire in her mouth, she sentenced herself to certain death.
It's also possible, as I've pointed out myself, that someone may have caught her already. Possible.
But this guy was taking the whole thing too seriously. I don't think he quite understood what I meant (or how I meant it) when I said I 'want my lure back'. The intrinsic whimsy of that went over his head, and he became in that moment the type of obnoxious blowhard that wrecks the pursuit of just about any hobby (or any whimsy). There's always some jackass around whose job it is to make sure you wind up disillusioned.
I love to fish, always have, but only in the last couple of years have I started going out more, and only this summer have I set out on an auto-didactic quest to learn as much as I can, to tailor my presentation to specific fish and certain conditions, to 'do it right', as it were. It's been, and remains, a learning process, and it's paid off. I've caught more fish this summer than ever before. But I've never claimed to be a master fisherman, and this blog is not designed to pass me off as such.
What I am is a good writer; and I like trying to turn anything into a story if I can.
I'm glad to be out here today; I've been busy with work and other things lately, haven't been fishing as much as I'd like, and last week, of course, I got chased off the river by a gang of hornets at this spot. No hornets here today. Lots of flying insects, water striders, quite a few white butterflies, more seagulls than I've seen all summer, a bald eagle...all basking in the warmth...but no hornets.
I was called out by someone recently, someone who did not believe me when I told the story of Big Missy. This guy has fished this spot/area for years and claims he has never caught - or heard of anyone catching - northerns of three feet or larger in these waters. I wasn't entirely sure if his skepticism was authentic, or if he was just being a negative dick about it. There are plenty of those in the world.
In this case, though, it doesn't matter. I have the truth on my side; I'm positive as to the size of what I pulled to the surface, and the exertion it took to do so. I'm slightly less sure of the species, but given it's size, there are only a few things it could be. A musky, a pickerel, or a northern. It wasn't a sturgeon; no bony ridges along the body, and the color was all wrong. Based on its markings, I'm about 95 or 96% sure it was a northern..
He also expressed skepticism that the particular fish I'm after is still around. This was surely just him being a dick. Granted, it's been almost two months since I had the big girl on the line. Pike, like any predatory fish, follow food sources, and they also prefer cooler water, which means that during this month's surprise heat wave, which lasted several weeks, she and other big animals probably sought out deeper water. But I have found no compelling evidence that pike migrate or travel extensively, and am fairly confident that Big Missy's entire life has been/is being/will be lived close to the stretch of river where I first hooked her. They are solitary and territorial, and the fact that I've caught other northerns in this same spot might suggest disbursement. But there's no reason to think she didn't send the others packing. There's no reason to think she doesn't rule the roost around this specific stretch of the Chippewa.
Finally, he expressed doubt that the fish would survive with a spinnerbait lodged in its mouth. I can't argue this point, really; it's a distinct possibility that when Big Missy bit through the line and wobbled back down into the depths with an inflexible chunk of bent wire in her mouth, she sentenced herself to certain death.
It's also possible, as I've pointed out myself, that someone may have caught her already. Possible.
But this guy was taking the whole thing too seriously. I don't think he quite understood what I meant (or how I meant it) when I said I 'want my lure back'. The intrinsic whimsy of that went over his head, and he became in that moment the type of obnoxious blowhard that wrecks the pursuit of just about any hobby (or any whimsy). There's always some jackass around whose job it is to make sure you wind up disillusioned.
I love to fish, always have, but only in the last couple of years have I started going out more, and only this summer have I set out on an auto-didactic quest to learn as much as I can, to tailor my presentation to specific fish and certain conditions, to 'do it right', as it were. It's been, and remains, a learning process, and it's paid off. I've caught more fish this summer than ever before. But I've never claimed to be a master fisherman, and this blog is not designed to pass me off as such.
What I am is a good writer; and I like trying to turn anything into a story if I can.
 |
| CHANGE IN THE AIR - Though the temperatures are still warm, the sun shines with less authority now; there is color in the trees. Autumn's lingering around. |
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THIS PRETTY MUCH SAYS IT ALL - A fisherman about twenty yards upstream from me had his three poles thrown out with live bait. The fishing was so slow, in the span of about a hour he went from sitting and staring out at the water, smoking a cigarette, to reading a book, and finally just lying back on a rock and going to sleep in the sun.
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Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Operation A-hab, Day 11: What's with the f**cking hornets!?
I haven't been out much lately; the weather hasn't been the greatest (that late heat wave was followed by a long spate of rainy mornings) and other obligations (the kind that the worst day of fishing always beats...) have gotten in the way. But seeing as today was a day off - mostly cloudy, with temps around 70 - I stole away to the Chippewa River with a new spoon and what I thought would be a good few hours hunting Big Missy.
Instead, I was immediately harassed by a swarm of yellow jackets that would not leave me alone. And this time, there was nothing funny about it, no good natured philosophy about being able to laugh at myself. I wasn't laughing. In fact, I was left pretty pissed off by my helplessness in the situation.
Late summer is when these insects start getting ballsy, and they stay that way until the first hard frost, which we have not had yet. Usually it's just one or two messing around your soda can or sandwich, and a light swat of your hand will typically keep them at bay, since inquisitive is all they are.
But today, there were several buzzing around my face constantly, flying right up to the tip of my nose with that aggressive wobble they do. I swatted them away, determined to hunt for Big Missy, to make up for the last week of inactivity, but they kept coming, buzzing past my ears, effectively chasing me up and down the riverbank. The 'attack' was so relentless, it got me retreating back to my car.
A week or two ago I lamented my struggle going up and down the stairs leading to my fishing spot after a softball game had left me stiff and sore. But there was none of that today. I bounded up those steep stairs two or three at a time with tackle box and rod in hand, and two of the bees pursued me! I waited at the top for several moments, and determinedly decided to try again. I came back down the stairs quietly, with as little noise and vibration as possible. I returned to my spot on the river and cast out, and before I had retrieved that cast completely, they were back at me, relentless. There were more now, upwards of a dozen, and I was once again sent sprinting to the top of the stairs.
But not before one of them managed to tag me on the neck.
The obvious conclusion to draw is that there's a nest nearby. But it would have been there all summer, and hornets have never been a problem until today. I noticed as I was dashing away that the trail leading down to the river has been mowed down on both sides, presumably by the city, so maybe their nest was disturbed. Moreover, I was wearing cologne - Old Spice - not exactly the surest way to avoid attracting attention. I usually wear no scent at all when I fish, not even deodorant, for the very purpose of flying under buggy radar.
But still, today's attack seemed unusual, and knowing what caused it doesn't make it any less annoying. I wound up ditching Big Missy all together, went over to Half Moon Lake, a much lamer location; well stocked with fish to be sure, but sporting little or no hope of a lunker.
And here, too, the bees would not leave me alone! There weren't any swarms, but a string of persistent individuals, one after the other, that found me too fascinating for my comfort level, especially having just been stung. I caught a little smallie (a very little smallie...) before relinquishing the day to the obvious bad energy.
Now, as I write this, I'm staring out my office window and have noticed an unusual amount of insect activity, even here, several miles from the river. Amongst the bugs buzzing past, back and forth, up and down, are numerous yellow jackets. Several have landed on my window screen, in fact, doubtless attracted by my cologne, but unable to find their way in. Ha ha...little bastards.
Though honestly I feel a little like I can't find my way out. Like I got chased inside by the neighborhood bullies. And I can only laugh at that thought so much.
Days of fishing have become too precious. Winter's out there somewhere.
Instead, I was immediately harassed by a swarm of yellow jackets that would not leave me alone. And this time, there was nothing funny about it, no good natured philosophy about being able to laugh at myself. I wasn't laughing. In fact, I was left pretty pissed off by my helplessness in the situation.
Late summer is when these insects start getting ballsy, and they stay that way until the first hard frost, which we have not had yet. Usually it's just one or two messing around your soda can or sandwich, and a light swat of your hand will typically keep them at bay, since inquisitive is all they are.
But today, there were several buzzing around my face constantly, flying right up to the tip of my nose with that aggressive wobble they do. I swatted them away, determined to hunt for Big Missy, to make up for the last week of inactivity, but they kept coming, buzzing past my ears, effectively chasing me up and down the riverbank. The 'attack' was so relentless, it got me retreating back to my car.
A week or two ago I lamented my struggle going up and down the stairs leading to my fishing spot after a softball game had left me stiff and sore. But there was none of that today. I bounded up those steep stairs two or three at a time with tackle box and rod in hand, and two of the bees pursued me! I waited at the top for several moments, and determinedly decided to try again. I came back down the stairs quietly, with as little noise and vibration as possible. I returned to my spot on the river and cast out, and before I had retrieved that cast completely, they were back at me, relentless. There were more now, upwards of a dozen, and I was once again sent sprinting to the top of the stairs.
But not before one of them managed to tag me on the neck.
The obvious conclusion to draw is that there's a nest nearby. But it would have been there all summer, and hornets have never been a problem until today. I noticed as I was dashing away that the trail leading down to the river has been mowed down on both sides, presumably by the city, so maybe their nest was disturbed. Moreover, I was wearing cologne - Old Spice - not exactly the surest way to avoid attracting attention. I usually wear no scent at all when I fish, not even deodorant, for the very purpose of flying under buggy radar.
But still, today's attack seemed unusual, and knowing what caused it doesn't make it any less annoying. I wound up ditching Big Missy all together, went over to Half Moon Lake, a much lamer location; well stocked with fish to be sure, but sporting little or no hope of a lunker.
And here, too, the bees would not leave me alone! There weren't any swarms, but a string of persistent individuals, one after the other, that found me too fascinating for my comfort level, especially having just been stung. I caught a little smallie (a very little smallie...) before relinquishing the day to the obvious bad energy.
Now, as I write this, I'm staring out my office window and have noticed an unusual amount of insect activity, even here, several miles from the river. Amongst the bugs buzzing past, back and forth, up and down, are numerous yellow jackets. Several have landed on my window screen, in fact, doubtless attracted by my cologne, but unable to find their way in. Ha ha...little bastards.
Though honestly I feel a little like I can't find my way out. Like I got chased inside by the neighborhood bullies. And I can only laugh at that thought so much.
Days of fishing have become too precious. Winter's out there somewhere.
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NO ONE TO PLAY WITH - What started out as an enthusiastic afternoon of pike hunting ended abruptly when I was literally chased off the river by a swarm of hornets. Here, feeling a little as though I was chased inside by the neighborhood bullies, I stare forlornly out my office window, trying to figure out why they don't like me. Er...not really, but, you know....
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Saturday, September 7, 2013
Operation A-hab, Day 10: Heatwave gives one last push, doesn't fool the hunters
Before going out this afternoon, I stopped by Wal-Mart to look over the lures. Usually there's nothing new to report, but every once in a while a new color combination will catch my eye, a new pattern, new way of mimicking a bleeding bait fish...always worth a few bucks to try something different, and I've amassed a fairly weighty tackle box as a result.
But I noticed something today while I was there: fewer people in the fishing aisle, more people getting ready for bow hunting, and it hit me...
Fall.
I'm never really ready for it, never ready for back to school, football, autumn colors, Halloween, the holidays. There's nothing wrong with any of that (other than the Steelers' rough showing in Week 1...), but I am simply not a fan of Wisconsin winters, of cold toes and runny nose, of any morning spent 'digging out' only to get stuck in an intersection two blocks away, or worse not being able to get out, and being stuck at home. I've suffered through 40 in a row, and have never warmed up to winter, never have felt anything but just a little anxious when the leaves start turning. I finally understand why people retire to Florida, or the American Southwest...and I have vowed to do the same, to one day become a gray-haired stereotype somewhere warm. I'd be perfectly fine with my holiday dinner being fresh crab and Corona in lieu of turkey and cider. And to be honest, I'd love to catch an alligator gar once.
If nothing else, I'm usually prepared to accept the change of the seasons. But this year, with temperatures in the 90s the last two weeks and straight through Labor Day, it's been hard to get out of summer mode. Seeing people 'tire-kicking' the bow hunting equipment the way they've done so with the fishing gear all summer really drove the point home.
Summer's about to end.
But that's okay. It's been a great summer, the best in recent memory. I've been sweating balls on the river for the last month, and frankly, it's really got me looking forward to casting out on the first truly crisp morning, leaves getting ripped from the trees by a northerly wind, sunlight through broken clouds offering not nearly so much warmth, and Big Missy throwing herself out of the water with a life-or-death lurch.
I have a feeling if this girl's gonna make her move, it's going to be sometime in the next month or two.
But I noticed something today while I was there: fewer people in the fishing aisle, more people getting ready for bow hunting, and it hit me...
Fall.
I'm never really ready for it, never ready for back to school, football, autumn colors, Halloween, the holidays. There's nothing wrong with any of that (other than the Steelers' rough showing in Week 1...), but I am simply not a fan of Wisconsin winters, of cold toes and runny nose, of any morning spent 'digging out' only to get stuck in an intersection two blocks away, or worse not being able to get out, and being stuck at home. I've suffered through 40 in a row, and have never warmed up to winter, never have felt anything but just a little anxious when the leaves start turning. I finally understand why people retire to Florida, or the American Southwest...and I have vowed to do the same, to one day become a gray-haired stereotype somewhere warm. I'd be perfectly fine with my holiday dinner being fresh crab and Corona in lieu of turkey and cider. And to be honest, I'd love to catch an alligator gar once.
If nothing else, I'm usually prepared to accept the change of the seasons. But this year, with temperatures in the 90s the last two weeks and straight through Labor Day, it's been hard to get out of summer mode. Seeing people 'tire-kicking' the bow hunting equipment the way they've done so with the fishing gear all summer really drove the point home.
Summer's about to end.
But that's okay. It's been a great summer, the best in recent memory. I've been sweating balls on the river for the last month, and frankly, it's really got me looking forward to casting out on the first truly crisp morning, leaves getting ripped from the trees by a northerly wind, sunlight through broken clouds offering not nearly so much warmth, and Big Missy throwing herself out of the water with a life-or-death lurch.
I have a feeling if this girl's gonna make her move, it's going to be sometime in the next month or two.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Operation A-hab, Day 9: Someone's catching something somewhere, and that's good news
Man, the fishing's been just abysmal the last week or so! I'm inclined to think it's bad joojoo left over from my last post. I really got to watch those dark moods; I think the fish may be feeding off them.
In reality, our late August heat wave coupled with an abundance of natural food is doubtless the reason for the slow fishing. I started focusing on northerns about a month ago, and I was catching some nice juveniles early on. Now, without changing my methods, nothing.
Someone I know knows someone who pulled a 51 incher from the Chippewa Flowage, which is up north, near Hayward. That's quite a fish, considering the world record pike is 55 inches. I'd have practiced a token skepticism upon hearing that story (which has all the makings of a natural born fish tale), but I saw a picture of the animal too, and I'm man enough to admit I felt a little twinge of envy.
Mostly, though, I felt a renewed motivation. Eventually fall will come, the air and water temperature will drop, and the pike that most likely have moved to deeper, cooler water will find their way back into the relative shallows.
I did have a mighty fine smallie on the line tonight. I thought I set the hook securely, but when he jumped out of the water he managed to wriggle off. Frustrating, but the best part of fishing is the strike, the set, and the fight. I just wish I had a picture.
Instead, here's a visual sampling of what I've been catching this summer:
In reality, our late August heat wave coupled with an abundance of natural food is doubtless the reason for the slow fishing. I started focusing on northerns about a month ago, and I was catching some nice juveniles early on. Now, without changing my methods, nothing.
Someone I know knows someone who pulled a 51 incher from the Chippewa Flowage, which is up north, near Hayward. That's quite a fish, considering the world record pike is 55 inches. I'd have practiced a token skepticism upon hearing that story (which has all the makings of a natural born fish tale), but I saw a picture of the animal too, and I'm man enough to admit I felt a little twinge of envy.
Mostly, though, I felt a renewed motivation. Eventually fall will come, the air and water temperature will drop, and the pike that most likely have moved to deeper, cooler water will find their way back into the relative shallows.
I did have a mighty fine smallie on the line tonight. I thought I set the hook securely, but when he jumped out of the water he managed to wriggle off. Frustrating, but the best part of fishing is the strike, the set, and the fight. I just wish I had a picture.
Instead, here's a visual sampling of what I've been catching this summer:
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BLACK CRAPPIE - Probably one of the most handsome fish in local waters; beautiful markings. |
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SMALL BUT SCRAPPY - This little rock bass smashed a crank almost half his length. The hook embedded dangerously close to his eye, but luckily I was able to remove it without doing any damage. |
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LARGEMOUTH BASS - Always ready for a fight. |
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SMALLMOUTH BASS - This guy put up more of a fight out of the water than in. |
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15 POUND CRAPPIE - With a little thought to perspective when snapping a picture, it's amazing what you can catch. ;-) |
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NORTHERN PIKE - One of several juveniles I've caught this summer in the same place I'm after Big Missy. Magnificent eyes! |
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Operation A-hab, Day 8: Mid-life crisis stirrings are no match for two pissed off bees
Not quite as hot today, but still above average, so not much going down on the Chippewa River, or in the river. Nobody I've talked to is having any better luck, so I don't feel too singled out for failure.
I played softball yesterday at a company picnic, four innings in 95 degree heat. We had a blast, but the game left each and every one of us - ages ranging from 17 to 40 - in pretty rough shape physically. I was really feeling it, and something happened this morning that hasn't happened since I was four: I had to sit on the living room floor to put my pants on.
There's an upside to these kinds of days, of course, a chance to lounge satisfactorily. It's a pleasant kind of soreness, never really painful, and I spent most of this afternoon crashed out on the couch beneath a sheer curtain billowing in a late summer breeze. I watched half of a Brewers game, an episode of King of Queens, a cooking show about the origin of BBQ that spawned all sorts of homemade sauce ideas.
Not a bad way to spend a day off.
But when it came time to get out of the house and fish I was faced with a challenge. The spot where I've spent the last month hunting Big Missy is in a river bottom. There's a deep stairway/rough trail combo leading down to the water that is normally no problem, but turned-to-stone as I was from yesterday's two hours of swinging, running, sliding and throwing (and one wholly embarrassing moment when for no reason whatsoever I tripped and went ass-over-tea-kettle while running to first base) has left me looking a lot like Frankenstein navigating down these stairs, and dreading the climb back up.
It's also left me in a dark mood, which is unusual and very unwelcome. Normally, fishing is a reliable panacea for dark moods, a chance to not think about anything, good, bad or indifferent. I get very in the moment, and all the trials and tribulations, responsibilities and obligations - all the crap - fades away. That's a big part of the allure of fishing.
But today, as I cast out (with a 'Daredevil' knock-off - same red and white color, without the face logo and extra price; spoons have been the hot lure lately...), I've started imagining myself as an old man, imagining a time in the future when moving slowly and struggling to get up and down stairs is not the result of over-doing it on the diamond, but part of everyday life.
I'm not afraid of looking old; I've never been all that great to look at. I'm not afraid of losing my hair or turning gray; both processes have already started in some measure. I've accepted middle age, come to terms with the concept of not being the youngest or most vital anymore. You're a fool to fight it, and there really is something to be said for thinking young, keeping dreams alive, and so forth. And I do, as much as possible. I work out regularly and try mightily to eat better than I once did. I quit smoking, not really a big drinker anymore, other than a deep green smoothie most mornings followed by a multi-vitamin. In this way, I hope to dodge things like obesity, heart disease and diabetes. I want to fight the process of aging.
But I can't reverse it, or stop it...I can only, at best, delay it, and I am afraid of the physical limitations that await me, the inevitability that the dim light of elderliness, of pain and struggle in even the simplest physical maneuvers, will one day be all that's left to illuminate my day-to-day life. As it pertains to this particular blog, I dread the thought of no longer being able to go fishing. To speak nothing of other physical pursuits, I cringe at the thought of simply not being able to 'make it' down a hill, or up a flight of stairs, or on and off a boat easily, or being unable simply to stand for long periods.
That's right, I stand when I fish. A lot of people bring chairs down to the river with them, their coolers, their lunches...they make the riverbank their living room, at the very least find a nice flat rock to plant themselves on, kick back, enjoy the view, toss out a minnow and a slip bobber and wait for something to happen. There's nothing wrong with that, I just choose differently. I stay on my feet, upright and alert, for the two to four hours I customarily stay out. I use artificial bait that requires retrieval, and cast out and reel in, cast out and reel in the entire time. I hate the thought that one day it might not be my choice to make.
And it will happen, no matter what I do. George HW Bush went skydiving at age 80, and it was a big deal. He did again in 2009, at 85, and it was like, wow, way to go....
"Just because you're an old guy," the ex-president said of his 2009 jump, "doesn't mean you have to sit around drooling in the corner. Get out and do something. Get out and enjoy life."
That's pretty fantastic. A clarion call to everyone. But he's no longer the young man he was at 80 or 85. His 90th birthday jump is in question because age has caught up with him.
And it will catch up to me. I might be frigging Charles Atlas from here on out, eat all the right things, run marathons and climb mountains, and it will still get me. Eventually, someday, someone's going to be able to kick sand in my face at the beach, and my only response to that is, hopefully they won't.
For some reason, I've had trouble wrapping my head around that, much less accepting it; days like today just serve as a reminder that it's out there. Maybe not imminent, but out there, waiting, with the patience of Job.
Luckily, tonight's rumination gets interrupted...not by 'fish on', unfortunately, but two bees. One is some kind of spiny-looking wasp with an abdomen shaped like blown glass, the other a yellow hornet. Out of nowhere they start swirling around my head in a tight, circular trajectory. It's not me they are interested in, or after, I realize after a moment of panic, but each other. They're engaged in some kind of fearsome warfare, and just happened to have chosen my head to chase each other around, like a tree in the park.
They don't let up, if anything they pick up speed and tighten their circle, and their close proximity results in a loud, raucous buzzing in both ears. Mild brushing of my hand in front of my face doesn't deter them, only gets them aware of me as something in their way, which seems to bolster their fight, which in turns leads to my having to bob my head back and forth like an owl to try removing myself from the situation.
Finally the wasp makes its move; in a seeming attempt to catch up to the hornet, it flies right into my face. I drop my rod and start swatting spastically, cursing angrily, gesticulating like an epileptic bullfighter to rid myself of these two intruders. In the process, I lose my balance and plunge one foot into the Chippewa River and come dangerously close to going in completely. Thankfully, the insects disappear into the nearby thicket before this happens, before I'm inadvertently stung, and before reinforcements show up to join the battle.
I look up and down the riverbank sheepishly, and realize I've caught the attention of a fisherman upstream about twenty yards. He's too far away to have seen exactly what's gone on, knows only that I had some kind of spastic meltdown and am now standing with one foot in the water. But he makes it clear that he knows.
"Bees are a bitch tonight, ain't they?" he says.
The laughter in his voice as I shake my foot out of the water and retrieve my rod from the rocks goes a long way toward reminding me that life is no more about the future than it is the past. It's all about, it's only about, the moment at hand.
Just the moment at hand.
With any luck I will never be too old to swat away bees, and more importantly, laugh at myself trying to do so.
As time goes on, if I can just keep a sense of humor...
That's the panacea.
I played softball yesterday at a company picnic, four innings in 95 degree heat. We had a blast, but the game left each and every one of us - ages ranging from 17 to 40 - in pretty rough shape physically. I was really feeling it, and something happened this morning that hasn't happened since I was four: I had to sit on the living room floor to put my pants on.
There's an upside to these kinds of days, of course, a chance to lounge satisfactorily. It's a pleasant kind of soreness, never really painful, and I spent most of this afternoon crashed out on the couch beneath a sheer curtain billowing in a late summer breeze. I watched half of a Brewers game, an episode of King of Queens, a cooking show about the origin of BBQ that spawned all sorts of homemade sauce ideas.
Not a bad way to spend a day off.
But when it came time to get out of the house and fish I was faced with a challenge. The spot where I've spent the last month hunting Big Missy is in a river bottom. There's a deep stairway/rough trail combo leading down to the water that is normally no problem, but turned-to-stone as I was from yesterday's two hours of swinging, running, sliding and throwing (and one wholly embarrassing moment when for no reason whatsoever I tripped and went ass-over-tea-kettle while running to first base) has left me looking a lot like Frankenstein navigating down these stairs, and dreading the climb back up.
It's also left me in a dark mood, which is unusual and very unwelcome. Normally, fishing is a reliable panacea for dark moods, a chance to not think about anything, good, bad or indifferent. I get very in the moment, and all the trials and tribulations, responsibilities and obligations - all the crap - fades away. That's a big part of the allure of fishing.
But today, as I cast out (with a 'Daredevil' knock-off - same red and white color, without the face logo and extra price; spoons have been the hot lure lately...), I've started imagining myself as an old man, imagining a time in the future when moving slowly and struggling to get up and down stairs is not the result of over-doing it on the diamond, but part of everyday life.
I'm not afraid of looking old; I've never been all that great to look at. I'm not afraid of losing my hair or turning gray; both processes have already started in some measure. I've accepted middle age, come to terms with the concept of not being the youngest or most vital anymore. You're a fool to fight it, and there really is something to be said for thinking young, keeping dreams alive, and so forth. And I do, as much as possible. I work out regularly and try mightily to eat better than I once did. I quit smoking, not really a big drinker anymore, other than a deep green smoothie most mornings followed by a multi-vitamin. In this way, I hope to dodge things like obesity, heart disease and diabetes. I want to fight the process of aging.
But I can't reverse it, or stop it...I can only, at best, delay it, and I am afraid of the physical limitations that await me, the inevitability that the dim light of elderliness, of pain and struggle in even the simplest physical maneuvers, will one day be all that's left to illuminate my day-to-day life. As it pertains to this particular blog, I dread the thought of no longer being able to go fishing. To speak nothing of other physical pursuits, I cringe at the thought of simply not being able to 'make it' down a hill, or up a flight of stairs, or on and off a boat easily, or being unable simply to stand for long periods.
That's right, I stand when I fish. A lot of people bring chairs down to the river with them, their coolers, their lunches...they make the riverbank their living room, at the very least find a nice flat rock to plant themselves on, kick back, enjoy the view, toss out a minnow and a slip bobber and wait for something to happen. There's nothing wrong with that, I just choose differently. I stay on my feet, upright and alert, for the two to four hours I customarily stay out. I use artificial bait that requires retrieval, and cast out and reel in, cast out and reel in the entire time. I hate the thought that one day it might not be my choice to make.
And it will happen, no matter what I do. George HW Bush went skydiving at age 80, and it was a big deal. He did again in 2009, at 85, and it was like, wow, way to go....
"Just because you're an old guy," the ex-president said of his 2009 jump, "doesn't mean you have to sit around drooling in the corner. Get out and do something. Get out and enjoy life."
That's pretty fantastic. A clarion call to everyone. But he's no longer the young man he was at 80 or 85. His 90th birthday jump is in question because age has caught up with him.
And it will catch up to me. I might be frigging Charles Atlas from here on out, eat all the right things, run marathons and climb mountains, and it will still get me. Eventually, someday, someone's going to be able to kick sand in my face at the beach, and my only response to that is, hopefully they won't.
For some reason, I've had trouble wrapping my head around that, much less accepting it; days like today just serve as a reminder that it's out there. Maybe not imminent, but out there, waiting, with the patience of Job.
Luckily, tonight's rumination gets interrupted...not by 'fish on', unfortunately, but two bees. One is some kind of spiny-looking wasp with an abdomen shaped like blown glass, the other a yellow hornet. Out of nowhere they start swirling around my head in a tight, circular trajectory. It's not me they are interested in, or after, I realize after a moment of panic, but each other. They're engaged in some kind of fearsome warfare, and just happened to have chosen my head to chase each other around, like a tree in the park.
They don't let up, if anything they pick up speed and tighten their circle, and their close proximity results in a loud, raucous buzzing in both ears. Mild brushing of my hand in front of my face doesn't deter them, only gets them aware of me as something in their way, which seems to bolster their fight, which in turns leads to my having to bob my head back and forth like an owl to try removing myself from the situation.
Finally the wasp makes its move; in a seeming attempt to catch up to the hornet, it flies right into my face. I drop my rod and start swatting spastically, cursing angrily, gesticulating like an epileptic bullfighter to rid myself of these two intruders. In the process, I lose my balance and plunge one foot into the Chippewa River and come dangerously close to going in completely. Thankfully, the insects disappear into the nearby thicket before this happens, before I'm inadvertently stung, and before reinforcements show up to join the battle.
I look up and down the riverbank sheepishly, and realize I've caught the attention of a fisherman upstream about twenty yards. He's too far away to have seen exactly what's gone on, knows only that I had some kind of spastic meltdown and am now standing with one foot in the water. But he makes it clear that he knows.
"Bees are a bitch tonight, ain't they?" he says.
The laughter in his voice as I shake my foot out of the water and retrieve my rod from the rocks goes a long way toward reminding me that life is no more about the future than it is the past. It's all about, it's only about, the moment at hand.
Just the moment at hand.
With any luck I will never be too old to swat away bees, and more importantly, laugh at myself trying to do so.
As time goes on, if I can just keep a sense of humor...
That's the panacea.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Operation A-hab, Day 7: Crazy heat wave keeps the fishing slow, but summer alive
The Midwest heat wave continues. Temperatures in the mid to upper 90s all this week. Feels a lot more like July than the end of August. Not much luck with the Rat-L-Trap or spinnerbaits; spoons have been generating the most interest.
Big Missy is out there still...I choose to believe.
I've actually found some contention to this on-line, but as far as I can tell, the official world record northern pike, in terms of poundage, was caught in Germany in 1986 - 55 lbs., 1 oz.
As most large pike are female, I've named the one I'm after Big Missy. She's nowhere near as big as the world record, nor the North American record holder for that matter, landed in 1940; 44 pounds. I'd say this girl, judging only by the power with which she ripped out my drag and the glimpse I got of her below the surface of the water just before she bit through the line, is around three feet in length, possibly a bit more. Poundage, I have no idea. I do not know how weight correlates to length when it comes to these animals, but judging from other trophy fish posted on-line, maybe between 15 and 20 pounds? I only know it seemed her size was as much about girth as it was length.
I also know how exhilarating it was to set the hook and realize something major was on the line. I joke about wanting my lure back, but the truth is, I just want something to smash my lure again. I can't really wrap my head around fighting 55 pounds! Every week, I go into work and hoist a couple dozen 30-pound bales of flour onto a floor pallet, and though I'm in fairly good shape, that is an exhausting haul. It's hard to imagine the level of endurance required to pull something that weighs in at virtually two of those out of the depths, and is pissed off to boot.
To speak nothing of a certain intimidation being in the presence of such a lunker. The juveniles I've caught this summer have had the fight and impressive teeth the species is known for. But gigantic pike are truly prehistoric looking animals, freaky if you stare at one long enough, and that, to me, is the most amazing thing about predatory fish species, from pike and musky on up to the great white shark: how little they've changed - how little they've had to change - in millions of years. Sleek and slender, efficient and purposeful.
YouTube is a phenomenal source for fishing information. Here is a great hat-cam video that depicts a pike very similar - though somewhat larger - to what I pulled to the surface of the Chippewa River three weeks ago. The video comes from Hatcams.com...which overwinter I might just have to check out for next year.
Big Missy is out there still...I choose to believe.
I've actually found some contention to this on-line, but as far as I can tell, the official world record northern pike, in terms of poundage, was caught in Germany in 1986 - 55 lbs., 1 oz.
As most large pike are female, I've named the one I'm after Big Missy. She's nowhere near as big as the world record, nor the North American record holder for that matter, landed in 1940; 44 pounds. I'd say this girl, judging only by the power with which she ripped out my drag and the glimpse I got of her below the surface of the water just before she bit through the line, is around three feet in length, possibly a bit more. Poundage, I have no idea. I do not know how weight correlates to length when it comes to these animals, but judging from other trophy fish posted on-line, maybe between 15 and 20 pounds? I only know it seemed her size was as much about girth as it was length.
I also know how exhilarating it was to set the hook and realize something major was on the line. I joke about wanting my lure back, but the truth is, I just want something to smash my lure again. I can't really wrap my head around fighting 55 pounds! Every week, I go into work and hoist a couple dozen 30-pound bales of flour onto a floor pallet, and though I'm in fairly good shape, that is an exhausting haul. It's hard to imagine the level of endurance required to pull something that weighs in at virtually two of those out of the depths, and is pissed off to boot.
To speak nothing of a certain intimidation being in the presence of such a lunker. The juveniles I've caught this summer have had the fight and impressive teeth the species is known for. But gigantic pike are truly prehistoric looking animals, freaky if you stare at one long enough, and that, to me, is the most amazing thing about predatory fish species, from pike and musky on up to the great white shark: how little they've changed - how little they've had to change - in millions of years. Sleek and slender, efficient and purposeful.
YouTube is a phenomenal source for fishing information. Here is a great hat-cam video that depicts a pike very similar - though somewhat larger - to what I pulled to the surface of the Chippewa River three weeks ago. The video comes from Hatcams.com...which overwinter I might just have to check out for next year.
And here is the latest installment of my boring riverside videos, where nothing happens, or not a lot lately anyway!
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Operation A-hab, Day 6: The Rat-L-Trap's a pretty lookin' thing, for sure...but comes up short tonight
Had to go out in the evening. Mid-day was just too hot...as in 'heat advisory' hot, so I waited. A line of severe storms came through the Chippewa Valley around dinnertime, and by six the temperature had dropped about twenty degrees, to a near-perfect 75.
I was hoping the storms would blow through quickly and be gone so I could get out and try two new lures I added to my Big Missy arsenal today; a 1/4 ounce Rat-L-Trap crank, and a Daredevil Spoon. Both are classics (the Daredevil was the first lure I ever accidentally stuck my finger with as a kid), but I'd never tried the Rat-L-Trap before, so that's the one I went with this evening.
I like it. It produces great action in the water, for my money the most realistic motion of any crankbait I've thrown, and just enough of a glimmer of chrome without being a blinding flash, at least in this evening's low(er) light conditions.
But alas, no takers.
As the sun sank below the tree line on the other side of the river, not only did it get harder to see anything, but the mosquitos - energized by the rain - set on me hardcore. But I didn't care. I just kept casting out and reeling in. Soon it was so dark I almost had to start fishing by smell. Each time I told myself it would be the last cast, and each time I was a liar. I kept going and going, casting out and reeling in, at different depths, and speeds, different retrieval patterns, out as close to the middle of the river as possible then parallel to the shoreline. I kept at it until the last drop of light had drained from the western sky.
Each new cast is ripe with the possibility of something amazing happening. That's not easy to give up, even just for the day.
I was hoping the storms would blow through quickly and be gone so I could get out and try two new lures I added to my Big Missy arsenal today; a 1/4 ounce Rat-L-Trap crank, and a Daredevil Spoon. Both are classics (the Daredevil was the first lure I ever accidentally stuck my finger with as a kid), but I'd never tried the Rat-L-Trap before, so that's the one I went with this evening.
I like it. It produces great action in the water, for my money the most realistic motion of any crankbait I've thrown, and just enough of a glimmer of chrome without being a blinding flash, at least in this evening's low(er) light conditions.
But alas, no takers.
As the sun sank below the tree line on the other side of the river, not only did it get harder to see anything, but the mosquitos - energized by the rain - set on me hardcore. But I didn't care. I just kept casting out and reeling in. Soon it was so dark I almost had to start fishing by smell. Each time I told myself it would be the last cast, and each time I was a liar. I kept going and going, casting out and reeling in, at different depths, and speeds, different retrieval patterns, out as close to the middle of the river as possible then parallel to the shoreline. I kept at it until the last drop of light had drained from the western sky.
Each new cast is ripe with the possibility of something amazing happening. That's not easy to give up, even just for the day.
 |
| UNTIL THE LAST OF THE LIGHT IS GONE |
Monday, August 19, 2013
Operation A-hab, Day 5: The Chippewa River
So it's another warm one today; 90 degrees and humid. Supposed to be this way for the next few days, at least. Not sure exactly how this affects northern pike, though I'm starting to think not in a good way. I've never focused my fishing on a specific species as I have this year; it's opened up a whole new set of considerations, turned this into a learning process, which I hope will make me a more productive fisherman. But nothing happened this afternoon; not so much as a nibble. I did notice my lures are getting fouled with weeds more often...a sign that summer is reaching a blooming boil.
Now might be as good a time as any to recognize the body of water I've spent so much time on this summer looking for Big Missy: the Chippewa River.
It begins as two separate forks in the north, not far from where I grew up, and flows 189 miles to the Mississippi River. Meeting up with a couple of rivers along the way, notably the Jump, the Red Cedar, the Eau Claire and the Eau Galle, it marks the northern boundary of the astonishingly beautiful Driftless Area of west-central and southwestern Wisconsin. Seriously, as an aside, the Driftless Area is worth more than a few Sunday drives. These are hills and valleys that actually do sing in all four seasons, especially late summer and fall. It's kind of what a reader of Tolkien might picture The Shire looking like.
The Chippewa is an under fit stream; that is, a relatively small flow in a larger canyon that was carved by run-off of a much greater volume at the end of the last Ice Age. This disparate ratio between the river and the valley it runs through is quite evident from various spots in the City of Eau Claire.
The Chippewa has a strong history in the logging industry, but lately it's a recreational paradise for much of its length. It can flood and cause damage too. Many spots in Eau Claire are located within a 100-year flood plain, which means that a major flood has a chance of happening in any given year. Every spring, the Chippewa rises up and floods the park where I take walks, and the spot where I've been fishing this summer is pretty much underwater for at least several days as all the runoff makes its way south. But in the last several years, there have been a couple major floods. One, after a string of rainy days, had businesses in downtown Eau Claire sandbagging. The floodwaters rose to within about 30 feet of my own place of business.
Nevertheless, I love living in close proximity to a river. I grew up on a lake, not a river. When I moved here five years ago I was used to water only flowing toward me, in the form of waves. Water flowing past me, watching as it moves from one spot to another, is a novelty that has not worn off. A few years ago, I lost a bobber while fishing. I watched it float off to the west, and realized that, conceivably at least, it would eventually reach the Gulf of Mexico. There really isn't a day that goes by when I don't think about that as I'm casting out.
Especially when the fishing's slow.
Now might be as good a time as any to recognize the body of water I've spent so much time on this summer looking for Big Missy: the Chippewa River.
It begins as two separate forks in the north, not far from where I grew up, and flows 189 miles to the Mississippi River. Meeting up with a couple of rivers along the way, notably the Jump, the Red Cedar, the Eau Claire and the Eau Galle, it marks the northern boundary of the astonishingly beautiful Driftless Area of west-central and southwestern Wisconsin. Seriously, as an aside, the Driftless Area is worth more than a few Sunday drives. These are hills and valleys that actually do sing in all four seasons, especially late summer and fall. It's kind of what a reader of Tolkien might picture The Shire looking like.
 |
| THE CHIPPEWA RIVER - Starts as two separate forks in northern Wisconsin and makes its way 189 miles southwest to the Mississippi. Photo courtesy: Wikipedia and Kmusser. |
The Chippewa is an under fit stream; that is, a relatively small flow in a larger canyon that was carved by run-off of a much greater volume at the end of the last Ice Age. This disparate ratio between the river and the valley it runs through is quite evident from various spots in the City of Eau Claire.
The Chippewa has a strong history in the logging industry, but lately it's a recreational paradise for much of its length. It can flood and cause damage too. Many spots in Eau Claire are located within a 100-year flood plain, which means that a major flood has a chance of happening in any given year. Every spring, the Chippewa rises up and floods the park where I take walks, and the spot where I've been fishing this summer is pretty much underwater for at least several days as all the runoff makes its way south. But in the last several years, there have been a couple major floods. One, after a string of rainy days, had businesses in downtown Eau Claire sandbagging. The floodwaters rose to within about 30 feet of my own place of business.
Nevertheless, I love living in close proximity to a river. I grew up on a lake, not a river. When I moved here five years ago I was used to water only flowing toward me, in the form of waves. Water flowing past me, watching as it moves from one spot to another, is a novelty that has not worn off. A few years ago, I lost a bobber while fishing. I watched it float off to the west, and realized that, conceivably at least, it would eventually reach the Gulf of Mexico. There really isn't a day that goes by when I don't think about that as I'm casting out.
Especially when the fishing's slow.
NOT IDEAL - A little research has revealed that this hot weather isn't so hot for pike fishing. Northerns, at least the big ones, like Big Missy, tend to stress under these conditions.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Operation A-hab, Day 4: Summer, and the fishing is meh...but that's okay; I know she's out there, she just needs a name...
Slow day of fishing. It was warm, temperatures in the upper 80s, with a brisk hot wind out of the south funneling straight upstream, in the direction of the dam, creating wide sheets of ripples on the surface of the water. Not sure how this affects the fish, if at all. I'm sure the heat warms up the water more than most species would like, yet some seemed unusually active. Lot of jumpers this afternoon, out in the middle of the river, as well as some kind of swirling feeding frenzy in a spot just out of reach of my cast, that went on for nearly ten minutes.
Lot of people fishing too, both on the shore and - for the first time ever that I've seen - by boat. A small flat bottom craft appeared and nestled itself just below the rapids.
A kayaker too, though he wasn't fishing...just paddling past.
I got a few bites today, but nothing I could set the hook in. No one was having any better luck that I could tell; not even the people on the boat.
I wonder where the odds of me actually re-catching this big fish and getting my lure back could be placed, numerically speaking. 5000 to 1? 1000 to 1? There are a lot of variables, lot of moving parts, to the process of 'hunting' this particular fish...and yet, it could be said there aren't really. From a certain point of view, it's pretty straightforward, and the odds might be much higher than I think.
The original contact was an accident; I was throwing out for the pan fish I'm accustomed to and not using a steel leader, and this big northern biting through the line was probably inevitable. Moreover, I'm pretty sure that one week prior, this same fish (or a fish of similar size and bluster) grabbed my lure and made off straight to the bottom; I just wasn't able to set the hook that time.
So it's safe to say it's possible, at least, that I got two strikes from the same fish. Both of them were on the same lure, and, more significantly, happened in the exact same spot of water. And I wasn't even hunting for a northern those times. Now I am. I've done some research, worked on my technique, put some thought into lure selection, color selection, presentation...all of it is geared specifically toward the northern pike, and I have no doubt that's why I've started catching them. They've all been in the 14 to 18 inch range, but it's encouraging nevertheless; means that the big one is down there still. There's no reason to believe it isn't.
That is, unless someone else has caught it already.
It's very possible, considering how popular this area of the Chippewa River is for fishing. But I've noticed that this particular spot is almost never occupied when I show up. Twenty yards upstream there's always someone casting out; twenty yards downstream is a bit more inaccessible, but often attracts more than a few die-hards. But for some reason, right where I like to set up, where what I'm reasonably sure was a three foot northern made off with my lure, doesn't seem to be too heavily fished.
Then there's the fish itself to consider when calculating the odds of lightning striking twice. Northern pike are predatory and territorial, which at once makes them very aggressive but also cautious. Prevailing wisdom maintains fishing the right size lures for the right size fish, or risk the animal getting suspicious.
Makes sense, but it also begs the question: what do northerns (and fish in general) remember? They have no cognitive ability as we know it, but on an instinctive level they will surely pass over/avoid anything that they may have had a bad experience with before, right? It seems unlikely any fish would have much chance of lasting in a fish world without this basic survival instinct.
Thus, I try to switch up lures and presentations every so often, while keeping in mind the things that work. Sometimes that's a confusing discipline. The big fish that I'm after struck the same spinnerbait two times (I think...), but since then, I've had no luck with spinnerbaits. The three northerns I've landed all struck spoons.
And what about the lure still stuck in the animal's mouth? Is that serving as a constant reminder of the experience? For that matter, what effect might it have on its physical well-being? I hate to think the animal's suffering, or has died as a result of the piercing, unable to feed. I started blogging about my experience because it was the first time I'd ever had a truly big fish on the line, and have since turned it into a kind of quest just for kicks, but if catching it again and removing that first lure would end its suffering, then all the better.
Of course, as I've said many times, you never know what is going to take an interest in your lure, or when, or why. If northern pike are territorial, then it stands to reason they might go after just about anything that crosses their path, even if they're not feeding, even if it doesn't look like food. A fishing buddy once told me: You want to catch a fish? Annoy it.
Even if it isn't true of all species all the time, I think it's a good rule of thumb.
So giving long thought to everything I know and have learned in the last two weeks, stacking up any number of factors that may keep the fish from my line against the myriad possibilities that it is still alive and still in that deep pool on the Chippewa, still guarding its 'hood and always on the lookout for a meal, and factoring in the time I have left to accomplish this task, which for me is right up until it's too frigging cold to fish anymore (Late October? Early November?), I'd estimate confidently - though with not a shred of actual scientific or mathematical method, mind you - my odds of catching this fish a second time at about 500 to 1. Still pretty long odds, but hey, odds of winning the lottery are 175 million to 1, and I fork over a dollar or two for that every week.
The lottery doesn't do a thing for my farmer's tan.
In the last week, I've reconsidered my initial interest in mounting the fish, should it find its way onto my hook a second time. I don't have anything against mounting, but it's just not for me. If we do meet again, I will probably take a few pics, release, and start crowing to anyone whose attention I capture for even thirty seconds.
I've also made the decision to anthropomorphize this beast from here on out. It just makes it easier to write about, and most big northerns are female. Henceforth, the fish I'm after will be known as Big Missy.
Lot of people fishing too, both on the shore and - for the first time ever that I've seen - by boat. A small flat bottom craft appeared and nestled itself just below the rapids.
A kayaker too, though he wasn't fishing...just paddling past.
I got a few bites today, but nothing I could set the hook in. No one was having any better luck that I could tell; not even the people on the boat.
I wonder where the odds of me actually re-catching this big fish and getting my lure back could be placed, numerically speaking. 5000 to 1? 1000 to 1? There are a lot of variables, lot of moving parts, to the process of 'hunting' this particular fish...and yet, it could be said there aren't really. From a certain point of view, it's pretty straightforward, and the odds might be much higher than I think.
The original contact was an accident; I was throwing out for the pan fish I'm accustomed to and not using a steel leader, and this big northern biting through the line was probably inevitable. Moreover, I'm pretty sure that one week prior, this same fish (or a fish of similar size and bluster) grabbed my lure and made off straight to the bottom; I just wasn't able to set the hook that time.
So it's safe to say it's possible, at least, that I got two strikes from the same fish. Both of them were on the same lure, and, more significantly, happened in the exact same spot of water. And I wasn't even hunting for a northern those times. Now I am. I've done some research, worked on my technique, put some thought into lure selection, color selection, presentation...all of it is geared specifically toward the northern pike, and I have no doubt that's why I've started catching them. They've all been in the 14 to 18 inch range, but it's encouraging nevertheless; means that the big one is down there still. There's no reason to believe it isn't.
That is, unless someone else has caught it already.
It's very possible, considering how popular this area of the Chippewa River is for fishing. But I've noticed that this particular spot is almost never occupied when I show up. Twenty yards upstream there's always someone casting out; twenty yards downstream is a bit more inaccessible, but often attracts more than a few die-hards. But for some reason, right where I like to set up, where what I'm reasonably sure was a three foot northern made off with my lure, doesn't seem to be too heavily fished.
Then there's the fish itself to consider when calculating the odds of lightning striking twice. Northern pike are predatory and territorial, which at once makes them very aggressive but also cautious. Prevailing wisdom maintains fishing the right size lures for the right size fish, or risk the animal getting suspicious.
Makes sense, but it also begs the question: what do northerns (and fish in general) remember? They have no cognitive ability as we know it, but on an instinctive level they will surely pass over/avoid anything that they may have had a bad experience with before, right? It seems unlikely any fish would have much chance of lasting in a fish world without this basic survival instinct.
Thus, I try to switch up lures and presentations every so often, while keeping in mind the things that work. Sometimes that's a confusing discipline. The big fish that I'm after struck the same spinnerbait two times (I think...), but since then, I've had no luck with spinnerbaits. The three northerns I've landed all struck spoons.
And what about the lure still stuck in the animal's mouth? Is that serving as a constant reminder of the experience? For that matter, what effect might it have on its physical well-being? I hate to think the animal's suffering, or has died as a result of the piercing, unable to feed. I started blogging about my experience because it was the first time I'd ever had a truly big fish on the line, and have since turned it into a kind of quest just for kicks, but if catching it again and removing that first lure would end its suffering, then all the better.
Of course, as I've said many times, you never know what is going to take an interest in your lure, or when, or why. If northern pike are territorial, then it stands to reason they might go after just about anything that crosses their path, even if they're not feeding, even if it doesn't look like food. A fishing buddy once told me: You want to catch a fish? Annoy it.
Even if it isn't true of all species all the time, I think it's a good rule of thumb.
So giving long thought to everything I know and have learned in the last two weeks, stacking up any number of factors that may keep the fish from my line against the myriad possibilities that it is still alive and still in that deep pool on the Chippewa, still guarding its 'hood and always on the lookout for a meal, and factoring in the time I have left to accomplish this task, which for me is right up until it's too frigging cold to fish anymore (Late October? Early November?), I'd estimate confidently - though with not a shred of actual scientific or mathematical method, mind you - my odds of catching this fish a second time at about 500 to 1. Still pretty long odds, but hey, odds of winning the lottery are 175 million to 1, and I fork over a dollar or two for that every week.
The lottery doesn't do a thing for my farmer's tan.
In the last week, I've reconsidered my initial interest in mounting the fish, should it find its way onto my hook a second time. I don't have anything against mounting, but it's just not for me. If we do meet again, I will probably take a few pics, release, and start crowing to anyone whose attention I capture for even thirty seconds.
I've also made the decision to anthropomorphize this beast from here on out. It just makes it easier to write about, and most big northerns are female. Henceforth, the fish I'm after will be known as Big Missy.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Operation A-hab, Day 3: Nothing new to report, other than herons might be smarter than we think
Another mid-day outing. A little warmer today, temperatures in the lower to middle 80s, part of a trend that is predicted to cap off sometime next week with temps near 90. But I'm not complaining. Fishing's slow, but this is Wisconsin. Nine months out of the year it's winter, and I don't ice fish. I'll take every warm day, every opportunity to laze in the sun, that I can.
Already there are signs of autumn. I drove up north yesterday, and some of the trees there are starting to change color. The waterways - lakes and rivers alike - are getting thick with weed growth. Yellow jackets are getting ballsy. There's a different tint to the sunlight than there was a month ago, or even two weeks ago. There are more geese in the sky now, assuming their tell-tale 'V' formations. Lot of chatter too, as though something's happening, or about to.
I hate winter, but I'm not worried about it right now. In this blessed stretch of summer on high, I've happily been the grasshopper, not the ant.
There was quite a few people fishing on the Chippewa today, and about a hundred yards upstream, near the rapids, a great blue heron doing a little fishing of its own and exhibiting some interesting behavior. It was a partly cloudy day, and I noticed that when the sun was behind a cloud, the heron's head lowered down into a motionless, ready-to strike position, but when the sun was out and shining, it eased back to its original posture - a mysterious, pencil-thin, upright repose. I watched this go on for about an hour. That the bird may have figured out that it shouldn't cast a shadow over the water when it's hunting is astonishing to me.
I caught a northern today. Not the one I'm after, but I have a feeling the two are acquainted. I love catching northerns. Outside of perhaps the musky, the northern pike is the true north woods ambassador. As the alligator gar belongs to the Gulf states, or the piranha to the Amazon, the northern pike is 'our' fish, a highly evolved ambush predator, kingpin of boreal waters. This would seem to truer now than ever since, according to Wikipedia (hey, I'm not writing a school paper here, so sue me...) there is apparently now a 'southern pike', a fish once thought to be a color variation of the northern, but designated its own species in 2011.
The fish I landed today was small, another 'adolescent', but he put up a hell of a fight, particularly once I had him out of the water. He nearly swallowed the lure - a hunter orange spoon - and though his teeth were small, they were very much there, and I had to go deep with the pliers; not an easy task when the animal's thrashing wildly.
I interrogated him thoroughly about the fugitive who made off with my lure; I employed my best, 'Vee hahve vays of making yu tawk...' but nothing. This fish had nothing to say about my real target. Completely defiant.
Beautiful animal though.
Already there are signs of autumn. I drove up north yesterday, and some of the trees there are starting to change color. The waterways - lakes and rivers alike - are getting thick with weed growth. Yellow jackets are getting ballsy. There's a different tint to the sunlight than there was a month ago, or even two weeks ago. There are more geese in the sky now, assuming their tell-tale 'V' formations. Lot of chatter too, as though something's happening, or about to.
I hate winter, but I'm not worried about it right now. In this blessed stretch of summer on high, I've happily been the grasshopper, not the ant.
There was quite a few people fishing on the Chippewa today, and about a hundred yards upstream, near the rapids, a great blue heron doing a little fishing of its own and exhibiting some interesting behavior. It was a partly cloudy day, and I noticed that when the sun was behind a cloud, the heron's head lowered down into a motionless, ready-to strike position, but when the sun was out and shining, it eased back to its original posture - a mysterious, pencil-thin, upright repose. I watched this go on for about an hour. That the bird may have figured out that it shouldn't cast a shadow over the water when it's hunting is astonishing to me.
I caught a northern today. Not the one I'm after, but I have a feeling the two are acquainted. I love catching northerns. Outside of perhaps the musky, the northern pike is the true north woods ambassador. As the alligator gar belongs to the Gulf states, or the piranha to the Amazon, the northern pike is 'our' fish, a highly evolved ambush predator, kingpin of boreal waters. This would seem to truer now than ever since, according to Wikipedia (hey, I'm not writing a school paper here, so sue me...) there is apparently now a 'southern pike', a fish once thought to be a color variation of the northern, but designated its own species in 2011.
The fish I landed today was small, another 'adolescent', but he put up a hell of a fight, particularly once I had him out of the water. He nearly swallowed the lure - a hunter orange spoon - and though his teeth were small, they were very much there, and I had to go deep with the pliers; not an easy task when the animal's thrashing wildly.
I interrogated him thoroughly about the fugitive who made off with my lure; I employed my best, 'Vee hahve vays of making yu tawk...' but nothing. This fish had nothing to say about my real target. Completely defiant.
Beautiful animal though.
 |
NORTH WOODS AMBASSADOR - No fish, outside of the musky, deserves that title more than the northern pike. Its evolution into a fast and efficient hunter commands admiration and respect. What this small example lacked in size, it made up for in fight.
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Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Day 2: Largely futile quest with million-to-one odds dubbed 'Operation A-hab'
Went out a bit later today. Another slow day for fishing where I was. Quiet all around actually; I was the only one on the river, which is rare. I liked the solitude, but I realized, as I was casting out, that if I actually caught this thing today (more on the odds of that actually happening in another post), I'd be in a bind. I had no bucket with me, nothing to wrap it in, to carry it out in. I'd probably have to just snap a few pics and release it.
Worst of all, I'd have no way of filming the catch, which, since I've started making little video excerpts and posting them here (purely for shits and giggles, since I have neither a face nor voice for video, nor am I any kind of fishing expert...), is something I'd really like to be able to do.
I never thought I'd say this, but maybe it's time for a hat cam. ;-)
Worst of all, I'd have no way of filming the catch, which, since I've started making little video excerpts and posting them here (purely for shits and giggles, since I have neither a face nor voice for video, nor am I any kind of fishing expert...), is something I'd really like to be able to do.
I never thought I'd say this, but maybe it's time for a hat cam. ;-)
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HALF MOON OVER HALF MOON LAKE - Just a random video in the last moments of daylight. What I meant to say here was there's nothing I love more than fishing until the very last light is out of the sky, casting out and reeling in an casting out and reeling in until I literally can't see the lure anymore. And even then, it's usually only mosquitos that chase me indoors; nighttime fishing can be well worth it...and has its own unique charms.
Monday, August 12, 2013
Day 1: No luck yet...
Went out about 6:30 ready for action...didn't get much. Nice conditions though...cooler than its been lately in the morning (hint of fall?)...about 60 degrees, no wind, a nice bank of fog seeming to lend this spot of the Chippewa River some remoteness, even as it's flowing through a city of 65,000. I forgot to mention in my last post that I caught a northern in this very spot about two weeks ago. He was just a feisty adolescent. Not much to him. But related?
To be honest, I'm not entirely sure that what I'm hunting is a northern. It looked like one for the short time I could see it; the duck bill, especially, narrows the field of possibility. It could be a musky, or a pickerel...but the coloration and the markings really cried northern pike.
This morning's quiet fishing left me with plenty of time to think, and I've decided that if by some miracle I land this bad boy (probably 'bad girl' in actuality, for its size...), and if it meets any size regulations, of course, I'm going to try to have it mounted with that lure still in its mouth.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
FISH TALES: First time with a lunker on the line has got me going all Captain A-hab on his pike ass!
There's a spot on the Chippewa River near where I live, directly below a dam, that's become my go-to fishing spot this summer, though I'm not sure why. Like a lot of spots on the Chippewa, this one is riddled with rock and wood structure just under the surface, and while that's actually where fish like to hang out, it provides a constant threat of snags. I have fed too many lures to this river.
This particular stretch of water is really no secret. A lot of people fish it. When I first discovered it back in June, there was another guy fishing ten yards downstream. He was throwing out a six-inch crankbait, the kind used for monsters, and I naively thought, what the hell does he think he's going to catch in these waters with that?
The other morning, I got my answer.
When I fish, I use a medium-action rod with 6 or 8 pound line; I usually throw artificial lures - a rotation of spinners, small cranks and jigs - and with this caliber arsenal don't ever expect to catch anything other than what I do: crappies, perch, bluegill, once in a while a smallmouth. You never know what's going to try taking your lure, of course, and I have landed a few decent walleyes in my time as well, but never anything larger. I'm okay with this; I practice catch and release, and for me, fishing is as much about being out as it is catching something.
That morning I went out just after sunrise, and hadn't been having much luck. It was a slow day for fishing, typical of midsummer (this midsummer for sure), and standing along the riverbank, perched atop what looked like a discarded section of street curb from some long-ago construction project (and amidst someone's discarded pile of Four Loko cans), I had fallen into a kind of half-conscious state as I repeatedly cast out and reeled in. As the sun rose the temperature rose as well, and I was further lulled by the sound of the rapids coming down from the dam.
All things considered, not a bad way to spend a Thursday morning. But by 11 a.m. I'd gone more than two hours with not so much as a nibble, and was just starting to think about packing it in when, on one my very last casts, he came.
The initial strike usually doesn't reveal what kind of fish it is, or its size. Some of the smaller species can be pretty aggressive, and I've found that a brush over a rock during retrieval can produce a very similar jerk on the line. It's not until you set the hook and the fish realizes it that you get some useful information. Most of the fish I catch follow a predictable pattern. They immediately get hysterical, zigzagging back and forth along the length of the shore, then away from shore, then back, or jumping right away. That's not what happened this time. Whatever I'd hooked did something I was not accustomed to for all my focus on panfish hunting over the years: it shot straight down, taking the drag for a ride and bending the tip of my rod, almost taking it right out of my hands.
I spent the next two minutes or so fighting back with an alternating display of pull and reel, pull and reel. My heart was racing. I had never experienced this level of resistance. It didn't even feel like the fish was struggling so much as merely holding his own, propping one fin up against a submerged tree, leaning back, lighting a cigarette and casually smirking, "Yeah, keep trying motherfucker, I can do this all day."
As to what specifically was on the line, I knew there were only a few possibilities. A northern probably, a sturgeon was another likelihood, and I'd heard tell of musky in these waters...I simply couldn't think of anything else that would put up a fight like this. Not here, anyway.
But what the hell did I know? The guy with the 6-inch crank back in June made perfect sense now.
I managed to bring the fish to the surface, and it was indeed a northern pike: a solid two and a half, maybe three feet in length, and a real pig in terms of girth. It wasn't actually a 'lunker' by definition, (northerns can grow a lot bigger than this specimen), but in my realm it was a (first time) trophy.
It floated there a moment, just below the surface of the water, a duck-billed submersible, olive drab spots illuminated crisply by the sun that had just cleared the line of trees behind me. We stared at each other...stared each other down. I was still a little overwhelmed by its size. Then it lurched around to make its escape, and before I had time to react the line broke and it disappeared, fairly calmly, sort of big as you please, back into the depths.
Gone. In the blink of an eye.
I'm thinking it bit through the line; pike have some serious teeth going on. But that I may need a leader on this excursion had no reason to enter my mind. I haven't used a leader since I was kid. Sadly this fish made off with one of my favorite spinnerbaits still hooked in its mouth. And I haven't any reason to believe it isn't still swimming around sporting its new lip ring - a real emo Esox.
All I know at this point is: I want that lure back.
I have since secured a heavier rod and heavier line, some steel leaders and a few lures touted as 'pike killers', and I'm taking it all back to that spot on the Chippewa River. Before the end of the summer, I'm gonna find him. And I'm gonna catch him.
I'm getting my lure back.
This particular stretch of water is really no secret. A lot of people fish it. When I first discovered it back in June, there was another guy fishing ten yards downstream. He was throwing out a six-inch crankbait, the kind used for monsters, and I naively thought, what the hell does he think he's going to catch in these waters with that?
The other morning, I got my answer.
When I fish, I use a medium-action rod with 6 or 8 pound line; I usually throw artificial lures - a rotation of spinners, small cranks and jigs - and with this caliber arsenal don't ever expect to catch anything other than what I do: crappies, perch, bluegill, once in a while a smallmouth. You never know what's going to try taking your lure, of course, and I have landed a few decent walleyes in my time as well, but never anything larger. I'm okay with this; I practice catch and release, and for me, fishing is as much about being out as it is catching something.
That morning I went out just after sunrise, and hadn't been having much luck. It was a slow day for fishing, typical of midsummer (this midsummer for sure), and standing along the riverbank, perched atop what looked like a discarded section of street curb from some long-ago construction project (and amidst someone's discarded pile of Four Loko cans), I had fallen into a kind of half-conscious state as I repeatedly cast out and reeled in. As the sun rose the temperature rose as well, and I was further lulled by the sound of the rapids coming down from the dam.
All things considered, not a bad way to spend a Thursday morning. But by 11 a.m. I'd gone more than two hours with not so much as a nibble, and was just starting to think about packing it in when, on one my very last casts, he came.
The initial strike usually doesn't reveal what kind of fish it is, or its size. Some of the smaller species can be pretty aggressive, and I've found that a brush over a rock during retrieval can produce a very similar jerk on the line. It's not until you set the hook and the fish realizes it that you get some useful information. Most of the fish I catch follow a predictable pattern. They immediately get hysterical, zigzagging back and forth along the length of the shore, then away from shore, then back, or jumping right away. That's not what happened this time. Whatever I'd hooked did something I was not accustomed to for all my focus on panfish hunting over the years: it shot straight down, taking the drag for a ride and bending the tip of my rod, almost taking it right out of my hands.
I spent the next two minutes or so fighting back with an alternating display of pull and reel, pull and reel. My heart was racing. I had never experienced this level of resistance. It didn't even feel like the fish was struggling so much as merely holding his own, propping one fin up against a submerged tree, leaning back, lighting a cigarette and casually smirking, "Yeah, keep trying motherfucker, I can do this all day."
As to what specifically was on the line, I knew there were only a few possibilities. A northern probably, a sturgeon was another likelihood, and I'd heard tell of musky in these waters...I simply couldn't think of anything else that would put up a fight like this. Not here, anyway.
But what the hell did I know? The guy with the 6-inch crank back in June made perfect sense now.
I managed to bring the fish to the surface, and it was indeed a northern pike: a solid two and a half, maybe three feet in length, and a real pig in terms of girth. It wasn't actually a 'lunker' by definition, (northerns can grow a lot bigger than this specimen), but in my realm it was a (first time) trophy.
It floated there a moment, just below the surface of the water, a duck-billed submersible, olive drab spots illuminated crisply by the sun that had just cleared the line of trees behind me. We stared at each other...stared each other down. I was still a little overwhelmed by its size. Then it lurched around to make its escape, and before I had time to react the line broke and it disappeared, fairly calmly, sort of big as you please, back into the depths.
Gone. In the blink of an eye.
I'm thinking it bit through the line; pike have some serious teeth going on. But that I may need a leader on this excursion had no reason to enter my mind. I haven't used a leader since I was kid. Sadly this fish made off with one of my favorite spinnerbaits still hooked in its mouth. And I haven't any reason to believe it isn't still swimming around sporting its new lip ring - a real emo Esox.
All I know at this point is: I want that lure back.
I have since secured a heavier rod and heavier line, some steel leaders and a few lures touted as 'pike killers', and I'm taking it all back to that spot on the Chippewa River. Before the end of the summer, I'm gonna find him. And I'm gonna catch him.
I'm getting my lure back.
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