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.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
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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