In
The Beginning
When
I was very young, fishing was something my father and his
friends did that involved getting up before dawn, coming
home after dark, and smelling funny. Upon his return, Dad
would proudly open his willow creel, and I would peer in,
fascinated by the plump, shiny, brightly colored
fish. He told me that these were trout, usually browns or
brookies, and sometimes rainbows.
I
liked the look of those fish. I liked the smell. I liked
the satisfied tiredness I read in my dad's smile. By the
time I was six, he had a hard time sneaking off without
me.
The
sportscasters at ABC's Wide World of Sports probably
believe they redefined the phrase the "the agony and
the ecstasy."
Wrong.
The
agony and the ecstasy is a six-year old boy trying to get
to sleep, knowing he's going fishing in the morning. It's
trying to nod off fully clothed, except for the rubber boots
beside the bed. It's being tormented by the despairing certainty
that the trout will be feeding ravenously and that we'll
run out of worms. It is the dreadful fear that I will fail
to rouse when my father calls and that he'll leave without
me. It's wondering if my rod and line will be strong enough
if I hook The-Biggest-Trout-In-The-Whole-Stream.
The
night's torments are a distant memory as we creep down the
stairs in the dark. Anticipation blossoms and swells as
we whisper in the kitchen. The magic of being awake as my
mother, brothers, and sisters (and the rest of the world)
remain asleep is intoxicating. I smell the coffee, gulp
my cereal, and pepper my father with dozens of questions
as he makes our sandwiches. Where are we going? How long
does it take to get there? Do we have enough worms? What
kind of trout are there? Which one do you think is the biggest?
Are you sure we have enough worms?
I
remember sitting in the backseat, content to listen as Dad
and his friends discuss the day to come. I filed away tidbits
of information: sometimes half a worm is best...look for
the holes under the bank...don't use too heavy a sinker.
What I don't recall are too many specifics about
those trips.
The
memories are a blur of tangled lines, too-tall ferns, chattering
streams, and the occasional trout. I don't know if it happened
instantly or over a period of time, but before too long
the only thing I wanted to do was go fishing. The
only thing I wanted to be was a good fisherman.
Back
then, defining the term "good fisherman" was easy.
A good fisherman was one who caught a lot of fish. Over
the years, my definition has changed quite a bit, but I
devoted my teens and early twenties to realizing that early
one.
I
read hundreds of magazine articles and wrote a few myself.
I spent thousands of hours on the water. And I satisfied
that early desire; I caught a lot of fish.
Over
the years, I've learned something simple, yet significant:
There are only two ways to catch a fish by angling.
Yep,
only two (that is, "2," "II").
Neither
of them requires a Ph.D. You don't need to know the dissolved
oxygen content at the thermocline. You don't even need to
know what the thermocline is (but it might help,
so I'll tell you later).
You
don't need to have a bass boat rigged with enough electronics
to power a small town. You can catch fish without using
the latest rod, thinnest line, or newest never-fail lure.
You don't need an awful lot of what advertisers and fishin'
technicians say you need.
What
you do need is time, patience, a little knowledge,
and the angler's best friend, luck.
The
time and patience are up to you.
Luck
is in the lap of the gods.
The
little knowledge is in this book.
Copyright
© 2004 by Ragged Mountain Press. A McGraw-Hill Company
ISBN
0-07-141714-1
