She-Fishes

SHE-FISHES

Being born in an era when little girls were expected to play only with dolls, have tea parties, wear dresses and act like a little lady proved to hinder my early development only slightly. Having been lucky enough to have at least one Grandfather, who thought it was perfectly ok to have a granddaughter who was more than a bit of a tomboy, he proved a firm ally of my endeavors. “Tommie”, as my grandfather fondly called me, was allowed at least when he was around, to learn to hammer nails into a piece of scrap wood, whittle a stick with close supervision, climb trees, shoot marbles, help dig worms, go fishing, and of course help clean the days catch. It was with him I discovered the joys of warm water fishing for bluegills, bullhead catfish and tried to learn to bass fish.

Having been born a military brat, it was my luck to have been born in Florida, so my first fishing experiences were in the Gulf of Mexico. I can remember sitting with my father on the jetties, fishing for what ever would bite the smelly shrimp. Pompano, sea trout, even the lowly sand shark was fair game for my over size cane pole. During the course of those early years, there were a few trips made to visit my grandparents, who at that time lived in Mississippi, where my grandfather was an electrical engineer in a ship building yard. It was there that my grandfather and I formed the close bound that would not be too long lived, but never forgotten. Free days were spent searching the beach for sand dollars, hermit crabs, pirate treasure, and exotic shells. When we tired of this there was always his private oyster bed, this provided instant snack food in the form of raw oysters fresh from the water. I remember standing waist deep in the water with a half lemon, eating as fast as he was able to shuck, those raw oysters were the manna of the Gods. To my Grandfathers infinite delight and mine, this proved to cause my mothers weak stomach endless trouble.

The Forth of July spent buying enough fireworks to light the western world, the soda pop, cotton candy, and hot dogs that proved to be the straw that broke the back when it came time to watch the pyrotechnics. As I remember, that little stunt gained him a good chewing by both my mother and grandmother, and me a dose of caster oil.

The next vivid memory I have was going to Oklahoma to visit them after the war. This was my introduction to the fine art of bass fishing. He was an avid bass fisher.

Huge steel tackle box filled to overflowing with an assortment of the latest wooden bass plugs. Heddon Dawagiac in all colors, South Bend Bass Oreno’s, River runts, Lucky 13’s , Hula Poppers, to name but a few I remember. These were attached to the ole black braided line, which was in turn spooled into the latest in knuckle busters, otherwise known as level wine reels. This state of the art backlash machine mounted on a fine steel fishing rod provided him with hours of fishing pleasure and me with wonder and awe that in the hands of a master fish could and would be caught.
There was only one occasion that I remember when my grandfather may have had second thoughts about teaching a girl to fish.
Outside Lawton Oklahoma, lie the Witichata Mountains, granite peaks rising out of the vast prairie, provided work for the C.C.C. (civilian conservation corps) during the great depression. Here in the Valleys were built dams and the lakes formed were stocked with bluegill, catfish and bass. The mountains and lakes were designated a wildlife preserve, which still today host a multitude of attractions. Longhorn cattle, American Bison, and whitetail deer roam free, rattlesnakes and prairie dog towns add to the old west atmosphere.
The highlight of this visit was to go fishing with my grandfather. After watching him masterfully bring several nice bass to the stringer for dinner, I decided it was time I learned to fish with a real rod and reel, not just my cane pole. He very graciously decided it was likewise time to teach “Tommie” how to bass fish. The ensuing tangle of line made him more than thankful that the evening’s dinner was waiting to be cleaned. Just as dark threatened it was decided the only sensible thing to do was to cut all the line from the reel and re-spool for another day, thus ended my attempts at using a casting rod for many years. I was quietly informed once again of the virtues of my cane pole, and that I should continue to use it to catch bluegill for baiting the catfish trot line.

On another occasion, I had the opportunity to fish with the other Grandfather in Oklahoma, this time in the South Eastern part of the state. Beavers Bend, where the Mountain Fork River flowed over a small earthen dam. This Grandfather, lacked the liberal attitude about girls, it was ok to take them fishing as long as they didn’t insist on wearing boys pants and acted like a little lady. Grandpa “P” as I will refer to him, was also an avid fisherman, but was just as content to use the 10’ cane pole and a Prince Albert can of garden worms. There on the banks of a quiet moving creek, I learned to appreciate the smell of the outdoors, enjoy the chatter of squirrels and jays. Watch dragonflies zipping over the water, skating skills of water bugs and turtles basking in the sun on a fallen tree. Grandpa “p” had what I later learned was a dry sense of humor, I guess the fact that he was a barber by trade had left him with not much to say, being like a hairdresser or bartender he had heard it all. I do remember well the only real fish tale he ever told, and it goes as follows:

“Several weeks ago I was sitting right near this spot where we are now, there by that fallen tree in fact. I’d not had a bite all day, and the sun was warm so there I sat leaned back against that big tree watching the clouds. I see this squirrel down on that fallen tree that goes into the water. He seemed to have found an acorn or nut and was happily sitting there eating it when all at once there was this big splash in the water. The water boiled under the tree and up comes the biggest catfish I have ever seen and swallowed that squirrel. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I quick like pull in my line grab my can of worms and plant a big gob of them on the hook and throw my line right there where that fish came out of the water. An hour must have gone by and I had not so much as a nibble. Just as I am starting to nod off for a nap, here comes another squirrel, and would you believe he also finds a nut. There he sat, big as you please and all at once, the water boils again and up come that same catfish, another squirrel gone. Now as I was getting ready to check my line again and add more worms to the hook, the water swirls yet again, only this time the catfish put another acorn on the tree.”

The thing I guess I remember the most about Grandpa “p” was the way he told that tale, and all the while kept a straight face.

The sad thing is I was only to enjoy these two wonderful Grandfathers for a short period of time. Military kids have very little time to spend with grandparents due to the whims of Uncle Sam, but the memories are treasured.

Morocco in the mid 1950’s was an experience not soon forgotten. Although the fishing was somewhat similar to the gulf fishing, fishing from jetty’s for strange fish and catching octopus, and other strange sea creatures. I am only sorry I never had the opportunity to fish the Atlas Mountains where I understand there are trout in some of the streams.

Back in the Mid-West I once again found myself warm water fishing, only now I was older and felt the need to graduate from the cane pole to a spin cast reel. Zebco 66 was the first, coupled with a Shakespeare wonder rod brought crappie, bass, catfish, white bass bluegill and carp to bay. I learned to use spinners, fillet my catch as well as stir a mean beer batter. That wonderful old 66 lasted almost 15 years, repaired first with new parts from the factory, then from scavenged parts from garage sale reels. Finally I was ready to move up to spinning gear and at last my first real bait caster. Unlike the old knuckle busters, these new reels had anti- backlash gyros which worked most of the time, unless of course you got in a hurry and it was back to the old “pick and swear” and wonder why you hadn’t stuck to the cane pole. However, I will admit that there were many years spent in the company of spinning and casting tackle, many a day on the water being rewarded with some fine catches.

I was heading into middle age before the fly-fishing bug really took hold in a major way. By this time, I had become very adept at catching all manors of fish and found myself looking for a new challenge. In steps the noble sport of fly-fishing. This was before the “River runs through it” movement. Once again I became totally enthralled with the very idea that a person could actually catch fish on tiny hooks with fur and feather attached, not to mention the fact that the reel appeared to be totally backlash free. Note I said nothing about the line not wrapping it’s self around the casters neck, flies not hanging so high in trees they are irretrievable, or worse yet flies that find their way into the casters personage, ie. Back of the neck, ears, and other body parts. The early learning years were trial and errors, always seeking to find the perfect fly, that drag free drift, the big fish, or the most fish. I slowly learned there was so much more to fly fishing than just tight loops, drag free drifts, or the perfect fly. After the fly fisher has gone through all the stages they usually find them selves on a level we think of as higher than most. When this stage is reached then we quickly revert back to the roots of our beginning. Taking time to observe the beauty of nature, cherishing the moments a stream, treasuring the day even when the fish seems to be unwilling to fall for our flies.

So, She Fishes, yes but she also enjoys the sheer joy of knowing there are streams, rivers, lakes and oceans to fish and hopes they will always be there for future generations.