Rusty Hooks and Picture Books
by Catfish Bob Chochola
Midwest Outdoors Magazine & TFN
I grew-up fishing. This simple statement says so much about a childhood, adolescence, and young adult life immersed in the pastime. The other day, while sifting through a shoe box full of photographs taken over the years on so many wonderful fishing adventures, I realized the sport has given me more than my share of incredible experiences, and exciting stories to tell fellow anglers around the dancing shadows of fire light.
A snap shot of my dad, proudly holding a stringer full of monster catfish when he was a young angler, brought me stumbling along the rocky shores of the Fox River in search of mysterious murky water bottom dwellers. I recalled snagged and broken line, tons of lost tackle, and dozing on a huge rock in the middle of the night, while a cool breeze and the sound of the powerful river rushed over the dam and passed me down stream. I thought of the time a very large whiskered devil took advantage of my sleepy state and pulled the pole right out of my hands into the raging current. A quick hand plunged into pitch-black water wrapped around the cork handle resting about one foot deep, and redeemed me by not only retrieving the pole and reel, but the fish as well. There were other times though, too numerous to count, when I was not so lucky.
Although I have since evolved as an angler, having fished for many other species in a variety of situations, I still love to bait-up with a huge slimy glob of sun-baked chicken liver every now and then. Even now I love to do battle with the behemoth that haunt the gloomy depths, lurking there after all these years saying, "I know you kid... remember the night I made-off with your pole?" Yes, I do remember.
Another dip into the shoe box took me aboard my second ocean-bound charter trip out of Miami Beach, Florida, a month before my sixteenth birthday. The first few hours at sea produced some bonito, barracuda, and dolphin fish (Mahi Mahi). My mother, who is less than enthusiastic where fishing is concerned (she'd rather be shopping), had boated a seven-and-a-half-foot Atlantic sailfish - the carbon copy of one my father caught a couple of years earlier. (Not bad for just going along for the ride.)
After we had had our fill of "smaller" species, the mate suggested fishing for something bigger. We agreed and the captain steered our vessel for a wreck that he had located resting peacefully at the sandy bottom in very deep water. We began to troll a ten pound bonito that we had boated earlier. The mate cut down the center of the fish and removed its spine (to give it that wounded look). He then fed a long wire leader, sporting four gigantic single hooks, through its mouth. He placed the large barbs carefully throughout the fleshy specimen, poking the hooks outward and curving them up toward the head of the bait. I was strapped into the fighting chair and braced for action. The tense wire line looked like a straightened-out clothes hanger and was tightly wrapped around the largest reel I had ever seen. its final wrap unwound and headed through the heavy guides on the salt water rig, following a graceful bend down the thick white pole. Finally, the cable freed itself from the last guide and disappeared over the transom.
After hours of circling and waiting, the cue stick I was tied to bowed as if it were made out of rubber, and the heavy wire began to strip from the spool in long repeated bursts. It was an incredible battle, and thirty minutes of agony I will always remember. Sweat poured down my face and my clothes were soaked; the muscles in my arms ached for two days after the fight ended. I could not have even imagined the struggle just moments earlier when I had strained with all of my might just to reel-in the rig, so our mate could check the bait. (Go ahead and laugh, I can take it.)
One half-hour after the electrifying sound of screaming drag, I boated a trophy some anglers spend a lifetime searching for; an eight-foot-six-inch golden hammerhead shark weighing nearly three-hundred pounds. I was only fifteen, but I was hooked.
The old photographs brought so many memories back to mind. I went to bed that night and could still hear the rush of water by the dam, stirring rocks and twigs and mud in the swirling white water below. I closed my eyes and smelled exhaust from the charter boat's powerful engines spewing a cloud of diesel haze, while we headed out to sea. I felt the bite of a cold Lake Michigan wind blowing out of the northeast from Canada all the way across the mammoth body of water, letting my mind wander through images of huge salmon and trout caught on that great lake.
Such were the days that fueled a lifelong passion for a sport that lets everyone who plays, win. Yet among the crowded stringers and packed live wells, in between tired poses beside filled racks of king salmon, amidst lunkers and hogs that will be forever glued to the sticky pages beneath the clear plastic window panes in my photo album, I found the real reason fishing is such an important part of my life; why I love to fish. It was a picture of a dinner tray. Yes, an ordinary metal folding tray, with bottles of ketchup, mustard, and relish on it. There were a couple of sweet white onions next to the hot dog buns, which were carelessly stuffed into a plastic bag's wind-blown pose, frozen by an observant camera eye. There was a lonely knife to be used in the event of a feeding angler and I suddenly remembered roasting hot dogs on a stick with my Dad over an open fire on the bank of our favorite catfish hole (alas, two feeding anglers).
The sunset was fiery and towering cloud tops from passing storms headed toward the east. Shards of brilliant sunlight reflected through blue and green and yellow and pink as a rainbow pierced a band of navy blue beneath the colorful topping of fluffy clouds on the horizon.
"Drowning worms" Dad called it. I prefer, "Waiting for the hooks to rust". That night we sat by the fire and didn't catch a thing until a catfish took the bait just after dawn. It's a funny thing that I remember the way the sky looked in such vivid detail on such an uneventful night.
There were many times like this when we got skunked. Still other outings would have made good television shows. We always had fun though. Time and time again we found peace of mind and renewed spirit among the joys of nature.
Now it's my turn to share the thrill. I had an opportunity to take a seven-year-old girl musky hunting for her first time this summer. Although I caught the big ones the experience was a thrill for both of us. We watched eagles soar high in the sky to hunt for meals below. We stopped to look at sunsets, which are always painted with magic in the north woods. We saw prancing deer and little green frogs hopping along shoreline boulders. We talked about the strange cackling of loons underneath a full moon and wondered what they were saying. We roasted hot dogs and marshmallows and fought mosquitoes as big as sparrows. We took a dip in the chilly water by our campsite, then drove our boat aimlessly, when not fishing, of course, to look at the beautiful surroundings together.
The goal of fishing is obviously to catch fish, but never ignore the other benefits that come with such a fantastic voyage. They may well be even more important in the long run. After all, it will be the whole experience peering through the plastic pages of the picture book in years to come. In the mean time, don't let the hooks get too rusty.
Catfish Bob
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