Lucky bait’s, Jeremy Wade, and
rituals
Just
about every outdoors man has a lucky bait, rifle, hunting or fishing area, or
any other ritual that they believe is what brings them game on any given day.
Along with those rituals, there are those that believe there are things that
bring bad hunts and fishing trips. My grandpa Reed for one always believed that
if there was fog on the water or if there were gar in the area you will never
catch a fish. For him that may have been true but my opinion was if I wasn’t on
the water then I wasn’t going to catch fish anyway so I might as well try. More
times than not, I caught fish. They may have been small and they may have been
gar but it was a blast!
Several
years ago my dad found his lucky lure. A small, shallow diving crank bait he
found dangling from a tree limb while we were wadding a small river in
Missouri. I look at found lures two ways. One,
the person who lost it didn’t like the lure much anyway because they made no
attempt to retrieve it, or two, they
used it so much they were bound to eventually lose their favorite lure. This small crank bait however became dads go
to bait and I am not kidding when I say he has caught hundreds of small mouth
with a lucky lure he found forgotten at the edge of that river. But, what is good
luck without the fishing God’s throwing bad luck in our direction!
While
home on leave from my first deployment to Iraq, my dad and I went on a short
fishing trip, wadding the same area he found his magical bait. My dad, brother,
and I are competitive when it comes to fishing. We keep track of our catches of
the day, size, numbers, species, and the stories grow as we tell them
throughout the day. This day, needless to say, dad was dominating me on the
water. Normally, the 10 bass that I had caught in the hour and a half of
fishing would have been enough to keep me in the game but dad had already
landed 50 small mouth and other species of fish on his evil little lure. Two
rules that we have when fishing are, you talk trash to the other anglers that
are not catching fish and for the fish to count as a catch, you have to touch
it.
Every
fish that dad caught, he would lightly touch it on the head while it dangled
from the hook while he danced in the water singing what number he was on.
“Nuuumber
fifty-ooone!”
“Nuuumber fifty-twwwo!”
I was getting frustrated. Lord, please stop his gloating. I get the
point, he is the superior fisherman.
Dad began to laugh as a two pound small mouth
slammed into the magic bait, fighting hard back and forth and jumping from the
water. Triumphantly dad raised the fish from the water holding the line rather
than the fish and using his index finger pointed at the beautiful green fish.
“Nuuuumber fifty-thre..”
SNAP!
Dads’ line snapped and the small mouth
splashed back into the river and swam off with his lucky crank bait firmly
stuck in the corner of its mouth with dad running through the water behind it
screaming, “No! No! No! Give it back!”
“That one don’t count. You didn’t touch it.”
I said as I laughed while dad stared disbelieving at the calm water.
When I returned to Iraq dad searched online
and was able to find the exact lure at a bait store up north. He sent an email
to the owner, along with his order of three more lures, and told him about our
fishing trip. The man sent an extra lure with dad’s order that said, “Give this
extra lure to your son so that he may be able to keep up with you the next time
you guys hit the water!”
Another
good luck charm, I found out recently, was talking to my folks on the phone
while I am fishing. I have long had the feeling that large fish use small fish
as spotters. Much like a big brother will tell his little brother to watch for
mom when he is doing something wrong, I could always picture a little fish
swimming next to the bank, keeping an eye on an angler, and as he turned his
head or walked away from his fishing pole, yelling to the big fish that tugs
the pole into the water. This always happens to me. I could be extremely
focused on my pole and line for an hour straight and nothing will bite. I turn
my head to take a swig of Mountain Dew and BAM! The beast strikes and I miss
them because I have a mouth full of mountain goodness.
Friday
evening was warm here so I hit the lake for a little catfishing. Armed with two
poles, a tub of chicken livers, and a bag of super magic stink bait I went in
search of my River Monster. Every time I head out on the lake or river I feel
like a little kid. There is a spark that dances in me that just knows that this
day will be the day that I catch a 500 pound catfish. After sitting on the bank
for an hour without a bite I decided to call my mom and see what she was doing.
“Hey mom. What ya doing?”
“Ironing. What are you doing?”
“Fishing. Oh man, getting a bite! Call you
right back.”
I
set the hook and reeled in a three pound channel cat. Sweet. I rebait the hook
and cast it back out, and wait. And wait. And wait. A half an hour later,
without a bite, I called my mom back.
“Hey mom. What ya doing?”
“Ironing. You get that fish?”
“Yep, three pounder it looked like.”
“Good job.”
“Yeah I know. Oh man, getting another bite!
Will call you back.”
These
are the times that I am sure the small catfish are watching. They see me distracted
and tell their big brothers,
“Hey
Fishburt! That dude is on the phone! You can pull the bait off the hook now!”
I missed him. This fish was crafty and worked
fast. So I rebaited my hook and casted back out and again did not get a bite so
I called mom again, and starting to believe that mom was my good luck charm.
This time dad answered the phone and I was half tempted to tell him to put mom
on the phone so that I could catch another fish. Before I could act on this
impulse my line jerked and my pole bent, I set the hook and the river monster
of the Lower Douglas (the lake I was fishing) exploded with energy and about
pulled the pole from my hand. I threw my cell phone down and began my epic
fight. I was using a rebuilt reel that I had worked on last month and was
instantly terrified that this old reel may not have the power to fight in this behemoth.
The fish fought back and forth and once came to the surface flashing its white
belly skin at me. I immediately assumed it was the 500 pound catfish I had been
after! Though I was by myself, I began yelling, “Fish on! Fish on!” in a
British accent like my fishing hero Jeremy Wade from the show River Monsters.
In
my head I could hear his cool voice becoming the narrator of my fishing trip, “After
many hours of frustration, the calls to my folks finally paid off. With this
dangerous river monster on the end of my line, I could only wonder if this was
the beast that was responsible for killing so many villagers?” The beast broke
the surface next to the bank and I finally seen what I had been fighting.
Though only 400 pounds, this River Monster was the biggest I had caught.
(Note: This fish was not really 400 pounds, was around 350)
A carp.
A nasty ol’ sucker fish.
Not a catfish.
But
I didn’t care; the instant disappointment for it not being a 500 pound catfish
was quickly replaced by the joy of catching the largest fish I have hooked as
well as knowing that the reel I had worked on had stood up to the task of
fighting in this large beast. I picked my phone up from the mud and told dad
the story of me catching the beast on chicken liver and the fight on an old
reel. As I released the carp back into the lake Jeremy Wade began speaking as
the credits rolled, “I had spent long grueling hours searching for the Kentucky
Toe Sucker and I had found him. It was not a river monster but a misjudged
gentle giant of the deep, a beautiful beast. But, I could not shake the thought
that this plant eating Goliath now had a taste for chicken flesh. Is this a change
in their biological make up? Did the introduction of bull sharks, piranhas, and
killer whales have something to do with their change in eating habits? Would
little kids eating chicken nuggets to close to the bank become meals for these
carp?” I would never know. But I did know that if I was going to catch any more
fish, I was going to have to keep my mom and dad on the phone and they were
going to have to sleep in shifts to keep me and Jeremy Wade fishing.
