Nimrod777
Well-Known Member
Stolen topic from Chattanooga Fishing Forums, but writing my story took me out of this small office and put me back bankside to a very cool day, so thought I'd share and see what you all had to pull out of your bags.
This will sound odd because it's not a story based on success. Well... not success as it's normally measured.
I was grown and married and had recently found a position that brought be back to within 7 miles of my hometown on the Missouri River about an hour from St. Louis. That big mean river had been a mysterious force to me all of my life. My family was not much on the outdoors, little fishing and no hunting, but somehow the bug had taken root deeply within me. My goal was to catch a large catfish from that mighty river. By my standards at the time, anything over 5 pounds would be considered epic.
I'd read several issues of the relatively new Infisherman magazine spotlighting catfishing techniques and was just starting to get a handle on moving beyond worm and hook fishing. My day off has always been Thursday, which generally finds me alone in my pursuits outdoors. On this particular warm late spring day I had fished up a couple of creek minnows and was wading through a giant field of unidentified lush green plants that looked suspiciously like tomatoes, between the sewage treatment plant and the river. Along the way I was picking up big grasshoppers as added resources.
I was in a virgin fishing spot, by which I mean no leftover worm or liver cups, no forked sticks upraised, nothing but rock and drift. Looking at the churning water I tried to figure out what the eddies were doing. I had my biggest rod, a 6.5' Ugly Stick with a Shakespeare spinning reel, loaded with 12 lb. test line, which was quite the case of overkill for my fishing history. I also had on the biggest sinker I'd ever seen, something almost 4 ounces, attached to the line on a dropper, with a hook about 12 inches up. I speared a creek chub that must have been nearly 6 inches onto a hook and cast it out.
The Missouri is a rough river which has been aggressively channelized by the MO Corp of Engineers for the primary purpose of streamlining barge traffic. It regularly takes its toll on pleasure boaters and unwary fishermen. It also moved my line around behind that wing dam like a washing machine on spin cycle. I watched the tip of my rod surge and relax rhythmically, at first reaching for the pole on every surge, but gradually sinking into a cautious relaxation. One surge, however, did not seem keep rhythm, did not relax. My brow knit together as I tentatively picked up the pole and gave a slight pull.
It was like I had prodded a bull! The rod leaped forward and my knuckles went as white as my shocked face. It was the first time I had hooked something that played music for me, and my 12 lb. line starting plucking notes that steadily climbed in octaves... ping... ping... ping.ping.pingpingpingPOP!!
The line swaying in the breeze at the end of my rod was not nearly as limp as my arms and legs. I sat in the profound silence that followed the string symphony played for an audience of one. The river thundered it's constant applause and my body started twitching off an overload of belated adrenaline. I stared dumbly at the reel in my hand, seeing for the first time where the plastic drag control knob had been broken off. I pulled on the line to find that the drag setting was tighter than the bedroom door locks at a convent.
But for the first time in my life I had hooked a fish that had busted right out of my tackle within 10 seconds. No one was there that day to wonder why I sat empty handed on the banks of the Missouri River with a smile on my face. ;0)
This will sound odd because it's not a story based on success. Well... not success as it's normally measured.
I was grown and married and had recently found a position that brought be back to within 7 miles of my hometown on the Missouri River about an hour from St. Louis. That big mean river had been a mysterious force to me all of my life. My family was not much on the outdoors, little fishing and no hunting, but somehow the bug had taken root deeply within me. My goal was to catch a large catfish from that mighty river. By my standards at the time, anything over 5 pounds would be considered epic.
I'd read several issues of the relatively new Infisherman magazine spotlighting catfishing techniques and was just starting to get a handle on moving beyond worm and hook fishing. My day off has always been Thursday, which generally finds me alone in my pursuits outdoors. On this particular warm late spring day I had fished up a couple of creek minnows and was wading through a giant field of unidentified lush green plants that looked suspiciously like tomatoes, between the sewage treatment plant and the river. Along the way I was picking up big grasshoppers as added resources.
I was in a virgin fishing spot, by which I mean no leftover worm or liver cups, no forked sticks upraised, nothing but rock and drift. Looking at the churning water I tried to figure out what the eddies were doing. I had my biggest rod, a 6.5' Ugly Stick with a Shakespeare spinning reel, loaded with 12 lb. test line, which was quite the case of overkill for my fishing history. I also had on the biggest sinker I'd ever seen, something almost 4 ounces, attached to the line on a dropper, with a hook about 12 inches up. I speared a creek chub that must have been nearly 6 inches onto a hook and cast it out.
The Missouri is a rough river which has been aggressively channelized by the MO Corp of Engineers for the primary purpose of streamlining barge traffic. It regularly takes its toll on pleasure boaters and unwary fishermen. It also moved my line around behind that wing dam like a washing machine on spin cycle. I watched the tip of my rod surge and relax rhythmically, at first reaching for the pole on every surge, but gradually sinking into a cautious relaxation. One surge, however, did not seem keep rhythm, did not relax. My brow knit together as I tentatively picked up the pole and gave a slight pull.
It was like I had prodded a bull! The rod leaped forward and my knuckles went as white as my shocked face. It was the first time I had hooked something that played music for me, and my 12 lb. line starting plucking notes that steadily climbed in octaves... ping... ping... ping.ping.pingpingpingPOP!!
The line swaying in the breeze at the end of my rod was not nearly as limp as my arms and legs. I sat in the profound silence that followed the string symphony played for an audience of one. The river thundered it's constant applause and my body started twitching off an overload of belated adrenaline. I stared dumbly at the reel in my hand, seeing for the first time where the plastic drag control knob had been broken off. I pulled on the line to find that the drag setting was tighter than the bedroom door locks at a convent.
But for the first time in my life I had hooked a fish that had busted right out of my tackle within 10 seconds. No one was there that day to wonder why I sat empty handed on the banks of the Missouri River with a smile on my face. ;0)
