Canoe-Palooza Part Four

Welcome folks, to part four in what has becomes my epic tale of the canoe trip I went on recently. EPIC TALE PEOPLE. That means ya can’t jump in half way, so go read from the beginning and the rest of you diligent readers go on ahead. There will be a test and I expect all of you to ace it.

This post I dedicate to the art form known by most as fishing. You make be familiar with it. You may also be interested to know that I participated in the age old method of subsistence. I do not fish often and in my memory I never fished will. In fact, in my memory I have never actually caught a fish. Sure, as a kid camper I probably caught a little minnow-type-guppy but:
1. I have no definite recollection of it.
2. It was probably really my dad who did all the real fishing and I just kind of had the impression of fishing.
3. The story of how I caught fish on my canoe trip would be less thrilling without the added bonus of it being the first ever living fish I’ve ever caught.

So… I CAUGHT MY FIRST EVER BONAFIDE FISH!

I know. I am as surprised as you! What a plot twist, how unexpected, who could have guessed?!

Even more impressively, on my first day of fishing I not only caught my first, but my second, third, fourth, fifth, AND sixth! ALL IN ONE DAY. I don’t want to sound cocky but I think I may be the best fisher in the western world. Probably the whole world. Perhaps the universe—assuming there are fish on other planets and that (semi)intelligent life (if they are not indeed those very fish) fish for them. And I am the best. I mean, Gordon Fisherman status. That’s saying something, people. To go from none, nothing, nil, never, ever in my life to six in one day—dayum people, stand up and applaud for that.

The first one was small—caught me by surprise actually. After all, I was not expecting to turn my fish catching rate around after 19 years of miserable statistical evidence of my fish like failures. Now I got excited. Much shrieking and a few pictures (damn straight) later and my first fish was on his way back to his fishy life. Too small to keep, however .

My second was immediately after the first. I mean immediately. And he was…small. He was bigger than my first. But…still small. We were too far from camp (a good several hours away in fact) to drag to back with us. But that was okay. I could care less if we ate it. I just wanted to catch more. This is when I realized.

I LOVE FISHING.

I learned after a good long span of time casting line after line with no more bites that I in fact did not like fishing. I like catching. It was only enjoyable to throw a small rubber lobster into the water over and over again if a slimy green flopping fish was attached to the end.

Then I hit another hot spot and three more very small fish were added to the list of fish I had defeated. Then, nothing again. Stupid, fucking fish. C’mon, bite you bastards.

After this I realized something else. Fishing is like gambling. And not the flashy Vegas kind with the bright lights and ultra-white teeth grinning at you while you rake in the chips underneath blinking signs advertising all day happy hour and all night dancing girls. No, this is the seedy gin joint kind where a skinny one-eyed man they call “Mr. Steve” deals the cards with a shaky hand and the overweight in-keep stares puffy-eyed at you as you order a drink that upon tasting is nothing recognizable as any libation you’ve ever had. Nothing is fair and though you don’t throw down bets haphazardly at first, the minimal if not nonexistent pay off pushes you to cast willy-nilly at any opportunity to play the game. Every time you say, “last bet, one last bet” Mr. Steve laughs and deals again. Again you lose and again you say, “last bet, one last bet” until you are desperately scraping together the last of your wits and the last of your dough and when you lose for the last time you are in need of another libation—regardless of its poor quality. You toss it back quickly—cringing at the taste—and for now it eases the pain. You stumble from the grimy bar empty handed, your collar disheveled, your mind bewildered, thinking “never again” but knowing that tomorrow you’ll be back for more.

That’s what fishing is like.

Sometimes, even with the best casts, the fish don’t bite. Ultimately you cast umpteen times more than you catch. And the majority of the time when you do catch something they are too small. It’s not like other tasks where if you work hard, are diligent, and generally have good intentions it will pay off. Sometimes the goddamn fish out fish you.

Then something miraculous happens. Or at least it happened to me. You do something with no hope of success—or in my case you do something stupid and it works out. This is the story of fish number six.

We had settled in our camp already and I, now hooked (pun very intended) on fishing, went down to the bank for one last ditch effort. Maybe if I caught a big one, we could have it for dinner. I grabbed my poll and cast it forward, not really paying attention. My lure hit the water as usual with a soft plop but a moment later I heard another larger splash and I looked to the water to see a large, long, thin something hit the water—maybe a branch I had unknowingly hooked when I swung the poll back. I looked up and immediately realized what I had done. The top half of my poll had come off and was now accompanying my lure in the lake. This all of course happened in a matter of seconds. Startled, I called to my dad for help. In a very hands off sort of parenting way he told me just to reel it in and take care of it myself. So I did. I reeled until I the top half of the pole in front of me. There was a goddamn, genuine, fucking fish attached to it. I reeled the poll, lure, and dumb fish in and realized the impossibility of what just happened. The fish, unfortunately, was too small to keep but the story of it was what was really amazing.
I think to wrap these very extensive chronicles of my fishing expertise I will add a quote my aunt said to me: “If we run outta food we just gotta send you out with half a rod.”