I've done a lot of different types of fishing in my time. I've sat on a five gallon bucket in the middle of a frozen lake and jigged for crappie while the wind howled around my shoulders. I've trolled for salmon in Lake Michigan and for red snapper in the Gulf of Mexico. I've used suckers to bait for pike and I've drifted the river for catfish. I've fly fished for tiny trout and I've thrown huge lures for musky.
But I was born and raised a bass fisherman. And sometimes it does the heart good to return to the roots.
So tonight after work, I grabbed the kayak and headed down to my neighborhood pond to tangle with Ms. Bucketmouth.
I say "Ms." because all of the biggest fish are female, whether it's a pike or a largemouth or a brown trout. Fitting, really, that I spend my time trying to impress girls when I'm on the water as well as off.
I have gotten quite good at fishing these small ponds from a kayak. There isn't much to it, really. Choose a spinnerbait because it stays shallow above the coontail and the milfoil and the blades flash in the murky water. Cast it parallel to the lily pads, where the fish hide and wait for food to swim by. Retrieve.
The evening pond is a different beauty than the morning pond. In the morning, mist rises from the water in a weightless veil remiscent of some southern bayou. The water is quieter in the mornings, and sounds different - primarily ruled by the trilling of the red winged blackbird, and a rooster or occasional loon in the distance.
In the evening, the water talks to me in its thrumming, vibrant voice of life. That voice is the voice of the herons croaking and the bullfrogs booming and the bass breaching the surface in preparation for their nighttime binge. Sandhill cranes flock over the forest and fill the air with their plaintive, repetitive calls. Bluegills sip bugs from the surface with a sound that is clearly distinguishable from the bass; more of a smacking kiss, and less of a boiling rush.
I can see my lure coming through the water, despite the murky tint. Flashing gold blades falter in their steady pace as I pause the retrieve and give the rod a twitch. And, as so often is the case, the short hesitation is enough to trigger a following bass, which gulps the falling lure and then is cartwheeling across the water.
She rockets out of the weeds with her gills flared and her mouth agape, walking across the water with that endearing tail walk. As any good bass fisherman does, I bow to her as she jumps - dropping the rod tip in deference to a falling fish's potential to fall on taut line and break it. The rod arcs again as she crashes back into the water, quivering with energy as she swaps sides before racing towards me and going back under the kayak. I have to quickly maneuver the rod around the tip of the kayak to prevent a break off.
When at last I have her in hand, played out and gasping next to the kayak, I lean down to her and whisper at her. The Native Americans believed that animals were sentient, relational beings who were to be respected and taken seriously. They often did what I did tonight, as I usually do with fish I catch.
"Thank you, fish. Go with peace. And don't tell your friends that I'm here."
She has a hole in her lip from where someone has caught her before. As I'm the only person that ever fishes this lake, it was most likely me. She disappears into the water beneath the kayak and flips her tail, splashing me one last time in defiance.
The water is calm now after the disturbance of fishy acrobatics. Darkness is falling and my family is waiting for me at the house to eat dinner, so I dig in the kayak paddles for the dock and head in for the night.
It can be good to get back to the roots every now and again.
