Quite a launch to fishing season

Most of last summer, and so far this season, I have been too caught up in trying to play golf that I have pretty much pushed fishing out of my recreational picture.

Well, I decided last week that I was going to reverse that trend. I made up my mind to get back out to some of those dandy farm ponds I used to fish and almost certainly bring home a few fillets for the frying pan. After all, you can fish early in the morning, or later in the evening, after the wind dies down and the temperature moderates a little, and still have time to smack the little white ball around.

My golfing buddy, Jonagan, had agreed that we needed to diversify our routine to include some time on the water and so last Friday afternoon I got my act together and headed west of town. I had retrieved my little flat-bottom boat from its temporary quarters in Kansas City. It had been stashed down there while I was stalking the wily trout along Montana’s renowned stretch of Missouri River between Holter Dam and Hardy Creek or along any number of smaller, but equally productive, rivers and streams.

The Missouri was a float trip — usually in an outfitted rubber raft powered by either of two neighbors who got their kicks rowing others down the glassy-clear river — but I really preferred wading the rapids, runs and pools of the Little Blackfoot, the Boulder or Rock Creek. The legendary Yellowstone, Madison and Jefferson rivers, the Blackfoot, the Ruby, the Big Hole and any number of other fisheries along either side of the Continental Divide made for a trout-fishing paradise that attracted fly-fishing aficionados from all over the world, as well as locals like me.
I never really got into fly casting all that much, although I did spend several days with sons-in-law and a friend who was a professional guide who would hardly stand for any other method. I am a spin-fishing sort of guy — and I usually held my own when it came to size and frequency of fish in the boat.

And despite the moss-slicked rocks that characterized many of the spots I liked the most, I only got really wet one time — when a smaller rainbow I had hooked into on the Boulder splashed and decided she was not quite ready to quit at the same time I reached down to put a net under her. It startled me so that I jerked backwards and lost my balance. When that happens, your waders quickly gulp their fill — which can be a dangerous situation if you happen to be in deeper, or swifter, water — and it is very, very cold down your pants. Lucky for me, the flow was not even knee-deep and I was safe, but embarrassed. (That particular time, I drove home, maybe 40 miles, in my skivvies and was just glad I had no problems with the vehicle, or the law.)
As much fun as that sporting quest is, and no matter how striking the surrounding mountain scenery, I will say I thought often of my bassing days in Northwest Missouri farm ponds. Not to be boastful, but I had quite a little collection of them where I could go for a couple of hours of fun and relaxation the first time I called Maryville home. I have been back to several, but, honestly, there’s been lots of water in my waders since then and I can’t remember where some of them are (were?) so my current selection is somewhat limited. (Please call 254-3100.)

Well, last Friday afternoon, I loaded up my trolling motor and headed out to the spot I have docked the SS Tiger since being back. My slip rent is the host’s use of the aluminum tub (it’s really more like a bucket) whenever I am not around — or at least that’s the way I understand the arrangement — and it has been a good deal for all concerned so far.

I checked in with the owner, who lives very close to the waterfront, and cleared it that I would be on the water in short order. I received some direction as to where “they’re bitin’,” even though the size of this secret place is such that a body can fish the whole deal in pretty short order.
Loaded the gear and pushed off in the recommended direction, all the while getting used to the operation of the troller after several years. I arrived in the target area without a hitch, but that was to be short-lived.

First cast, a strike, but no fish. This must be the place; drop the anchor.

Do not, however — and I repeat, DO NOT — place your center of gravity over the side of the vessel while leaning backward and stretching out your arm so the aforementioned anchor is clear of the side. In that case, the fishing expedition will quickly become a swimming lesson. With air compartments under the seats, it is unsinkable, and tackle boxes float nicely inside while it is pulled across the lake back to the dock.

Clothing dries quickly. Shoes and wallets recover, but more slowly.

Cell phones don’t fare so well.