Keeping it Reel
- The best of the fishing season is not quite here yet, but that doesn’t mean your gear has to waste away in your garage
Due to the relatively mild winters here in
Reel Maintenance
If you have kids, the most important reel in your collection is their closed face, push-button type spin-caster. Do not skimp on this reel. If you do not keep this well oiled and spooled with fresh line, your kids' frustration will quickly become your frustration and the fishing trip will come to a screeching halt.
You go to cast and "zhrrik!" Now there is a big wad of line that you have to untangle with the bait dangling at your feet, and through the barrage of "are you done yet," the fish are really jumping. A little plaque in my uncle's bathroom (of all places) reads, "Anger is one letter away from danger." Well, "angler" is also one letter away from "dangler."
Plus, this is the reel I always seem to end up using anyway when the kids get distracted and go to whacking each other with cattails.
Rod Tips
Avoid car doors. Broken rod halves can be stored for later use as cat toys, cat whackers, or for reaching stuff that has rolled under the fridge. For that matter, Elite BassMaster angler Mike Iaconelli even handed me a broken rod as a souvenir. I must have that look that says I have a jumble of broken rods in a five-gallon bucket in the corner of the garage.
Tackle
Every year or so, I buy a new little plastic tackle box (or just dump the contents of last year's box into the big "catch-all" tackle bag) to restock. On a rainy day when you cannot be fishing anyway, find a clear spot on your workbench. For me, this amounts to the top of the washer and dryer. I gather all of my tackle and carefully equip this little box with the absolute essentials.
Consider the species targeted and time of year. Choose hooks of various sizes, from tiny bait hooks for bluegill to large rubber worm hooks for bass. Remember an assortment of sinkers, replacement swivels and a few critical lures of several sizes and actions to cover the water column from top-to-bottom. With their wide wire gap, spinnerbaits won't fit in most lure slots, so I'll pick a couple, bury the hook tip safely in a rubber grub, and drop them into one of my cargo pockets, along with a fresh pack of my favorite rubber worms.
Then I repeat the process, creating boxes for more specific trips. One for my out-of-state treks, one for just taking the kids and their friends, another for walleye and so on. The remaining stuff in the bottom of the old tackle bag probably will never get used anyway. Eventually this becomes one unique clump. Maybe someday the modern art scene will appreciate my creativity.
Line
For reels with monofilament, I try to respool at least once a year. Through the year, I'll lose line to snags and retying, but I'm also constantly feeling the line for rough areas and, on each new trip, cutting off the bottom 10 feet or so. About every two years, the reels with other "super lines" are respooled, too, but the line is reused by placing the older, color-faded line on the interior of the spool. Now the never-used portion of line is ready for its turn. These “super lines” will have no memory of the tight inner spool coil.
Boat
I think it was Patrick McManus who once wrote: "The two happiest times of a man's life are when he gets his first boat and when he gets rid of it." The list for boat maintenance is staggering; just keeping the trailer lights working is a full time job. But I will share a couple of thoughts.
A universal motor flush tool that connects to a garden hose is handy. This lets me know that the outboard motor won't start in the yard, rather than at the ramp. If the boat is going to experience some down time (a-hem), I once read that you can keep the trailer tires from "pancaking" if you jack it up on cinder blocks to keep the weight off the tires. Oh, and an old tube sock with mothballs in a couple of locations does seem to keep the mice from snacking on life jackets.
Another boat ownership aspect that sometimes bites me is the registration. The yearly state registration expires on the bizarre date of June 30, unless you purchased it for a three-year period. Just long enough to ensure that you really forget to check it. So don’t fall into that category.
And while I'm at it, don't forget to check your fishing license. This critical component of a fishing trip has delayed more than a couple of trips, as friends have had to make emergency treks to license dealers. For convenience, fishing licenses can also be purchased online at wildlifedepartment.com, and if you buy a combination license, that will save you from having to pay for the legacy permit twice. Starting July 1, 2009, the cost of fishing and hunting licenses started including the cost of the Fishing and Hunting Legacy permit that was once required as a separate purchase. However, if you purchase an annual hunting license and fishing license separately, you’ll pay the legacy fee twice. A combination license will save money on both! A few years ago, my parents bought me the lifetime fishing license, and anglers also have the option of purchasing a five-year fishing license. Check it all out at wildlifedepartment.com.
Check the Bait Fridge
There have been some strange odors in the garage and…whew! Those nightcrawlers have been in there too long! Enough said.
Additionally, don't forget to hit the long-nosed pliers with a little WD-40. This tool must be kept working for a number of anglers’ tasks. Oh, and replace those polarized sunglasses that you sat on. Having that extra little bit of vision into that mysterious underwater world can make or break a fishing trip.
Finally, make sure that there are no pressing work projects and that your "honey do" list is significantly shortened. When you do get that window of opportunity to hit one of
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Going Green
At the risk of sounding like I am jumping on the latest eco-fad bandwagon, I am pro-green… sunfish.
Not that I am anti-bluegill, but the green sunfish, Lepomis cyanellus, is an over-looked, underappreciated sport fish. Always cooperative, always hungry, this thick sunfish will smash lures bluegill shy away from. It may not be the largest sunfish, but it does have one of the largest mouths.
One can even accomplish a version of “bass thumb” from an afternoon of lipping green sunfish with a thumb. Oddly, when I mention that I have a “green thumb” at dinner parties, someone suddenly switches topics and starts questioning me about soil amendments.
The only finger one might insert in the mouth of an average bluegill is a pinky… and that’s just really weird. According to my calculations, a bluegill would have to be 3 feet long and weigh around 27 pounds before you could lift one by thumb.
When hooked, a bluegill uses its dish shape and turns 90 degrees to the line angle. With resistance maximized, it turns in tight, vibrating circles. It’s all he’s got. The result is some vaudevillian hand trembling finale.
Green sunfish still won’t make your reel scream, but they are a hoot on a fly rod and you can feel a determined head-shake as they power this way and that. No need to “match the hatch” like with finicky trout; green sunfish have more of a “match this!” attitude. There have been numerous occasions when I’ve had to work to find something in the tackle box they would not hit.
And don’t forget the colors. That fringe of yellow/orange on the fins contrasting with the dark olive body and the blue striped operculum… almost as exotic as a peacock bass. I’ve always thought bluegill were misnamed and disappointingly pale in color, except during spawn.
Another quality of green sunfish that I admire is that they are survivors. Uh-huh. Now, step aside because I’m going to go catch a spunky pint-sized green sunfish.
During heavy rain events, they power upstream in the tiniest trickle through fields, up hills, eventually landing in some unconquered water hole. Once there, they are capable of withstanding extreme conditions in turbidity, temperature, and dissolved oxygen to rival even the freakish bullhead.
You don’t really set out to create green sunfish habitat; it will find you. As ponds age, they become more and more shallow as erosion carries soil particles downstream. In its golden years, a small pond may only be able to support green sunfish. Until your bank account can accommodate bulldozer rental, just enjoy this dwindling gem of a fishing hole. Green sunfish are almost always biting. And, even if your kids let the bobber run a little too long, there is ample space for hook removal.
But, you probably will never see a recommended stocking rate for green sunfish. Largemouth bass are usually the goal in stocking programs and because green sunfish have such large mouths, they compete directly with young bass for prey items. Bluegills, with their tiny, geez-I-hope-I-can-get-the-hook-out mouths, are limited to smaller prey items and thus are a good compliment to most stocking recipes. And if you aren’t exactly sure of your sunfish identification skills, be advised that a little green sunfish can go a long ways. Like making a sandwich and thinking you are adding a dollop of mayo when it is actually horseradish.
Bluegill politely “kiss” insects off the pond surface on warm summer evenings; green sunfish give big uncomfortably sloppy strange Aunt smacks. The green sunfish is an admirably feisty fish, with the fundamental feature of a mouth large enough to provide a good, slightly thumb-scarring handle. If there were no bass, we’d all be watching “Green Sunfish Masters” on Saturday mornings.
“But that tiny pond on the top of the hill has never been stocked.”
© Andy Whitcomb 2008
I’m Buying Breakfast.
Recently, I read where steelhead fishing in
First, I live in
With each
Take my first steelhead trip for example. After a very early morning 2-hour drive, we arrived, still in darkness, only to peer over a bridge with a little flashlight and see the water level was higher and murkier than reported.
“We’d only be wasting our time”, my guide said, and we hopped back in the van to go find breakfast, and then start the long return drive. Never put on my waders, never got a line wet. I was crushed. Out-of-state license, assortment of new lures, fresh line, steelhead rod, flashlight batteries, neoprene socks,… I will not bother you with the exact figures but my point is that I had just paid a lot of money to see a poorly-illuminated, swiftly-flowing, steelhead habitat.
My fishing guide and mentor is known to some fishermen on the creeks as “Guy with the flasher” for his method of charging his glow-in-the-dark lures. (For short, I will just refer to him here as “Guy”.) He is a great character and I have enjoyed our fishing trips even if some of our trips end up being 4 hours in the van just for a ham omelet. Guy supports the regional economy with a staggering quantity of steelhead trips. From late August to March, this retired schoolteacher visits
I am very grateful for Guy taking me fishing and have tried to show my appreciation by assisting with some of these trip expenses. He will not let me drive my car because he claims his van “knows the way”. When I attempt to pay for a fill-up or even breakfast, he growls, “Put your wallet away. When I come to
As a fisherman, I am persistent and eventually I was able to get Guy to concede about wrestling for the breakfast check.
“Tell you what… You catch more than three, then you can buy breakfast.”
After I have unhooked my third steelhead of the morning, I might as well just put down my pole and watch others fish because it is not going to happen. The closest I came to landing my fourth steelhead of a trip was another one of those mornings when, after peering over the bridge, we almost just headed for omelets. We had driven through a light rain and from the looks of the water; a fair downpour had just ended. The sticks and leaves swirling in the current had me braced for his decision to turn around and drive back. Instead, he said, “Maybe it hasn’t reached the mouth yet.”
“Yeah, maybe”, I said, trying to sound nonchalant, and climbed in the van and struggled not to bounce up and down in the seat in hopefully anticipation.
The mouth of the creek was clear and the lake was flat. I waded out to mid-thigh and, with my penlight, noticed that I could see feet (mine), the rocky bottom, and even a minnow or two. My second cast I connected with a spunky five pounder and I heard my spinning reel’s best “Zeeeeeeeee!” Guy exercised the fish right along beside me. We even hooked up at the same time and the drags on our reels played a little duet. Within 30 minutes, I had landed my third and thought this might be the day for #4. But the sky began to lighten and my hits became father and farther apart. Guy also sensed a slowing bite so changed his rig and fished under a bobber. I know I can pick up another fish. Maybe if I just bounce my retrieve a little. Okay, now a little slower. Slower. Too slow, there’s a rock. Whew, the lure pulled free. Where was the speed again? Here? Here? This feels too fast… slow it down a little. Maybe cast more to the right. Yeah, that’s it, fan it out. Probe the edges of my range. Was that a bump? I think that was a bump! And that cast was long. Maybe a little longer. That cast was just plain high. Settle down. There, that’s a long cast. Now count… 1, 2,3,4,5. Or was it just 4? This feels right. A torpedo is going to rip the rod from my hands any instant. Slow down the retrieve. A little more. Hooked a leaf. That cast was short anyway. Maybe to the left again. Miss that branch floating by. Long cast. Count to 4. Slow it down…
Meanwhile, with bobber and bait, Guy’s arms were getting tired. He had landed five since switching from spoons and missed several others. With each fish, he would hold up his rig and gesture for me to get out the can of mealworms he had given me. But I did not want to fish under a bobber. I wanted to figure this out, solve the riddle before me.
The fish are here… I had a hit on my lure just a few minute ago… What changed? The sun is rising. It is getting lighter. And there are a few leaves in the water now. Hey, I used to be able to see my feet. Where are my feet? There’s a branch… and another… and more leaves. Oh no, I’d better put on a bobber! During a different steelhead trip, I learned of another method Guy contributes to the
Guy is generous with his fishing knowledge and when they asked what we were using, he even shared the weight and color of the “magic” lure. I shared that I had caught fish on a heavier size and a different color, perhaps to protect Guy’s magic lure a little. Then they thanked us and let us dis-wader in peace.
On the way home after breakfast, we stopped at a sporting goods store to check out their lure selection. Guy had been having difficulty locating the exact weight and color of this lure and his supply was rapidly dwindling. To our amazement, this store had the lure. I grabbed five and was trying to decide how many more I should get. Guy looked over the entire lure selection with the keen eye of a Hot Wheels collector, making sure there was nothing else he needed, when we were approached by the same two fisherman we had spoken to on the creek a couple of hours earlier. “Here’s another tip”, he growled, “Buy ‘em all.”
And with that, he took two fingers deep into the rack and cleared the remaining magic lures--the lure he had just finished telling these guys about--filling the length of his forearm and shuffling off to the cash register. I followed, leaving the now slack-jawed novices behind.
The
© Andy Whitcomb 2005
I continued pitching “steel” (various spoons). Each cast of the 10-foot rod just felt too good. The rhythm of my retrieve was hypnotic.
But it was too late. The rain upstream had arrived. I quickly changed rigs and drifted a few passes in a futile attempt at buying breakfast. After a few more minutes, we waded back through an almost unrecognizable stream full of muddy water with a steady line of brushy debris. Guy bought breakfast again, laughing at my stubbornness.
Again, they queried Guy and again, he shared information. He told them when he uses which lures, when he switches to bait, even some steelhead life history. After a while, Guy tired of conversing and got back to shopping but left them with one final bit of advice:
Crotching shark, hidden fulcrum.
The empty beer can bounced out of the captain’s cabin, clinked down all four steps, rolled across the main deck, teetered on the edge for a moment before disappearing over the side into the dark water.
The previous day, Dave, my artist fishing buddy, and I had driven 13 hours from Oklahoma to Port Aransas, Texas, stopping only for fuel, root beer, and Slim Jims. We were on a quest to charter our first salt-water fishing voyage. A private charter seemed to be a little pricey for us so we had decided to go the “party-boat” route. The first charter company we walked into had photos of satisfied fishermen posing with mackerel, tuna, shark, sea trout and redfish plastered over every inch of the proprietor’s establishment. This seemed like our boat.
I had managed a few hours of fitful sleep. My head was swimming with the photos of great salt-water fish but I was worried about the possibility of seasickness turning the voyage a nightmare. Both of us were awake and dressing before the alarm sounded at 4:00a.m.
Everything was new and exciting to a couple of farm pond fishermen. The thick salty air and the lapping of the water on the hull of our boat made us giddy with anticipation as we sat, waiting for our trip to begin. It was in this feverish pre-fishing mental state when the beer can’s performance caught our attention. Under normal circumstances, this might be cause for some concern. 5:00 a.m. is hardly the time for the captain of a boat with 50 passengers to get a little early morning buzz going. However, at the time, we found it amusing and shrugged it off with a “when in
When the fishing boat finally began to back away from the pier, I noticed the jumbled stack of ancient pre-rigged fishing rods leaning against the railing. Due to the angle of the stack, I quickly calculated a collision with a rapidly approaching pylon. Making the assumption that the crew knew what they were doing and that someone would move the poles, I decided to wait. The pylon continued to scrape noisily down the side of the boat and, just as I feared, upset the rods. I scrambled to my feet, clutched as many as I could, and used my feet to keep those that had fallen from rolling overboard. A shirtless, barefooted deckhand finally appeared and helped me restack the rods.
“He doesn’t usually do that”, he said and glanced up in the direction of the captain.
We had no idea how long of a boat ride it would take to reach the fish. Once we cleared the harbor, I thought at any moment, we would start fishing so I stood at the front, enjoying the breeze, staring out at the endless brown/green water, and watching the sunrise on the distant oilrigs. The engine noise was deafening but I didn’t mind as we bucked and churned through the surf.
“Any minute we are going to start fishing,” I told myself. Dolphins materialized at my feet and rode in our wake for a few minutes. When they departed, I returned my focus on the horizon, concentrating on not getting seasick. “Annnnny minute”, and struggled to suppressed a growing queasiness.
Dave, in his always prepared, somewhat hyperactive manner, had taken some seasickness medication and had already thoroughly explored the boat. He had located the galley and was now waving a hotdog with relish, mustard, and catsup in my face.
“Sure you don’t want any?” he asked. “They’re good.”
“No thanks,” I said and swallowed hard. Three hours later, the engines mercifully decresendoed to an idle.
Over the loudspeaker we were instructed to choose a rod and find a space along the left side. The method of fishing was very simple: hook a chunk of the cut bait, press the spool release, and count to 30, letting the 10oz. sinker rocket the bait to the desired depth. The reels were large baitcasters of various brands and ages; the rods were sturdy, six footers, with a long butt for leverage.
Prior to this day, Dave had been strictly a fly-fisherman. He preferred the rhythm, finesse, simplicity, and purity of fly rods to the “two-by-four” that a bass fisherman such as myself might use. It should have come as no surprise then that Dave, who had never fished with a baitcaster salt-water rod with a long butt, whose reel would sound off first. But it did.
“Fish on!” he yelled and in an instant had to make the decision of where the rod would be positioned in his battle. Instead of propping the butt of the rod near his pelvic bone on one side and using that as his fulcrum, the butt caught him directly between the legs and remained there, the pole bent far too greatly and the line straining off too quickly for any adjustments to be made.
“How’s it feel, Dave?” I yelled, a couple of sets of shoulders away.
Dave’s face was stern and focused. He did not answer. A burly deck hand, armed with a long gaff, eased up beside my friend and pitched his cigarette into the ocean. Dave sensed his presence and, struggling mightily, not just with the stubbornly strong fish but also with his awkward, painful predicament, attempted to ask for assistance.
“Uh,” Dave grimaced, “I seem to have gotten my fishing pole lodged in my crotch and…”
With the grizzled delivery of a gunslinger in a spaghetti western, the deckhand cut him off with, “just keep reeling” and continued to stare vacantly out at the water. Several long minutes later, Dave’s first saltwater catch tired and a 16-pound sharp-nosed shark as gaffed and brought aboard.
“What are your initials?” the deckhand asked.
“DH,” Dave sputtered, dropping his pole and grabbing his knees. The deckhand produced a long sharp fish knife, etched the letters into the side of the shark, and hauled it away to the boat’s cooler. Not exactly the battle we had over-romanticized but Dave had just earned the title of “salt-water fisherman”. Even if he was in the fetal position and writhing slightly.
I couldn’t wait to be next.
©Andy Whitcomb 2006
