You have to go where the fish are

6/20/2007

Sometimes, when you’ve known someone long enough, you get to know what they are thinking. Most often, it will be something you wouldn’t repeat in church, if at all.
Find a friend like that, and you will never have to worry about what to say, or how to say it. A friend like that can wade through all the lies, boasts and excrement, and come right back with a heaping helping of their own.
On a fishing trip into the high country last week, I met two such friends. In order to protect the guilty, and their churches, they will be referred to only as Al and Jim.
Al and Jim have known each other for 25 years. They trade their wit, insults and stories as only two old friends can, tossing barbs and boasts back and forth like a pair of octopus playing tennis. Whether an octopus can even play tennis is doubtful, but if anyone would know, it would be Al and Jim. They happen to know a lot about fishing.
For starters, before every fishing trip, they stock up on lures by buying three at a time. One is to use, one is kept in reserve in the event of a snag, and the other goes into the other guy’s tackle box the second no one is looking.
The two have been swapping fishing lures for years, safe in the knowledge that borrowing a lure means you are only stealing one you bought in the first place. It is a system that works for Al and Jim, and they always catch fish.
Last week’s fish of choice was the elusive trout, no easy prey when the sun is high and hot, and the water starts to warm. Any hack with a rod and reel can catch a bass or a pike, no matter the conditions. These are stupid fish. Trout are the smart ones, lurking only in the cold, dark depths, and it takes an intelligent angler to outwit them.
Al started with a gentle troll, dragging his lure over rocky points, drop offs, deep holes and dark places full of mystery. All he caught was a buzz and a sunburn.
Jim laughed, called Al a name like noodlehead, or dozey or fartbag, and said you have to go where the fish are. Last week’s heat meant they were all down on the bottom of the lake, stacked up like cord wood, as the locals say.
So, Al portaged his boat into the next lake; a good, deep lake. He liked his chances, and felt almost giddy, most likely from loss of blood due to all the mosquitoes.
Jim said all you have to do is catch a dragonfly, attach two feet of extra-light monofilament line to its tail, tie the other end to your hat; and no fly, bug or pest will come anywhere near you. Yeah, Al said, that’s exactly what a dozey fartbag would try to do, you old noodlehead.
Al pulled out all the stops on the deep lake, using copper line and some evil old rig from the turn of the century that looked capable of snaring buffalo. There were some fish caught, along with plenty of rocks and sticks, an old hat, an even older shoe, and even a nice little ice fishing rig that a drunken fool must’ve dropped down his hole last winter.
All in all, it was a great day. Dusk brought the end of the fishing, but it brought with it a chance to swap stories, to recount some old ones, and forge a few new ones. It meant the lies, boasts and insults would soon be flowing, along with a few cold beers. It’s what old friends are for.