06-27-2010, 04:29 AM
Sometimes when one is fishing it isn’t the fishing at all that is important. The quest for fish becomes very unimportant and the myriad of things going on around you becomes vivid. Each moment is acute. Each image takes on new meaning. Every sound is heard with new clarity. The air becomes a container bringing the scent of the water, the decaying of vegetation, the promise of rain on the breezes. The fisherman becomes alive. Truly alive and becomes one with the water and adds to the tapestry that is the earth.
As I age and approach the time of my death I see and feel with a different clarity. I no longer kill. Not to eat. Not for sport. I strive not to judge, for who am I to say what is right and wrong? Is the wild brown trout caught with ones own hand tied fly more sacred than the cod brought from the depths with a trawlers net? Is the venison brought to the table with the arrow and the long bow somehow better, purer or worthier than the flesh of the slaughterhouse steer? I do not know. These are questions for the philosophers. I am only a fisherman.
I am a fisherman who now sees the carp and the catfish no less elegant than the grayling or the steelhead, the sheephead full brother to the marlin. These denizen of the deep, pure blue of the oceans or the stagnate sloughs and bays are one. I knew this as a child, but the knowledge was lost. Through time as opportunity and fortune allowed me to travel, I placed the great marlin of the worlds tropics above all of the waters denizens in the highest esteem. Anything less was not worthy. Foolish and vain I am!
The things I knew and sensed as a child were true and somehow pure. I was not jaded, not educated, not biased. My heart and my instincts spoke me to and the voice I heard was innocence. That was a long long time ago. Today on my boat, those truths, that innocence revisited me. I was the student. The child the teacher.
His name is Remo Rivera. He is entering the eighth grade at Mapleton Junior High School. Like his friends at school, he likes girls and sports and computers and games. His uncle Ryan, who I call ‘Wireman,’ frequently accompanies me aboard my boat. Wireman is the consummate angler. He’s as good as any fisherman I know, anywhere in the world. He is knowledgeable, driven and tolerates my autocratic ways with a
.
I asked Wireman to invite his nephew to join us for an evening of catfishing at Utah Lake. The pair came aboard and the boy greeted me with a big. As we left Lincoln beach and entered the lake his bearing changed from slight trepidation to enjoyment as I throttled up.
The bow dropped into the chop and we sped across the big lake towards Bird Island. Wireman was busy preparing rods and when I glanced at Remo, his face was a study of pleasure. It was obvious that he was enjoying the ride and the boat. Arriving at the shallow island it appeared to still be coated with ice and snow as its rocks were covered with screaming gulls, terns and the big pelicans. All of them white save the coots and grebes.
A southwest wind was blowing creating two-foot rollers. It was difficult to anchor and hold. Wireman had the rods all rigged upon arrival and Remo produced a bag of shrimp to use for bait along with the worms. I chided him that “The cooked shrimp were too good to waste on catfish and that perhaps it would be better if I ate the bait.” With a big, he admonished me that, “Catfish were good too. Very good.” I couldn’t argue with that. Then he advised me that he “didn’t really like seafood except king crap, but he enjoyed catching fish”.
The sun was warm and the wind kept the insects at bay. The big white pelicans lifted from the shoreline providing stark contrast against the azure skies as the thermals lifted them in perfect formation ever higher. The boy watched them without comment then baited his rod and cast out expertly. Although there was a rod holder at his side, he hand held his pole intently watching the tip. In a few minutes he reared back on the rod while taking up slack with the reel and set the hook.
First to the boat was a white bass. The on his face told a story words cannot as we congratulated him on the first fish. Within minutes he had re-baited and cast back out. The scene repeated itself as he brought in another white bass and then a fat, healthy mud cat. Three fish in the live well and Wireman and I hadn’t got a bite.
Remo studied his rod tip as well as the birds on the rocky island. Occasionally between catching fish his bright eyes would study the great mountains, Loafer and Nebo to the South, their high peaks building with dark clouds that shed rain that never reached the ground except to mist the aspen and pines. A couple of hours later with Remo catching the vast majority of fish, we decided to move to the leeward side of West Mountain, near the orchards, to escape the building wind.
I was watching Remo intently after I had shut the big motor down and we glided into the shallows. He was taking everything in. Twice he looked at the sonar to determine our depth. When the boat was moored he moved from the bow to the stern and cast into the deeper water advising me that,” if I expected to catch fish I should use a piece of shrimp as well as a night crawler. “What was there for me to say? He had caught the great majority of fish and I hadn’t gotten a single bite.
For the next two hours he caught fish after fish. Channel cats, mud cats, white bass. Each fish was fought as expertly as even the wireman could aspire to do. Wireman and I could only watch in amazement. The lad was giving a demonstrations on catching fish…..many fish.
The sun, like a giant drop of blood, dropped from the afternoon skies.. A threatening storm cloud was backlit by the disappearing orb and the water stained the silver red of cinnabar. When I looked from the western skies the boy jumped from the deck to the casting platform on the stern. His rod was bent deeply and the reel protested the stealing of its line. His face broke from a look of sheer determination to ecstatic joy as he fought the fish expertly, ignoring his uncle’s instructions. The battle was between the boy and the fish. No one else could enter the arena.
The fish ran under the boat and into the reeds to escape, but Remo denied each and every tactic. I could only watch silently trying to stay out of the way as the boy moved around the boat applying pressure when he could, giving line when he must.
In time, the fish could resist no more and surfaced near the boat. I had hoped from the battle that the fish would be a giant channel catfish in the 20 to 30 pound class. As it broke the surface at boat side I could see the golden hues and felt a rush of disappointment….only a carp, albeit a big one.
Wireman had taken the leader in hand as there was no net aboard. “It’s a carp, Remo” he stated simply with neither awe or regret. He simply stated the obvious to the boy.
“Yes wireman, as he now also called his uncle, “But a big one that is colored nicely and was a great fighter!”
The fish was saved for future bait. It was time to go in as the lights from the surrounding cities lit up to welcome the night.
[url "http://utahfishingguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/remo-ryan-carp1.jpg"]![[Image: remo-ryan-carp1-1024x680.jpg]](http://utahfishingguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/remo-ryan-carp1-1024x680.jpg)
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“Reel in Remo,” Wireman stated halfheartedly as though he wanted to stay.
“One second wireman. I’ve got a bite”. With that he set the hook and moments later he added to the numbers in the live well.
As I slowly searched for the opening to the harbor in the darkness I turned to look at the boy. The running lights lit his face up with a great of contentment. He had come to fish and spend time with his uncle and his uncle’s cranky old friend. He had caught fish without passing judgment as to their worth or place in the angler’s hierarchy. His pleasure was pure and untarnished by anticipation. In his youth and perhaps innocence he was one with the surroundings, neither intruder nor guest. Simply one.
[url "http://utahfishingguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/remo-smile1.jpg"]![[Image: remo-smile1-680x1024.jpg]](http://utahfishingguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/remo-smile1-680x1024.jpg)
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It has been over fifty years since I had felt that way and many years since I had even witnessed the wonder that unfolded before me yesterday. When the boat was on the trailer and we prepared to leave the boy turned to me and stated simply. “Thank you Henline.” as he knows me by no other name.
“Thank you, Remo. I learned a lot today.” And I thought to myself, perhaps I learned more than even I can understand.
[url "http://utahfishingguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/sunset1.jpg"]![[Image: sunset1-1024x680.jpg]](http://utahfishingguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/sunset1-1024x680.jpg)
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As I age and approach the time of my death I see and feel with a different clarity. I no longer kill. Not to eat. Not for sport. I strive not to judge, for who am I to say what is right and wrong? Is the wild brown trout caught with ones own hand tied fly more sacred than the cod brought from the depths with a trawlers net? Is the venison brought to the table with the arrow and the long bow somehow better, purer or worthier than the flesh of the slaughterhouse steer? I do not know. These are questions for the philosophers. I am only a fisherman.
I am a fisherman who now sees the carp and the catfish no less elegant than the grayling or the steelhead, the sheephead full brother to the marlin. These denizen of the deep, pure blue of the oceans or the stagnate sloughs and bays are one. I knew this as a child, but the knowledge was lost. Through time as opportunity and fortune allowed me to travel, I placed the great marlin of the worlds tropics above all of the waters denizens in the highest esteem. Anything less was not worthy. Foolish and vain I am!
The things I knew and sensed as a child were true and somehow pure. I was not jaded, not educated, not biased. My heart and my instincts spoke me to and the voice I heard was innocence. That was a long long time ago. Today on my boat, those truths, that innocence revisited me. I was the student. The child the teacher.
His name is Remo Rivera. He is entering the eighth grade at Mapleton Junior High School. Like his friends at school, he likes girls and sports and computers and games. His uncle Ryan, who I call ‘Wireman,’ frequently accompanies me aboard my boat. Wireman is the consummate angler. He’s as good as any fisherman I know, anywhere in the world. He is knowledgeable, driven and tolerates my autocratic ways with a
.I asked Wireman to invite his nephew to join us for an evening of catfishing at Utah Lake. The pair came aboard and the boy greeted me with a big
. As we left Lincoln beach and entered the lake his bearing changed from slight trepidation to enjoyment as I throttled up.The bow dropped into the chop and we sped across the big lake towards Bird Island. Wireman was busy preparing rods and when I glanced at Remo, his face was a study of pleasure. It was obvious that he was enjoying the ride and the boat. Arriving at the shallow island it appeared to still be coated with ice and snow as its rocks were covered with screaming gulls, terns and the big pelicans. All of them white save the coots and grebes.
A southwest wind was blowing creating two-foot rollers. It was difficult to anchor and hold. Wireman had the rods all rigged upon arrival and Remo produced a bag of shrimp to use for bait along with the worms. I chided him that “The cooked shrimp were too good to waste on catfish and that perhaps it would be better if I ate the bait.” With a big
, he admonished me that, “Catfish were good too. Very good.” I couldn’t argue with that. Then he advised me that he “didn’t really like seafood except king crap, but he enjoyed catching fish”.The sun was warm and the wind kept the insects at bay. The big white pelicans lifted from the shoreline providing stark contrast against the azure skies as the thermals lifted them in perfect formation ever higher. The boy watched them without comment then baited his rod and cast out expertly. Although there was a rod holder at his side, he hand held his pole intently watching the tip. In a few minutes he reared back on the rod while taking up slack with the reel and set the hook.
First to the boat was a white bass. The
on his face told a story words cannot as we congratulated him on the first fish. Within minutes he had re-baited and cast back out. The scene repeated itself as he brought in another white bass and then a fat, healthy mud cat. Three fish in the live well and Wireman and I hadn’t got a bite.Remo studied his rod tip as well as the birds on the rocky island. Occasionally between catching fish his bright eyes would study the great mountains, Loafer and Nebo to the South, their high peaks building with dark clouds that shed rain that never reached the ground except to mist the aspen and pines. A couple of hours later with Remo catching the vast majority of fish, we decided to move to the leeward side of West Mountain, near the orchards, to escape the building wind.
I was watching Remo intently after I had shut the big motor down and we glided into the shallows. He was taking everything in. Twice he looked at the sonar to determine our depth. When the boat was moored he moved from the bow to the stern and cast into the deeper water advising me that,” if I expected to catch fish I should use a piece of shrimp as well as a night crawler. “What was there for me to say? He had caught the great majority of fish and I hadn’t gotten a single bite.
For the next two hours he caught fish after fish. Channel cats, mud cats, white bass. Each fish was fought as expertly as even the wireman could aspire to do. Wireman and I could only watch in amazement. The lad was giving a demonstrations on catching fish…..many fish.
The sun, like a giant drop of blood, dropped from the afternoon skies.. A threatening storm cloud was backlit by the disappearing orb and the water stained the silver red of cinnabar. When I looked from the western skies the boy jumped from the deck to the casting platform on the stern. His rod was bent deeply and the reel protested the stealing of its line. His face broke from a look of sheer determination to ecstatic joy as he fought the fish expertly, ignoring his uncle’s instructions. The battle was between the boy and the fish. No one else could enter the arena.
The fish ran under the boat and into the reeds to escape, but Remo denied each and every tactic. I could only watch silently trying to stay out of the way as the boy moved around the boat applying pressure when he could, giving line when he must.
In time, the fish could resist no more and surfaced near the boat. I had hoped from the battle that the fish would be a giant channel catfish in the 20 to 30 pound class. As it broke the surface at boat side I could see the golden hues and felt a rush of disappointment….only a carp, albeit a big one.
Wireman had taken the leader in hand as there was no net aboard. “It’s a carp, Remo” he stated simply with neither awe or regret. He simply stated the obvious to the boy.
“Yes wireman, as he now also called his uncle, “But a big one that is colored nicely and was a great fighter!”
The fish was saved for future bait. It was time to go in as the lights from the surrounding cities lit up to welcome the night.
[url "http://utahfishingguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/remo-ryan-carp1.jpg"]
[/url] “Reel in Remo,” Wireman stated halfheartedly as though he wanted to stay.
“One second wireman. I’ve got a bite”. With that he set the hook and moments later he added to the numbers in the live well.
As I slowly searched for the opening to the harbor in the darkness I turned to look at the boy. The running lights lit his face up with a great
of contentment. He had come to fish and spend time with his uncle and his uncle’s cranky old friend. He had caught fish without passing judgment as to their worth or place in the angler’s hierarchy. His pleasure was pure and untarnished by anticipation. In his youth and perhaps innocence he was one with the surroundings, neither intruder nor guest. Simply one. [url "http://utahfishingguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/remo-smile1.jpg"]
[/url]It has been over fifty years since I had felt that way and many years since I had even witnessed the wonder that unfolded before me yesterday. When the boat was on the trailer and we prepared to leave the boy turned to me and stated simply. “Thank you Henline.” as he knows me by no other name.
“Thank you, Remo. I learned a lot today.” And I thought to myself, perhaps I learned more than even I can understand.
[url "http://utahfishingguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/sunset1.jpg"]
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