I went on a stupid fishing trip the other day. It was a fine outing all the same.
The trip was organized the postmodern way, via text. I’m dating myself and my fishing companions somewhat with our method of communication. I suspect young hipster anglers use Snapchat to arrange this sort of thing.
We are old enough to remember when text messaging seemed a miracle imported from a gilded future, so the three of us remain enamored with its utility.
The text said my friends would take me to their “secret bluegill hotspot” which left me to believe the trip wouldn’t involve serious fishing.
The invite came while I was back home in Southern California, which is roasting in the summer drought and heatwave now afflicting much of the West, though, in Southern California, a summer drought and heatwave is just called summer.
I was there visiting family and friends, taking in a Dodger game and being generally happy to visit somewhere I could breathe clean air for a change.
That the summer air in Southern California is cleaner than Montana is a remarkable twist of fate, but this story is about stupid fishing trips and the target species that so often inspires them.
Many anglers learned the craft on bluegill before graduating to fish deemed more worthy of their efforts. The reasons for this conversion are legion. These sunfish usually swim in packs of smallish fish, generally 3 or 4 inches long, and they are voracious. Bluegill tend to eat anything in their immediate vicinity.
More often than not, if you catch one, stay put and just keep doing what you’re doing. You’re liable to catch the entire pack.
These characteristics make bluegill the ideal fish for young anglers with their short attention spans and lack of interest in advanced angling concepts, such as the “satisfaction” derived by devoting countless, fishless hours pursuing more wily, noble fishes.
Smart kids.
They’re also why we abandon bluegill when we’re not such young anglers anymore. It’s a mistake. Bluegill are a hoot. The key is light tackle, and an appropriately youthful frame of mind. Fly rods and small, brightly colored poppers are the bee’s knees. If you’re not too snooty about it, trail that popper with a meal worm impaled on a small bait hook.
If you fool a giant, maybe 8 inches or so, expect it to get sideways on you and fight with the power of a small oar, as bluegill and other sunfish are as broad as they are long.
So how many fish did we catch on our bluegill expedition? Zero. We tried to catch them, albeit meekly, but we got on the water just in time for peak overhead sun exposure. Even ravenous bluegill aren’t stupid enough to be roaming the shallows in those conditions.
Our expedition was fishless, but it certainly wasn’t pointless. One of the things about being part of the generation that still considers text messaging “futuristic” is that some of us are accumulating the kind of defects that eventually separate us from this mortal coil. Such is the case with one of my fellow bluegill anglers, and his side effects ensured this would be a brief excursion, even if we hit it when the bluegill were on fire.
It might have been a stupid fishing trip, but it was a smart excuse to do what needed done: to touch base to remind one another we still give a darn. Smart, because you probably won’t rush to break out your Sunday best and visit if you get a text reading, “Hey, I might be dead soon. You should come by so we chat about that dreary subject.”
But a promise to learn the location of a secret bluegill hotspot?
That’s an invite you’re never too old to pass up.
Rob Breeding writes and blogs at www.mthookandbullet.com.
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