I Fish . . . Therefore I Am

Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish and you’ll soon find your refrigerator full of plastic tubs of nightcrawlers, rotting chicken livers, and a unique combination of ingredients that are inevitably referred to as blood-bait. This is right and proper, just how life should be, for we are now at the onset on summer. Summer means different things to different people – vacations, mowing, sun-tans, ticks, mosquitoes – but to me it signifies the high-season of man’s most lofty endeavor.

Killing fish.

I am not a “catch and release” sort of fellow. In fact, I find the concept to be ridiculous, perhaps a Socialistic plot designed to break down the very bedrock of society. I have a theory that people who say they practice “catch and release” are either (A) very poor fisherman who never catch anything but moss, a buzz or a cold or (B) deprived individuals who have never been exposed to the wholly American concept of “catch and eat.”

These folks cannot be bad people; after all, they are fishing. That act, in and of itself, implies a pure soul. Remember, there are no bad fishermen…just bad TV fishing shows. I suspect the real problem is that, during their formative years, the “catch and release” practitioners received a sub-standard education regarding the inalienable right of piscatorial whacking. Thus, I have a certain humanitarian duty to bring the unenlightened into the warming glow of truth, justice, and American-made treble hooks.

First off, there is one commandment that supersedes all others when it comes to pursuing and capturing the denizens of river, creek, pond and lake. It is this:  “In the deep-fryer, all fish are created equal.”  Largemouth, smallmouth, goggle-eye, perch, bluegill, sucker, drum, buffalo… even trout. All these are fair game for the age-old techniques of “catch and eat.” Frankly I am boggled when I hear of someone preparing a fish in an oven, or sautéing it in garlic butter or (and this explains a lot about the French) poaching it in cream sauce. Let’s not even talk about sushi. It’s just another form of bait, high-dollar chum that has been pawned off as a faddish delicacy on an impressionable public.

No, a dead fish should enjoy full-immersion in a Zip-Loc shower of flour or cornmeal or both, maybe dunked in some egg, milk or beer and showered again. Then, it’s straight into a 400-degree vat of bubbling oil till golden brown. The deceased is then to be served with curly fries and slaw and ketchup and tarter sauce and hush puppies. For the novice, please note that you should not attempt to fry the cole slaw, ketchup or tarter sauce. You’ll just end up with a mess, and likely some third-degree burns. Plus, people will think you’re addled…and they’ll be right.

Second law…any method of fishing is a good method of fishing, assuming said method results in a full stringer. Though I don’t personally partake of techniques such as noodling (I’m a snake magnet), gigging (too blamed cold), trot or juglines (too lazy to check them regularly), shocking (electricity has proven itself to not be my friend) or high explosives (I’m already half-deaf), I personally hold nothing against those who do. A friend of mine used to speak of fishing with hand grenades during his Vietnam days. To me, that is angling dedication personified. It is tangible proof that while necessity is the mother of invention, the father of invention is a wad of C-4 or a bunch of #10 Primacord.

Me…I prefer to shove off in the canoe with a bunch of minnows, liver, worms and big, honkin’ hooks. I paddle slowly, taking in the silence of the Gasconade, watching the herons, breathing deep the perfume of loamy bank and slow water, and occasionally dispensing a water moccasin with extreme prejudice. I light my pipe, rig my line, cast up and downstream, and hook a little bell to the poles. If the pole bounces or the bell rings (hopefully waking me up) I have a fish.

And that fish, with any luck, is of the cat variety. This is the most important lesson of all. You see, the catfish is the king of all fish. They are easy to catch in a lake or farm pond, but often a tad hard to find in rivers. It’s all about temperature. Cats only bite well when the temperature pleases them. In ponds and lakes you can find holes and hide-outs with varying temperate zones. On more shallow rivers, you have to search, and think, and acquire the patience of Job.  But should you be successful, hooking and landing your catch, whacking and cleaning and boiling in oil, you will experience a gastronomic treat that makes the Ambrosia of the Greek Gods seem like char-broiled mole in comparison.

Admittedly, there are many days when you will not catch a fish. This is a good thing, for it means those finned, whiskered devils who have eluded your wiliest tricks are growing ever larger. When you finally win the day they will fight harder, dive deeper and taste better. A skunked fishing trip gives one the incentive and dreams to await the next sunrise with enthusiasm and excitement.

But for goodness sake, on those perfect days when the fish flock to your blood-bait-bedecked hook, don’t throw them back. In some cultures, Fishus Interruptus is viewed as a cardinal sin.

It’s a wonderful thing to tell the tale of “the one that got away.”

Regaling the crowd with the legend of “the one you tossed back” will just get you laughed at.