Phishy
02-06-2008, 10:35 PM
I took me a while, but i found this story of my youth. Please enjoy, and forgive the crudeness in the writing, i never claimed to be an author, but i think many will be able to relate.
All this talk about salmon fishing gets the old memory bank going. Back, way back, 1987ish, high school, I was working in a restaurant on Hwy 20 in Racine, the Packing House. I was a prep cook and line cook of a fine dining establishment. I worked as many hours as legally possible for a minor. Being fine dining, dinner (supper to some) was the busy time so my shift didn’t usually start until 3 pm and ended around 11 pm. I was making good money for a 17 yr. old; enough to purchase some decent rods for fishing off the piers on Lake Michigan, but not enough for a vehicle.
Fishing had been instilled at an early age. Life throws us many curves and I found myself getting into trouble. I took the wrong path of choices, hung out with the wrong crowd, got into more trouble than the normal teenage things. After some straightening out, I figured out what was important to me in life at the time - fishing. Since I wasn’t doing the things that prevented me from pursuing my favorite pastime I clung desperately to this passion.
The summer between my junior and senior year, I was probably one of the few teenagers that would set my alarm clock for 3:30 am just to go fishing for salmon off the piers. Since I didn’t have a vehicle, I had to ride my bike. Vision this: a blue ten speed, with 26” tires, the thin variety, not the fat tire models that are so popular today, curved handle bars, turned up so I didn’t have to bend over all the time. No brakes, the cables had broken repeatedly, but I managed to figure a way to use my foot by wedging it between the frame and rear tire; needless to say I wore out many shoes. On this bike I would strap, three rods along the center bar between my legs. One rod was an ultra-light; the other two were eight footers with the long handle for getting that extra push for casting further distances. These rods would break down in half for easier transportation. I adorned them with bulky open faced spinning reels, large egg beaters I would call them, spooled with at least 150 yards of 12 lb. test. Also strapped with the rod grouping was a landing net with a three foot diameter and four foot aluminum handle with a broom stick that fit rather nicely into the handle of the net. I had drilled a hole through both, and when secured with a bolt and wing-nut, it worked rather nicely for reaching the four feet down to the water from the pier. I had a rack over the rear tire on the back of the bike, not one of those basket types, but a flat rack. Atop this I would strap a lawn chair, and place the hoop of the net then the rod tips on top of this, just for a little support. Between the handle bars I had a small bike bag. Inside this bag I kept a small tackle box with extra hooks, bell sinkers, swivels, some little beads, a small square of aluminum foil, two empty pop cans and a few lures. I carried mostly spoons, but just in case the perch were biting, I had some small jigs. I hung two five gallon buckets on the handle bars. One of the buckets had two, two foot section of PVC pipe attached with hose clamps on opposite sides, slightly angling out and up - rod holders. A small rope, about ten feet in length and a five quart pail placed in one of the five gallon buckets, completed the outfitted package. The rope had two purposes, a stringer and when attached to the five quart pail, a dip for water to fill the five gallon buckets in order to hold the bait I would catch and act as ballast on the rod holding rig..
The alarm would go off at 3:30 am, by 3:35 I was grabbing the dead bait out of the fridge from the morning before, open the garage, and jump onto my bike. Thirty minutes later after about a six mile bike ride across town to the South Pier, I would reach the pier. Riding a bike did have an advantage; I was able to ride directly out onto the pier with all my gear. The bike-less had to carry all their stuff or put it into some type of cart. The pier was ½ mile long; and many people never walked more than half way to the bend.
I would unload the bike and prepare to set the lines in the dark. The eastern horizon barely hinting that the sun is soon to rise. I sat in the same place every morning, just on the inside of the bend of the pier. I thought the current slipping across the tip of this angle created a small eddy, it may very well have, but I never had any way of telling for sure. It seemed the currents were always unpredictable. Although the Great Lakes have a tide, it’s nothing like the ocean; still this was my reasoning for choosing this spot. It seemed to be working, so why mess with a good thing. I would fill the rod holder bucket with water place it out on a flat rock. Then take the dead bait and hook it through the dorsal fin. Swing the rod back and heave the bait out into the blackness, squinting, trying to watch as it sailed through the air, making sure the bait didn’t fly off. I had confidence that it would stay on.
An old timer showed me a rig that almost guareenteed that my precious bait wouldn’t go flinging off. It was similar to a three way river rig, but instead of a tri-swivel, I used two barrel swivels. One swivel would have a two to three foot section of line with a ½ - ¾ oz. bell sinker at the end. The other would have only about 6 inches of line with a #2 octopus hook attached. The short hook line would be threaded onto the main line and be allowed to slip freely, a small bead added, and then tie off the sinker line to the main line leading to the rod - a free slipping version of a river rig. Two advantages to this rig, one is obvious, fish could pick up the bait and feel very little resistance. The other benefit, the momentum of the cast was transferred to the weight rather than the bait. All too often I had seen people cast off their bait repeatedly, and some days bait was a valuable commodity.
The old timer that showed me this trick was down on the pier almost every morning, we would share bait, net each others fish, and just converse. Two generations converging, if not for a least a moment in time. I find myself wondering whatever happened to him. We make friends for three purposes either for a reason, a season, or life. I believe I had made a friend for a season.
Once the sinker had settled to the bottom, I would tighten the line, place the rig in a rod holder, open the bail, take out four extra feet of line, and wrap the line half way around the aluminum soda can half filled with water, keeping the line taut. Then take a tiny piece of foil and attach it to the line just at the rod tip. The idea was when a fish would take the bait; it would knock over the can. There were two purposes to this. One, the line was now free spooling, again the resistance thing, and two, the can falling over made noise, an alarm of sorts. Once the alarm went off, my attention was on the foil, it was an indicator. I didn’t have to run over to the rod and pick it up, a mistake many people made, there was plenty of time. I could just watch the piece of foil from my comfortable seat in the lawn chair and still tell if the fish had the bait and was making a run. Often the fish would stop and swallow the bait, then move again, this is when I would set the hook. If the fish was peeling out line I could watch the foil and see this plainly, then I would strike the fish immediately, as it more than likely had the bait in its mouth, but if the foil just lay there, I would let it sit for a few minutes. Some times a fish would strike and drop the bait, but come back for it, or another fish would grab it. If nothing happens, I would simply check the bait and reset.
With both rods in the water, catching live bait would be the next task. I’d grab my ultra-light. On the end of this would be a small plain silver spoon. I would tie a small section of line to the end of the treble hook onto which a tiny gold hook was attached. Cast this out repeatedly, walking up and down the pier, until I found bait. Alewives would strike the gold hook. I’m still not sure why, nor did I care, as long as it worked. Sometimes a bigger fish would grab the spoon. If it was a small enough fish, I was able to land it. The biggest fish I ever landed on that rod was a Coho about 4 lbs. This rod was a five foot willow whip with four lb. test, not meant to handle big kings, which sometimes happened, I would just grab the line and break off. It was going to happen anyway. The one time I tried to fight a big king on that rod, it nearly spooled me. I needed to catch bait. If I was getting strikes on a spoon, I’d switch one of the bigger rods over, but normally if the fish were that active, the live bait still out fished the spoons. I would stand on the pier, trying to catch bait in the dark, gazing at the stars. I recall the August meteor showers, and Orion, the Hunter, was almost always out at this time of the day; it was one of the glorious times in my life.
I would finally catch a live alewife; I would immediately put it in a bucket of water and transfer it to a hook. I’d always keep the dead bait around until I had enough live fish; dead bait is better than no bait. Sometimes I would catch a fish well before light, which was always a blast, having no idea where the fish is going, fighting by feel alone. Then when people started to show after first light, it was always a proud moment to have a fish already on the stringer. Rarely ever was there any one else other than the old-timer and myself on the pier at this time of the morning. If people knew how good the fishing was right as the false dawn started, it would have been crowed out there. I’d say close to 50% of the fish I caught were between that magical hour before the true sunrise. Most people showed up after the bite had occurred. Once I figured this out, it was hard to keep me off the pier.
Of course some days the fish bit all morning or even all day. I normally would fish until 11:00 am if the fishing slowed. If the action was hot, I’d stay till 1:00 pm at the latest if I had to work; I did have a half hour bike ride and normally had at least one fish to clean. One day the fishing was phenomenal.
It was one of those exceptional days, word got out and the pier was packed. I believe it was a weekend and scorching hot as well. The best air conditioner around was Lake Michigan. If it was unbearable on shore, just head to the lake, it would be 10-20 degrees cooler on the water.
I already had three fish bobbing on the stringer, two fat Cohos, around 6 lbs each, and one nice King - 20ish. My soda can tipped over again. The line was peeling out, so I set into it, BOOM, big fish. The rod bent over in a glorious arc. I held the rod tight to my chest with my right arm with my hand almost in my face and my left hand on the crank, leaning back slightly, smiling as I felt the power of this fish. I think I only pissed it off by setting the hook. My reel was screaming, but I couldn’t tighten the drag for fear of breaking the line. I swear I saw smoke drifting from the reel. After the initial impressive run, we were at a stand still. I’d win some line back by leaning forward to take up the slack line then lean back to inch a bit more, only to be defeated again as the brute surged out for open water, it was like taking three slow steps forward to gain line, then two rapid steps back, losing it again. Slow going but I was methodically gaining ground. I fought this fish, for what seemed an eternity. I notice people are starting to leave the pier from around the corner. I can’t see past the bend and there are rocks piled up too high behind me. Pretty soon I notice folks frantically leaving, packing up in a hurry. I’m still trying to see what is around the bend. I walk the fish up to the corner, and see a big black wall cloud closing in real fast. I never heard the thunder, but now I recognize the rumble. Problem, I have on a huge fish!
There are still a few other diehards out on the pier still, I’m fighting this fish and the thunder keeps getting louder and louder. The wind calm and I know its close. That the eerie sensation one gets just before a large storm is about to strike, engulfs my body. I can feel that my life is in danger, and I’m out in the open. One of the fellow foolish fishermen is still on the pier and helps me gather my stuff. He reels in my other rod, dumps the water from buckets; things I’m comfortable letting him do. I finally land the fish and it’s a beaut, about a 27-28 lb. King - just gorgeous. I bonk him on the head, strap all my gear to the bike, put the fish in the buckets, two in each and one bucket on each side to try and balance the weight. I have almost 60 lbs of fish balancing on my handle bars, three rods, a landing net, a lawn chair and a raging storm behind me. In front of me is ¼ mile of pier, and a giant hill, and no shelter. I take off, racing the storm. At the top of the hill is a pavilion, if I can reach it, then at least I’d stay dry. I pump and pump the crank of the bike. I reach the base of the hill. I can’t stand up to peddle. If I do, my weight shifts the fish around too much and I can’t control the bike. I’m in the lowest possible gear. I look back and can see the rain on the way, a wall of wind and water. Almost there…a few drops of rain… just a ...and bam! It hits me. I’m about 100 grueling yards from the shelter, getting soaked. I reached the shelter, dripping wet, and waited out the worst of the storm, small hail, lots of lightning, and strong winds. After the worse had passed, I actually contemplated going back out a seeing if I could catch one more fish, just to catch my limit for the day. I had never caught a limit of fish, but I decided against the idea. The wind had shifted and the waves were starting to pound the pier. Besides I had just caught my biggest King. I mounted my bike and rode home in the remaining gentle rain.
All this talk about salmon fishing gets the old memory bank going. Back, way back, 1987ish, high school, I was working in a restaurant on Hwy 20 in Racine, the Packing House. I was a prep cook and line cook of a fine dining establishment. I worked as many hours as legally possible for a minor. Being fine dining, dinner (supper to some) was the busy time so my shift didn’t usually start until 3 pm and ended around 11 pm. I was making good money for a 17 yr. old; enough to purchase some decent rods for fishing off the piers on Lake Michigan, but not enough for a vehicle.
Fishing had been instilled at an early age. Life throws us many curves and I found myself getting into trouble. I took the wrong path of choices, hung out with the wrong crowd, got into more trouble than the normal teenage things. After some straightening out, I figured out what was important to me in life at the time - fishing. Since I wasn’t doing the things that prevented me from pursuing my favorite pastime I clung desperately to this passion.
The summer between my junior and senior year, I was probably one of the few teenagers that would set my alarm clock for 3:30 am just to go fishing for salmon off the piers. Since I didn’t have a vehicle, I had to ride my bike. Vision this: a blue ten speed, with 26” tires, the thin variety, not the fat tire models that are so popular today, curved handle bars, turned up so I didn’t have to bend over all the time. No brakes, the cables had broken repeatedly, but I managed to figure a way to use my foot by wedging it between the frame and rear tire; needless to say I wore out many shoes. On this bike I would strap, three rods along the center bar between my legs. One rod was an ultra-light; the other two were eight footers with the long handle for getting that extra push for casting further distances. These rods would break down in half for easier transportation. I adorned them with bulky open faced spinning reels, large egg beaters I would call them, spooled with at least 150 yards of 12 lb. test. Also strapped with the rod grouping was a landing net with a three foot diameter and four foot aluminum handle with a broom stick that fit rather nicely into the handle of the net. I had drilled a hole through both, and when secured with a bolt and wing-nut, it worked rather nicely for reaching the four feet down to the water from the pier. I had a rack over the rear tire on the back of the bike, not one of those basket types, but a flat rack. Atop this I would strap a lawn chair, and place the hoop of the net then the rod tips on top of this, just for a little support. Between the handle bars I had a small bike bag. Inside this bag I kept a small tackle box with extra hooks, bell sinkers, swivels, some little beads, a small square of aluminum foil, two empty pop cans and a few lures. I carried mostly spoons, but just in case the perch were biting, I had some small jigs. I hung two five gallon buckets on the handle bars. One of the buckets had two, two foot section of PVC pipe attached with hose clamps on opposite sides, slightly angling out and up - rod holders. A small rope, about ten feet in length and a five quart pail placed in one of the five gallon buckets, completed the outfitted package. The rope had two purposes, a stringer and when attached to the five quart pail, a dip for water to fill the five gallon buckets in order to hold the bait I would catch and act as ballast on the rod holding rig..
The alarm would go off at 3:30 am, by 3:35 I was grabbing the dead bait out of the fridge from the morning before, open the garage, and jump onto my bike. Thirty minutes later after about a six mile bike ride across town to the South Pier, I would reach the pier. Riding a bike did have an advantage; I was able to ride directly out onto the pier with all my gear. The bike-less had to carry all their stuff or put it into some type of cart. The pier was ½ mile long; and many people never walked more than half way to the bend.
I would unload the bike and prepare to set the lines in the dark. The eastern horizon barely hinting that the sun is soon to rise. I sat in the same place every morning, just on the inside of the bend of the pier. I thought the current slipping across the tip of this angle created a small eddy, it may very well have, but I never had any way of telling for sure. It seemed the currents were always unpredictable. Although the Great Lakes have a tide, it’s nothing like the ocean; still this was my reasoning for choosing this spot. It seemed to be working, so why mess with a good thing. I would fill the rod holder bucket with water place it out on a flat rock. Then take the dead bait and hook it through the dorsal fin. Swing the rod back and heave the bait out into the blackness, squinting, trying to watch as it sailed through the air, making sure the bait didn’t fly off. I had confidence that it would stay on.
An old timer showed me a rig that almost guareenteed that my precious bait wouldn’t go flinging off. It was similar to a three way river rig, but instead of a tri-swivel, I used two barrel swivels. One swivel would have a two to three foot section of line with a ½ - ¾ oz. bell sinker at the end. The other would have only about 6 inches of line with a #2 octopus hook attached. The short hook line would be threaded onto the main line and be allowed to slip freely, a small bead added, and then tie off the sinker line to the main line leading to the rod - a free slipping version of a river rig. Two advantages to this rig, one is obvious, fish could pick up the bait and feel very little resistance. The other benefit, the momentum of the cast was transferred to the weight rather than the bait. All too often I had seen people cast off their bait repeatedly, and some days bait was a valuable commodity.
The old timer that showed me this trick was down on the pier almost every morning, we would share bait, net each others fish, and just converse. Two generations converging, if not for a least a moment in time. I find myself wondering whatever happened to him. We make friends for three purposes either for a reason, a season, or life. I believe I had made a friend for a season.
Once the sinker had settled to the bottom, I would tighten the line, place the rig in a rod holder, open the bail, take out four extra feet of line, and wrap the line half way around the aluminum soda can half filled with water, keeping the line taut. Then take a tiny piece of foil and attach it to the line just at the rod tip. The idea was when a fish would take the bait; it would knock over the can. There were two purposes to this. One, the line was now free spooling, again the resistance thing, and two, the can falling over made noise, an alarm of sorts. Once the alarm went off, my attention was on the foil, it was an indicator. I didn’t have to run over to the rod and pick it up, a mistake many people made, there was plenty of time. I could just watch the piece of foil from my comfortable seat in the lawn chair and still tell if the fish had the bait and was making a run. Often the fish would stop and swallow the bait, then move again, this is when I would set the hook. If the fish was peeling out line I could watch the foil and see this plainly, then I would strike the fish immediately, as it more than likely had the bait in its mouth, but if the foil just lay there, I would let it sit for a few minutes. Some times a fish would strike and drop the bait, but come back for it, or another fish would grab it. If nothing happens, I would simply check the bait and reset.
With both rods in the water, catching live bait would be the next task. I’d grab my ultra-light. On the end of this would be a small plain silver spoon. I would tie a small section of line to the end of the treble hook onto which a tiny gold hook was attached. Cast this out repeatedly, walking up and down the pier, until I found bait. Alewives would strike the gold hook. I’m still not sure why, nor did I care, as long as it worked. Sometimes a bigger fish would grab the spoon. If it was a small enough fish, I was able to land it. The biggest fish I ever landed on that rod was a Coho about 4 lbs. This rod was a five foot willow whip with four lb. test, not meant to handle big kings, which sometimes happened, I would just grab the line and break off. It was going to happen anyway. The one time I tried to fight a big king on that rod, it nearly spooled me. I needed to catch bait. If I was getting strikes on a spoon, I’d switch one of the bigger rods over, but normally if the fish were that active, the live bait still out fished the spoons. I would stand on the pier, trying to catch bait in the dark, gazing at the stars. I recall the August meteor showers, and Orion, the Hunter, was almost always out at this time of the day; it was one of the glorious times in my life.
I would finally catch a live alewife; I would immediately put it in a bucket of water and transfer it to a hook. I’d always keep the dead bait around until I had enough live fish; dead bait is better than no bait. Sometimes I would catch a fish well before light, which was always a blast, having no idea where the fish is going, fighting by feel alone. Then when people started to show after first light, it was always a proud moment to have a fish already on the stringer. Rarely ever was there any one else other than the old-timer and myself on the pier at this time of the morning. If people knew how good the fishing was right as the false dawn started, it would have been crowed out there. I’d say close to 50% of the fish I caught were between that magical hour before the true sunrise. Most people showed up after the bite had occurred. Once I figured this out, it was hard to keep me off the pier.
Of course some days the fish bit all morning or even all day. I normally would fish until 11:00 am if the fishing slowed. If the action was hot, I’d stay till 1:00 pm at the latest if I had to work; I did have a half hour bike ride and normally had at least one fish to clean. One day the fishing was phenomenal.
It was one of those exceptional days, word got out and the pier was packed. I believe it was a weekend and scorching hot as well. The best air conditioner around was Lake Michigan. If it was unbearable on shore, just head to the lake, it would be 10-20 degrees cooler on the water.
I already had three fish bobbing on the stringer, two fat Cohos, around 6 lbs each, and one nice King - 20ish. My soda can tipped over again. The line was peeling out, so I set into it, BOOM, big fish. The rod bent over in a glorious arc. I held the rod tight to my chest with my right arm with my hand almost in my face and my left hand on the crank, leaning back slightly, smiling as I felt the power of this fish. I think I only pissed it off by setting the hook. My reel was screaming, but I couldn’t tighten the drag for fear of breaking the line. I swear I saw smoke drifting from the reel. After the initial impressive run, we were at a stand still. I’d win some line back by leaning forward to take up the slack line then lean back to inch a bit more, only to be defeated again as the brute surged out for open water, it was like taking three slow steps forward to gain line, then two rapid steps back, losing it again. Slow going but I was methodically gaining ground. I fought this fish, for what seemed an eternity. I notice people are starting to leave the pier from around the corner. I can’t see past the bend and there are rocks piled up too high behind me. Pretty soon I notice folks frantically leaving, packing up in a hurry. I’m still trying to see what is around the bend. I walk the fish up to the corner, and see a big black wall cloud closing in real fast. I never heard the thunder, but now I recognize the rumble. Problem, I have on a huge fish!
There are still a few other diehards out on the pier still, I’m fighting this fish and the thunder keeps getting louder and louder. The wind calm and I know its close. That the eerie sensation one gets just before a large storm is about to strike, engulfs my body. I can feel that my life is in danger, and I’m out in the open. One of the fellow foolish fishermen is still on the pier and helps me gather my stuff. He reels in my other rod, dumps the water from buckets; things I’m comfortable letting him do. I finally land the fish and it’s a beaut, about a 27-28 lb. King - just gorgeous. I bonk him on the head, strap all my gear to the bike, put the fish in the buckets, two in each and one bucket on each side to try and balance the weight. I have almost 60 lbs of fish balancing on my handle bars, three rods, a landing net, a lawn chair and a raging storm behind me. In front of me is ¼ mile of pier, and a giant hill, and no shelter. I take off, racing the storm. At the top of the hill is a pavilion, if I can reach it, then at least I’d stay dry. I pump and pump the crank of the bike. I reach the base of the hill. I can’t stand up to peddle. If I do, my weight shifts the fish around too much and I can’t control the bike. I’m in the lowest possible gear. I look back and can see the rain on the way, a wall of wind and water. Almost there…a few drops of rain… just a ...and bam! It hits me. I’m about 100 grueling yards from the shelter, getting soaked. I reached the shelter, dripping wet, and waited out the worst of the storm, small hail, lots of lightning, and strong winds. After the worse had passed, I actually contemplated going back out a seeing if I could catch one more fish, just to catch my limit for the day. I had never caught a limit of fish, but I decided against the idea. The wind had shifted and the waves were starting to pound the pier. Besides I had just caught my biggest King. I mounted my bike and rode home in the remaining gentle rain.