Transitions: Growing and Fishing

Transitions are an interesting part of life. They can be challenging and fun, or challenging and a chore. For most of us who read about such things, fishing and hunting are the fresh air we live for and getting on the water or into the field fulfills our heart's desire.

As a boy, growing up in Ohio - actually, the votes are out as to whether I've grown up or not - I fished every chance I had. I have no memory that does not include fishing and hunting. Thanks dad. We started with a cane pole, braided line, snelled hook with a chunk of worm or maggot and bobber, flipping the rig just past the weeds to waiting bluegill that just had to be fed. The tug at one end usually resulted in a tug at the other, and the smiles and giggles that resulted still ring in my head. These were my halcyon days of my youth, when I was still a fishing purist.
The transition from cane pole to spinning rod happened when I was about five- or six- years old. I stopped being a purist and graduated into being a snob, for anyone past the age of five who fishes in any manner whatsoever, in my opinion, is a snob. Sure, I still had lots of fun fishing, but I was no longer the cane pole purist. (Later, I'd graduate and further my snobbishness by fishing primarily with bamboo fly rods, but that's a story for another...story.) In the evening I'd practice casting a yellow plastic weight into trash cans set up around the yard. When we were in a boat, dad would say, "See that lily pad over there? Cast the popper to the edge, just like you did in the yard and a bass will take it."

And the bass usually did.

When we moved to the country we had a three-acre lake in the back yard that was full of bass and bluegill. The spinning rod was always rigged and ready to go; the small plastic box with spinners, a popper and rubber worm at the ready when the spirit moved me to walk down to the lake and see what was up. Often, an hour so of casting and fishing was enough because I knew I'd be back soon, and then again.

Sometimes I got sidetracked when I stopped for a swim, or to watch the birds or observe the rabbits. After all, next time I might carry the .22 or .20 gauge instead. Frogs and turtles were always interesting. I learned to respect wildlife and to love being outdoors and in their midst. Groundhogs were tricky and sneaky and sometimes the bass were hard to fool, too.

There was an old bamboo fly rod on the wall of the garage, just above my spinning pole. It had an automatic reel with thick line on it and small ant attached to the end of the thin mono. I had no idea how it worked; it seemed mystical to me. Once in a while, when the water was warm and the bluegills were particularly greedy, dad would take the fly rod to the lake and cast it over bluegill beds. They'd attack the fly and he'd hoot and holler about how much fun it was. I tried casting it a few times, but never really got the hang of it. The fact of the matter was that dad didn't really know how it worked and had no idea of how to teach me. The fly was stuck in the weeds behind me more than it was in the mouth of a fish. I'd revert to the ultra light spinning gear and have at it.
Until later, of course, but that involved the move to Colorado and another transition: from spin fishing to the fly!