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-FROM
THE EDITOR- 28 April, 2004-
The Five Stages of Skunked
You aren't going to catch a single fish on your next river outing, but you don't
know that yet. It is the night before your trip and all preparations have been
made: the boat is loaded up, all three alarm clocks are set, and the cooler is
packed. If it is early spring, you may have already slipped into your waders for
the night, a stuffy and inconvenient way to sleep, but a sure timesaver when you
get to the river. All preparations and pre-trip rituals have been observed
except for one, the most hallowed of rituals that must be performed after all
other business is settled. It is time to tie on the next day's lure.
Getting the tackle box organized for the trip is the fisherman's equivalent
to dating. Each lure gets a look. They are all examined under the light,
caressed, and perhaps drawn through imaginary water with expectant hands. All
spinner blades are thumped to make sure they spin properly, and all the little
bits of fishing line are gently snipped off the lures. Who is going to get the
first dance? All the other contestants are
noticeably disappointed when I reach in the tackle box and select a Rapala
minnow. It is late spring. The fish should be fairly active, but probably not
active enough to slam a noisy topwater bait. This is the only moment of my
fishing life that I actually count seven twists of line in the improved clinch
knot I normally tie. I carefully clip the tag end of the knot after cinching it
tight, visions of large jumping bass filling my head. No fisherman will ever
have a fishing trip that matches the expectations of this moment. It is
impossible. Stage One: Plan A
The alarm clocks go off all at once. I squish around the bedroom turning them
all off, subconsciously wondering why my waders feel like they already have
river water in the bottom. Before heading off, I make eye contact with the
Rapala, today's Plan A, sitting confidently taut, hooked onto my lowest rod
guide. "You'll ride up front with me", I say, gently slipping the rod
next to me in the passenger's seat. Slipping out onto the water, the river
is eerily calm. Too dang calm. But for two solid hours I cast that minnow plug
into the bassiest looking water you'll ever see, threading the needle between
logs and rock crevices, working this trebled wiggling wonder in and out of
harm's way. Yet this siren's song is going unheeded today. Two solid hours of
some of the best casting the world will ever see and nary a bite. Maybe I should
try something else. There are a bunch of good lures in my tackle box. Stage
Two: Plans B, C, D, and E Stage
Two is marked by steadily increasing changes in tactics, and also by steadily
increasing frustration. I try a spinnerbait for forty-five minutes. The plastic
worm gets thirty minutes. The suspending jerkbait gets fifteen minutes. The
jig-n-pig gets lost high in a tree after two casts. One sub-symptom of Stage Two
is that casting accuracy generally decreases the farther into Stage Two one
gets. It is hot. I look into the tackle box and all I get are cold, unfeeling
stares from the lures that were vying to seduce me the night before. Some of the
smaller lures are avoiding eye contact altogether. This is the point where the
fishing trip ceases to be fun. Stage
Three: Going Small "Geez,
I just want to catch SOMETHING" I mutter to myself, tying on a tiny Rooster
Tail in-line spinner. The psychology of Stage Three is complex. The thinking is
that by putting on a tiny lure, the angler will catch lots of fish, even though
they might be small and not of the original target species. Success in Stage
Three can often result in an improved state of mind in the angler, since by
definition "fishing" ought to, at some point, involve
"fish". There are times when Going Small really pays off. Sometimes
the act of catching numerous small fish makes the world OK again, and the angler
will either have fun catching smaller fish or perhaps return to Stages One or
Two in an improved state of mind. Not today.
Failure in Stage Three can seriously damage the psyche. It's like asking all the
pretty girls to the dance and being rejected. Finally, you ask the ugly girl who
is a sure thing and then she says "No" also. On this day I have sunk
to sight casting for creek chubs and hornyhead minnows and still can't get a
bite. My casts have become about as accurate as the weather forecast, and I have
just broken off my tiny lure fifteen feet high on a rocky bluff. It's hot, too. Stage
Four: Time Out Those of you
with small children are familiar with Time Out. When a child gets overly unruly,
exasperated, or violent the best thing a loving parent can do is to move the
child to a quiet place where they can regain their composure and contemplate the
error of their ways. I put the rod down without tying on another lure. The boat
floats downstream, listlessly turning in slow circles, bumping into rocks and
trees. I stare vacantly into the lifeless water, pondering nothing. Stage Four
is often fatal to the continuance of a fishing trip. Many anglers will conclude the day's fishing at this point and
paddle out. Since fishing is not supposed to involve intense self-loathing,
calling it a day at Stage Four is often the best thing to do. Stage Four is
rarely permanent, and the symptoms normally only persist until about Wednesday
of the following week. I dunk my hat into the river and slop it onto my
smoldering head. I set my jaw. I'm not done yet. Stage
Five: "I'm Going to Fish the Way I Damn Well Please"
Stage Five is normally marked by a short stage of euphoria, illogical
decision-making, and inane babbling. Late in Stage Five, the angler may even
experience hallucinations. I tie on a buzzbait, my favorite lure. Never mind
that the surface of this cursed river has not stirred all day. My first few
casts are all on the money, and I revel in the metallic clap-clap-clap of this
bizarre, but often effective lure. I'm fishing the way I want to, by God, and
those darn fish can come to me. I'm through trying to please them. Anglers in
Stage Five will often resort to lures they would never fish otherwise. If you
see an angler casting a Flying lure or banjo Minnow, my advice is to steer
clear. They either don't know what they're doing or are deep in the clutches of
Stage Five. To escape
Stage Five, the angler needs a fish to strike within the first ten casts. After ten
casts or so, the euphoria fades into grim reality, and the next bad cast
normally results in a permanent return to Time Out.
That strike never comes. I realize no fish is going to hit my buzzbait and am
too forlorn to tie on anything else. Then the hallucinations begin. I realize I
am deep into Stage Five when I thankfully see the take-out bridge every time I
round a bend in the river, only to see it disappear as I draw near. I hate
Georgia. I hate rivers. I hate fishing. Upon arriving home, I avoid all contact
with my fishing buddies or anyone else that might want to talk fishing. I screen
all my calls. Until about Wednesday or so....
Sincerely,
Sam
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