Hooks and reflexes and my yesterday

Greetings,

After lurking off and on between fishing, I decided to try a post. I
don't have a newsreader because my pc is an old banger so I probably
won't be able to follow threads too well. The latest hook controversy
seems to have motivated me; plus it is storming up in Ontario today.
So here goes:

Those of you that have fished heavily and seriously since childhood,
and probably some that took it up later in life, are probably
hardwired for fishing like I am; striking is a reflex arc, done
without thought, usually perfect but still the odd miss: the fish is
already hooked and on by the time the visual message touches your
brain. You would need bionic parts to get better.

That's why the hook discussion intrigues me; if a hook can raise a
curl on my nail, and most can, that's good enough for me. Without
going on about the number of fish and different species I've caught, I
can tell you that I missed damn few fish because of my hook. Striking
at the wrong time would would be the main error. Picture a batter
looking at his bat, looking to blame it, after he swings and misses. I
never blame my gear for my inadequacies, which would be easy because
it is simple and basic, and I like it that way; and you know even the
odd gear whore is able to look past my equipment long enough to
realize I am a good fisherman. I like meeting those guys and share
some basic knowledge with them, pass stuff on that old guys taught me
long ago. They are happy to be themselves and become good company.

Okay, enough of that.

Now I will tell you about yesterday. When I took up flyfishing, I did
it because of the wonder of casting and the dry fly. I love the
mechanics of casting, and I love watching a fish rise for the fly. The
rest of it, I can do better with spinning gear. My poor spinning gear,
consigned to rod tubes and reel bags for seven years; I stopped
spinning...until yesterday.

Rain has turned the rivers and cricks that run into the north shore of
Lake Ontario into yellow coffee. Even the fellows with the long rods
and the roe bags were getting squat where you are allowed to fish
south of the 401 highway. I zipped open a reel bag and found the
Mitchell 300, well-oiled since the day I put it away, loaded with 8 lb
triline. From a rod tube I took the Fewick "Granger" Super Deluxe. I
used that outfit when I had a cabin on ten acres beside the Ottawa
river in the '70s, living on walleye and ruffed grouse.

I grabbed a box of lures and spinners and headed for a piece of river
just above the lake, low disturbed floodplain overgrown with huge
gnarly black willows and boxwood. The only fisherman was an old
Japanese steelheader, so bored he was amusing himself rescuing floats
from tree branches.
"There's no fish in the river," he said.
"I will go downstream to a bend by the marsh and run a lure slowly and
catch a fish," I said.
He laughed. "No one is catching fish. I will walk down with you."
"Years ago I used to catch pike and steelhead there on a silver lure,"
I said.
"It's different now," he said, "no fish anymore."

I let him drift his float along the seam of the pool until he gave up
and made room for me. "See, no fish," he said.

I sent out the lure and visualized it fluttering down about five feet
and began a slow retrieve, saw it running along the bottom. The hit
was not hard but solid and the fish made little resistance.

"Might be a pike," I said.

The Japanese fellow watched with mouth agape as the fish finally
realized it was hooked, a great silver flash, then a foaming explosion
in the coffee water. He laughed, "Damn, it's a big steelhead."

The drag on the Mitchell sang after years of silence, still a fine
piece of gear. The Granger took the shock and still had backbone left
to power the fish to a halt just as it reached a logjam. Even the old
line, stored out light, had remained strong and true. Basic, but good,
equipment.

As I released the great silver fish, green from the lake, the Japanese
man was grinning, and I noticed the hook on the lure, which easily
came out of the steelhead's soft mouth, was a little worn from time
and fish.

I took the time to write this because I get some enjoyment from this
site and figured I should contribute something. And yes, I still dream
of throwing loops in my dreams: I am dry fly mad, but I may take out
my old gear for another adventure in the latte water.

May you tie good knots,

Bob