There's More To Fishing Than Fish

Across the Fence #328

I just returned from spending six days at a conference in Dallas, Texas. It was sunny and the temperature was in the 70’s each day. Now I’m back in Wisconsin and we’re in the middle of a major winter storm. I’m ready to cry “Uncle.” Like most of you, I’ve had enough of winter and don’t want to think about it any more. I’m ready for nice, spring weather, not snow, freezing rain, ice, and cold weather.

It’s time to start thinking about the early trout season and my thoughts are turning to fishing. There’s more to becoming a fisherman than just dropping your line in the water and catching fish.

Henry David Thoreau said, “Such is oftenest the young man's introduction to the forest, and the most original part of himself. He goes thither at first as a hunter and fisher, until at last, if he has the seeds of a better life in him, he distinguishes his proper objects, as a poet or naturalist it may be, and leaves the gun and fish-pole behind.”

There is truth in those words. A young boy is usually introduced to the woods and streams as a hunter and fisherman, generally tagging along with his father to learn the ways of being a part of the natural world around us. Such was my introduction to hunting, fishing, and spending time enjoying the outdoors. I still take a fishing pole with me when I go fishing, but catching fish is just one aspect of fishing when a person becomes a poet (writer) or naturalist, as Thoreau says.

I remember Sunday family picnics along the banks of a stream running through the Kickapoo Valley near Bloomingdale and Avalanche. They were Hanson family outings that included my grandparents, uncles, aunts, and the Hanson cousins.

Blankets were spread on the grass and picnic baskets, full to overflowing with food, were carried from the cars that had been parked alongside the winding country road.

The women sat on the blankets talking and unpacking the food while the men brought out the fishing gear and headed for the bank of the creek. Most of us kids followed close behind. A red and white bobber was attached to the line and a wiggling earthworm was retrieved from a coffee can filled with dirt. The men would impale the struggling worm on a simple hook at the end of the line attached to an old cane pole for each of us kids. They would even put the line in the water before finally handing the pole to us.

We would sit quietly on the bank, hanging onto the pole for dear life in case a monster fish would suddenly strike. We kept our eyes on the bobber as it floated undisturbed on the surface of the water with nary a ripple and no tug from a monster fish.

We sat and waited, and waited, and waited. The anticipation of our bobber suddenly disappearing, eventually gave way to boredom and we soon left our cane poles in the grass and went off exploring along the creek or playing catch. Youngsters are usually short on the patience needed for fishing.

The men would remain seated along the bank, pretending to fish, while discussing the problems of farming and the world in general. Maybe I should have called this column “Beside the Creek” instead of “Across the Fence.” Many stories were told and much information was exchanged on those leisurely Sunday afternoon picnics alongside the meandering creek. I don’t recall many fish being caught, but perhaps that wasn’t the real purpose of fishing after all. Those quiet, peaceful moments along the bank of the creek, with the sound of the water winding its way among the rocks, was music for the soul. This was something the men understood but us youngsters had yet to discover it.

As we got older, our fishing trips were to the Mississippi River. On those rare summer days when there was a lull in the workload on the farm, dad would take us with when he went fishing. We helped him dig worms while ma packed a lunch for us. After stowing the fishing gear, worms, lunch, life preservers, and outboard motor in the trunk of the car, we headed for Genoa, about half an hour away. Our first stop was at the general store in Romance to buy soda and a candy bar, which was always a treat. Of course dad had to check out the fishing gear and usually bought another lure that was sure to catch the big one. Next stop was the Blask Brothers near Genoa, where we rented a boat for the day. We spent some memorable days, fishing on the mighty Mississippi.

When I got older, I accompanied dad and his fishing buddies on trips to Hayward and Canada in search of trophy Muskies, Northerns, and Walleyes. That’s when I began to understand that fishing is much more than catching fish. It’s when Thoreau’s words began to make sense to me.

Now I prowl the streams of Vernon County in search of trout. Fishing has become just one part of the total outdoor experience. The sights, sounds, and smells of nature make the experience complete. The quiet solitude found along a trout stream is good for the soul, as we become one with nature.