Fishing Reports
Preliminary scouting
The venue is a small creek known as The Hocking river. which is a tributary of the Ohio river, which in turn acts as a liquid border between Ohio, Kentucky and West Virginia and all that jazz.
The Ohio river eventually flows into the Mississippi, or “Sissy-piss-up,” that is, a flow of spineless waifs getting drunk. If I’m sounding like a corduroy cloaked geography teacher with storytelling pretensions and a copy of “The Joy of Sex” poking out of my well-worn leather satchel (all the colors all the sizes) then that’s the literary persona I’m going with on this trip.
Other notable phenomena surrounding the venue include the mentally ill, one poor guy lives under a small road bridge a few minutes from where I intend to fish. My girlfriend gave him a tin of Spam which I’d earmarked for the hook, which he guzzled. I’ll bring him some bits and pieces for next time, poor sod: Dear governments, please allocate vast resources to help the human beings that you are supposed to be looking after.
The photo below is taken from a footpath t’other side of which sits a cornfield where the yellow crop stands about 7 ft high, enough to conceal the average rambler. Well guess what, Anglers don’t deal in no average ramblers. Just like something out of Stephen Kong’s spook locker, I noticed the stalks of corn twitching and an unidentified form heading toward the path on a potential collision course, so I quickened my stride barely managing to avoid crashing into the figure of a jittery middle-aged woman mumbling and plucking pieces of plant life from her hair. I said hello and accelerated along the path. What had she been doing in the middle of a corn field, alone? There aren’t many public facilities in the immediate vicinity, so whether she was relieving herself, imbibing a drug or practicing some impromptu sex Wicca I was happy to be putting some distance between us, especially as I began picturing her gaining on me armed with a few ears of contraband sweetcorn intent on male anal sacrifice.
Session 1, The Hocking River, Lancaster, Ohio.
I double-hooked a worm at the head and again at the saddle which made a wriggly pretzel shape. I cast in and only had to wait a few seconds before the float slid under. I struck into a small sunfish, which looks like something one would encounter in a tropical aquarium, blue, turquoise and yellow, with a proud spiked dorsal fin. Strange to see something so colorful and pristine emerge from water the hue of pooh-pooh.
For the next hour I had a bite every cast, with some plump examples swung to hand. The river banks are steep and rise about 8 feet from the water, which enables me to tuck myself away from pedestrians and cyclists that use the path along the river. Sat still and masked by tonnes of sod I often hear snippets of intimate conversation, two stand out excerpts being: “I have this annoying rash on my left ass-cheek” and “Give me the god of Gorgonzola already!”
Next glide down the float disappeared and something solid made its presence known at the other end. The fish was slow moving but heavy then exploded into life, fins whirring as it flexed its powerful tail and surged downstream. All I could do was let it go. Given the depth is only about 3 feet, I could see the fish most of the time during the fight, sudden changes of direction, its flanks like a panel of old gold coins as the sun intervened. Then abruptly, “SNAP!” Fish lost.
Feeling deflated but eager for more action I picked up my backup rod which was loaded with 6lb line straight through with a little bulb “strike indicator” attached and lay the rig into the flow. I kept feeding a little bait along the channel I was working and it wasn’t long before I was into another lump. I played it gingerly, letting the fish follow its own directions, only applying pressure if it threatened to reach the overhanging trees opposite and to my right. I began to make some headway after a few minutes, but couldn’t reach the fish from the ledge I’d been perched on. So I slid down to a patch of soft mud at the water’s edge, sinking ankle deep.
The fish then darted toward the tree to my right and became entangled in sunken branches in such a complex geometry that when I pulled, the fish would ascend vertically out of the water, head first, as if it were intending to surprise birdlife. Slackening the line simply lowered the fish back into the water. This perverse Yo-Yo effect felt embarrassingly shameful, undignified and sadistic, so I waded in with the landing net. The underwater terrain was silty and I struggled to sludge my way toward the carp. I apologized to the fish as I extricated it from the tree, while branch, fish and tackle came off into the net in one bundle. As a final humiliation, the effort of freeing my feet from the thick mud, caused everything to come unstuck and I flew backwards into the water.
Session 3
I arrived at the roadside parking lot at around 8.30 a.m. had a look up river beyond the road bridge and into a field that had recently been cultivated, a nutter would need to be unusually proficient in stealth to get close enough to spook me here. However, as there was no cover and I would be in full view of passing traffic, I didn’t fancy being the subject of continuous rubbernecking so I returned to my usual stretch of water downriver.
On crossing the road I became aware of something emerging from under the bridge, a troll posing as a bailiff perhaps? No, it was the homeless chap hauling his loaded shopping trolley out onto the path, and without the appropriate winch equipment this was a pure act of will. I momentarily considered offering assistance, but reckoned my good intentions might be misinterpreted as hostile, prompting similar counter measures. Just go fishing, and keep self-to-self. Reluctant to keep mining my favorite spot, I opted to fish a patch that was much firmer underfoot but overgrown. I flattened an area on the bank about a foot above water level and further discouraged the foliage either side of me of impeding rod movement.
It was a fresh morning without wind, clear skies and the only sound was coming from a gang of small birds on the opposite bank, engaged in a bout of treetop pillow fighting. As I gently seated myself on the ground a bloody great bronze lump launched itself vertically from the calm waters directly in front of me a meter out… it was as if the fish was addressing me directly, “Fuck you! You’ll have to do better than this you clumsy turd!” This type of thing can happen when one is not at home watching the telly. It was difficult to assess the volume of the fish, it could have been anything from a few ounces to half a ton, the incident was all so arrestingly sudden.
Composing myself as I nestled in the undergrowth I flicked out a thumbnail sized float which slowly dragged a single piece of corn downriver. Through the murk I could see the ghostly yellow dot bobble and pause as it glided over the river bed. The far bank was dense with overhanging trees and I soon sent the business end of the tackle careering into its branches in an attempt to cast my hook into the wet shadows. I forgot the wooden rule: gently ease the rig out of the trees, do not yank vigorously, so by doing the latter I soon had the far bank trees baying up and down like permed apostles in exaggerated prayer, so I pulled for a break.
I tied on a new hook and swung the rig out with less zest this time. Within seconds the float was breakdancing erratically and I assumed this to be the maritime puppetry of an unseen fish, I whipped the rod up vertically and felt the tippy tapping of a small carp of about 2 lb. Like boxers, species of fish have their own distinct fighting style, so it’s possible for the angler to make an educated guess as to what is on the other end. Carp tend to specialize in the ‘power skedaddle’. The fish soon rose and came to the net in an orderly fashion.
I put on another grain of corn and dropped it in at the same place. “Let’s have a breakdance party!” After a few more runs through my fishing zone the float started playing peek-a-boo again and I lifted into another fish, well behaved and about 2 lb in weight, maybe there are a few of them down there. It was when the same result happened next cast that I realized that I was dealing with a recidivist sweetcorn addict, it was same fish, and of course none of this would stand up in court as I had clearly been guilty of entrapment. I began thinking of my airborne interlocutor and decided to move downstream.’
Session 5, The Hocking River.
As I lock the car and begin walking toward my ‘fishing hole,’ I ponder what lies ahead, unsuccessfully trying to remain calm, but I’m excited. All manner of junk thoughts racing between my lobes….”what if a saboteur has dumped vast quantities of super lager upstream in order to thwart standard fish behavior.” Or in a pique of redneck hedonism, wheelspun a pick up truck into the river and remained in situ a-whoopin’ and a hollerin,’ happy with their handiwork. “Please let everything be peaceful” I say to myself.
So, when I round the bend alongside the cornfield my senses heighten further and thoughts accelerate.
Robin: “Holy borrowed shopping carts Batman! There’s a man pacing back and forth at the entrance to the fishing hole.”
Batman: “Nod at him reassuringly Robin.”
Yes, a troubled looking individual with many layers of clothing was indeed darting around at the threshold of the spot I intended to fish. You see, this is the point at which the small creek widens and becomes deeper, the river pauses and rests a little. Moreover, the Bankside offers a ledge allowing a comfortable sitting position closer to the water. I really didn’t want to fish anywhere else.
So I edged closer and summoned the most benign “Hi” I could muster.
“VHUP!” came the response. Clearly the man had other things on his mind.
I gently stepped past him without incident, clambered down the bank and began to prepare my gear ready to fish.
The troubled lad was now sitting only a few meters the other side of a bank side bush to my right. Though as I began to flick my baited hook and let it drift along in the flow, I became more absorbed with the fishing and less concerned that the man would come barreling through the foliage bearing his teeth with fishing rod destruction in his heart. “Do what you like with me, but please forsake my tackle!” For the next 15 minutes the air was punctuated by the beleaguered cackles and tongue twisting of a man tormented. Not ideal fishing conditions, even with strategically placed perennial.
My bait was a small red worm and I began throwing in chopped samples with a few grains of corn every time I cast out. I was letting the float glide down river about 15 meters or so, retrieving the rig, feeding and repeating the process. I was missing bites, so I shallowed up the rig, it was now at around 3 feet deep and swung the tackle out again, plop, making sure the line was directly behind the float for better control. abruptly, the orange tip was pulled under. I lifted the rod, deliberately attempting to set the hook into what I assumed would be a small creek chub or Bluegill. However, the 6 footer rod bent double and after a few seconds dithering, the fish realized it was hooked and began to motor downstream, as if it were piloting a maritime moped.
As the river is shallow, I could see the float and the angle of line as it entered the water, so this gave me a good idea of the fish’s location during the fight. When a good sized fish is hooked, the angler feels a connection somewhere between farmer’s fence electric shock and a dub-bass transmission up the fishing rod and into the arm.
Instinct told me how much pressure to exert on the fish, it’s not like the thing is clamped in penitentiary irons and can be simply winched to shore. A size 18 hook is about the size of a paper staple with one end opened out. The hook would be lodged somewhere in the fishes’ thick rubbery lip. Does the fish feel pain, a haunting question, I tend to guess it’s more a question of inconvenience rather than trauma. The physics of forces acting on submerged forms is not a straightforward consideration. But having accidentally hooked myself in my own lip by dropping a taught rod and line while biting the line near the hook, I can corroborate a state of inconvenience as opposed to significant pain, however, my friend Timmy who was present at this harrowing moment was more concerned with laughing than pulling me around with the fishing rod, so I don’t really know.
I didn’t have much confidence in landing what I suspected was a 7 or 8lb common carp on 2lb line, although the soft action of my Shakespeare Ugly Stick rod absorbed its lunges without a problem. The fish surged toward the far bank trees and I was fortunate to avoid entanglement with undergrowth. I felt at the mercy of the whatever was rampaging around on the end of my line, but slowly I began to gain some line and bring the fish away from the snags toward me. Always allowing the fish to run if needed.
I managed to turn the fish’s head toward me and ease it to the surface, yes, a carp, apricot colored belly and golden flanks. I slid my landing net forward ready to scoop, but as is customary, the fish bolted away as it saw the sign of looming captivity, this occurred four or five more times, but. following an extended Do-Si-Do at the edge of the net, I finally managed to subdue the fish and guide it in, “thank you,” I said to the carp, “Shhuuumppt!” said the man the other side of the bush. I’d forgotten he was there, shit! I toyed with addressing him directly by saying “sorry man, I’m talking to the fish, I didn’t mean to bother you.” But decided that doing nothing was the best course of action.
Homemade feedstuffs.
I’m not noted for my work in the field of aquatic nutrition, however, fish require feeding if you want them to stick around and chomp a baited hook. Feeding methods can range from ‘little and often,’ to ‘filling it in,’ that is, either throwing a pinch of say, maggots, or going big by introducing 20 orange-sized balls of ‘ground bait,’ which usually takes the combined form of breadcrumb, ground cereals or fishmeals, this acts as both an attractor and binder to carry particles of bait and create a cloud or a carpet on which the fish may graze; in fact, I think the Italians refer to ground bait as ‘pastura’ or ‘pasture’ in English.
Back in the early 1980s, my teenage self first encountered exotic French and Belgium ground baits lying on an ankle-level shelf in the now defunct Exeter Angling Center in the Southwest of England. Initially what struck me was the colorful pop art graphics of the packaging. The ground bait had names like Turbo and Magic, so seductive to a young fashion conscious angler. It is said of ground bait that the product catches as many anglers as it does fish, such is the allure of its marketing.
There are rumors that the Belgian bait company Van Den Eynde made microscopic piercings in their bags in order to release the ground bait aromas, intending to further captivate the olfactory senses even before a ball is kicked. Indeed, when opening the packets and mixing up the concoction with water, one was instantly transported from the spice bazaars of Istanbul to the perfumeries de Chanel. God knows what the fish thought, but when you threw a ball in, you usually got a bite.
By mid-Autumn the humble leaf begins to present some blanketing issues, I’ve abandoned a several sessions as the wind has gusted and unleashed thousands of toilet lid-sized specimens that spread over the water. This is a beautiful sight to behold as swarms of leathery beer mats, cut and styled by nature into enlarged sections of rusty snowflake. The contours of the landscape make an earthy crucible in which the leaves perform a snow globe blizzard. The powerful winds detonate firework plumes which spiral, fall gently to the stream and float away. With reality briefly defeated, I half expect to see a thrill-seeking fairy piloting one of them like a magic carpet, after all, we’re in Fair(y)field county.
I’ve sat fishing in late Autumn when a sound occurred resembling a finger flicking at a cereal packet. I couldn’t believe my senses as I looked up to see where the percussion was coming from, following the sound to the to the upper reaches of a nearby tree I watched a single leaf flapping against the branch in perfect time… several sublime seconds, that felt as if I were connected to a greater whole. Buddhism for beginners, or at least some kind of entry point. I suppose spending extended periods in one spot lends itself to tiny portions of transcendence, and then someone on the path belches like a tummy-troubled Pavarotti; our friend the wind again.
Fishing seems to promote a meditative state, from serene influence of water movements, to the play of light, staring at brightly colored float tips for the slightest twitch dissolving the ego into a timeless atavistic vapor. At this point of course, a guy in a cowboy hat emerges from the far bank foliage and yells, “That’s a real long-ass pole you got there!” Fishing provides an equal platform for both the sublime and the ridiculous. A benign freedom beyond the reach of authority, where petty codes of conduct are no longer enforced, just make sure your license is up to date.
Behind me, on top the path, I hear the voices of young teens. I arch my neck and glimpse 5 or 6, a couple on BMX, the rest on foot. They didn’t notice me and continued playing rap from a beat box of some sort, a ‘creek-blaster’ perhaps. I acknowledged to myself that our shared location was one of the rare zones in which kids can be free, a space where they express themselves, go a bit bonkers without being brought to heel by the behavior police. I was treated to some vocal sound experiments, pure and authentic. The kids and I were both using this place to relax and play, just going about it through a different medium.
Evening sessions in late Autumn are usually from around 1 or 2 until dusk. I don’t want to be fiddling around after dark, there are numbers of coyotes resident in the area, and I don’t want to give these animals any encouragement. Coyotes are basically polite werewolves, and during twilight could easily confuse my gear-laden figure with an injured moose struggling down the path and attack with obscene prejudice, and hunger.
There are many whitetail deer that live locally, and walking the path at 6.30 a.m. I heard vigorous snorting coming from the creek, was this a paddling coke fiend after a new scene? I continued gingerly, eyes trained on the direction of the noise. As the bushes receded I found myself looking down on a stag with a full rack of furniture on its head, standing knee deep in the river returning my gaze. I backed up slowly offering the animal a route up the bank, and so the beast leaped from the water bucking high into the air, and continuing to power-snort. It continued to stare at me then turned defiantly, began trotting across the field, continuing to buck its hind quarters in my direction, “that bastard is mooning me,” I said into the trees.
I looked back across the field, the mist was waist height and hanging like pipe smoke, the scene resembled our family sitting room, my Dad blew smoke from behind his newspaper which settled into a thick galaxy of charcoal smudge levitating above the carpet, my sisters and I would run the gauntlet through the stuff back and forth, maybe the deer had been smoking Golden Virginia, either way the substance appeared as a hazy time portal and the stag had disappeared through it perhaps into the twelfth century on the other side of the field, where there was no United States.
As I descended the bank toward the ledge my eye fixed on a familiar form, the kind of thing the onlooker tries to instantly erase from memory… a trusty dollop of human feces. In attendance were three used wipes, the soiled smoking guns. A few days earlier I had introduced myself to the homeless guy, whose name is Jason, not Jason the shitter, Turdman Jason or Stoolie-J, just Jason. I had given him a bag of helpful items such as, food, water bottles, socks, and flushable wipes; also scatterable in the here and now, evidently.
If there is a silver lining, it is twofold, the turd had dried out nicely, determined by the large cracks in its crusted fuselage, similar to images I’ve seen of baked desert floor. Furthermore, it being the season, I had my pick of big leaves to use as a disposable dung-mitten when removing the pooh. Making sure there were no pedestrians nearby, I energetically pitched the turd as far along the bankside as I could, then washed my at-risk hand thoroughly. It occurred to me that Jason’s dump was partly composed of undigested foodstuffs present in the care package I’d given him a day earlier, metabolism notwithstanding. Funny how things come back to haunt you.
Wait, who the hell am I to be dictating toilet terms to a desperate man? It would be perfectly reasonable for Jason to demand I quit fishing in his toilet. Moreover, now that the corn had been cut, Jason would need to find a new loo when nature called. I pondered that there are many ways in which a person might act socially responsible, and if I had inadvertently created a homeless lavitory, then I am indeed a restroom architect of the downtrodden.