Trending
Fishing is alleged to be a relaxing pursuit, our time on the water to be dedicated to contemplating nature and soothing our souls.
Perhaps, but why then do I ride an emotional rollercoaster nearly every time I push my boat from the dock with a bountiful bundle of fishing rods and enough lures for every man, woman and child in the Mahoning Valley?
I do find peace on the water, but those precious moments are interrupted frequently by high drama, utter exasperation and even personal injury.
By my estimate, I have gone fishing more than 20,000 times. With such a number comes high likelihood of disappointments, accidents and frustrations. Some of those are chronicled in my book, "The Common Angler," because they made for good storylines due to their nicking human nerves for danger, disaster or disgust.
Many, however, are so common among anglers that they are logged under the category of "stuff happens." They are nevertheless worth mentioning in drowning-our-sorrows conversations among anglers as we recount our time on the lake.
Case in point: One day a few years ago on Pymatuning Lake, I was enjoying a good, if not quite spectacular, morning of pitching jigs to the nooks and crannies of drowned tree trunks stretching out off the bank. It was a tournament day and I had already boxed a solid limit of largemouth bass totaling around 12 pounds.
I had settled into a mood of satisfaction that for a tournament angler comes only after the limit fish is secure in the livewell. The day, I reckoned, could only get better.
It was great until it wasn't. In a few seconds, my mood shifted from cool to red hot. I'd pitched my jig into the shady tangle of waterlogged oak limbs, felt the familiar tug of a fish slurping the bait, waited a second or two and set the hook. The water boiled as an oversized bass surged against my line.
In the relatively clear water, I could see it was clearly the caliber of bass I wanted to replace a 2-pounder in my limit. Every bit of six pounds, the fish had managed to come up and around a 4-inch-thick branch, making it almost impossible to leverage it back to a point where I could pull it directly back toward me. In a flash, it was gone, and my attitude deteriorated precipitously.
There's more: I look forward with great anticipation every time I plan to fish the Ohio River. It rarely disappoints, even on "slow" days, and every catch elevates my outlook. Of course, I've experienced some crushing lows on the big ol' river, including one day in June on a pretty stretch of shoreline below Wellsville.
I'd boated a few nice smallmouth and the day was drawing to a close when I cocked, aimed and cast a crankbait toward a pile of rocks jutting off the banks. It was one of those spots that just automatically looked fishy.
But just as the plug splashed down, I shifted my right foot to begin cranking and kicked one of my rods over the side of the Bass Cat. It sank in 12 feet of water and my heart sank even deeper. The outfit, both rod and reel, was brand spanking new. My attitude dropped like a rock.
And last but not least: While returning home from a fishing trip with no cuts or bruises is the goal, I don't always succeed in that regard. Just recently, as a matter of fact, my blissful morning was rudely interrupted by the need to patch up a nasty scrape on my shin.
The fishing had been pretty good the first few hours at Mosquito Lake, and I was tallying catches in my head when I leaned to kneel against the carpeted step up from the Bass Cat's cockpit to the casting deck. My foot slipped and my shin scraped the edge. I knew without looking that I would within seconds have blood trickling toward my sock. My happy attitude bottomed out as I fumbled for an alcohol wipe and bandage.
I could go on, but you get the picture. Incidents like these happen more often than one might think in a sport supposedly to be played for peace of mind and soulful reflection. Yeah, right.
Jack Wollitz has experienced the ups and downs of fishing around Youngstown and Warren for decades. Contact him at jackbbaass@gmail.com.