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My earliest memories of fishing involve
mosquitoes, heat, sweltering on the bank or
in the boat. I recall standing on the bank
waiting and waiting and waiting for the big
old boat to come into view, the one with the
low RPM motor churning out "jug-o-rum, jug-o-rum,"
until I was informed that it was a bullfrog and not
a boat motor. There are memories of sitting in
lawn chairs on the reservoir shore at night with
Coleman lanterns burning bright while moths fluttered
to their doom. There were the bluegills busting up on
crickets and worms and, later, store-bought poppers
(Still have them embedded in my boonie hat). Going
fishing was always a study in how to stay comfortable
in the heat without getting ate up by bugs or sunburned.
Fishing has been so very much associated with the hot
heat of summer. Please forgive me as I digress for a
moment and delve more into summer.
Summer, as you all know, involves learning how to
walk where it's not so hot. All children in Texas
go barefoot all summer long, or used to when I was
a boy. The asphalt was just enough hotter that the
concrete was a preferable path. Then there were the
stickers. There were areas that were sticker patches,
to be avoided at all costs. When we lived in Midland
for a while the alley was off limits in the summer
due to the rattlesnake population. My mother had
this silly idea that six-year-old boys ought not to
be messing around with rattlers. "But all the other kids..."
Back to fishing. I learned to fly fish and discovered
the joys it contained. But, I felt, until I caught
trout I was not really a fly angler. After all, that
was what all the fly anglers in the magazines caught,
right? Years later I found out that there are trout
up in Oklahoma. The Blue River was only one hundred
miles north of my house in N. Texas. Long story short,
there I was standing on the low water crossing of the
Blue River in southern Oklahoma on a December morning,
trying to catch a trout. I was trying to cast but the
ice kept building up on my line every time I stripped
it in. The guides were full of ice. My hands hurt,
despite the fleece gloves. The wind bit my face and
the rushing water sapped the heat from my feet. We
waited on the sun to rise and warm us up.
Then, in a moment of clarity, I saw myself standing,
casting to bluegills and bass on a lily pad-covered
inlet. "Man" I thunk, "I am a warm water type of
feller!"
I guess I may never try ice fishing. ~ Robin Rhyne
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