Fishing Blind River

A @#%!ing Whale

“I don’t want to go fishing” I said. Anyone who knew me when I was 14 would have been surprised to hear me say that, but the truth was that I had been doing almost nothing but fishing for the last week. Besides, I just got back from Hillcrest with a bag of comic books and candy bars. And it was cold out!

But my brother Tom wasn’t in the mood to take no for an answer. “C’mon, let’s just go for a little bit.” The urgency in his voice and the fact that he was thirteen years older than I was made me think I wasn’t going to win the argument. So I did the next best thing, which was to get him to promise that we wouldn’t be out for more than 30 minutes.

It was just a walk across the street to the little aluminum boat with my dad’s 3 horsepower Evinrude on it, but I was already chilled by the time we reached it. I could see that we were the only people that would be out on the river, but that wasn’t that unusual. People in Blind River didn’t waste their time fishing the river when they had so many options available to them, but to Chicagoans like us the river held more than enough possibilities.

My brother gunned the Evinrude, which is a little like putting spurs to a turtle, but even the little spray it kicked up added to the chill I was feeling. Tom killed the engine in the middle of the river and my 30 minute countdown began. I agreed to go with him, but I never agreed to enjoy it. I was still going through the tackle box as my brother began casting. I was looking for the most obnoxious lure I could find: I wasn’t so much interested in catching fish as I was annoying them. I opted for a large silver flatfish lure with four treble hooks that dove straight towards the bottom the second you started reeling it in. I hadn’t bothered to try this lure yet this vacation since we had been trolling most of the time and the action on this thing was so intense it would have been too much for the old Evinrude.

I was still in no hurry to get my line in the water, but Tom shot me a look that said “C’mon, play along.” So I cast the silver monstrosity I had tied to my line and began to reel in. The pull this thing had made me wonder if I’d even notice if a fish caught a hold of it. When I reeled it in, I considered changing to some other lure that was less work, but I felt too uninspired even for that. So I tossed my lure out again and began to reel it in with a certain amount of annoyance over having to be out on the river when I could be sitting on a couch reading comic books.

And then my earlier question about whether or not I would be able to tell if a fish hit my lure was answered. Suddenly my Zebco 33 was whirring quite loudly as the line was being dragged out of it yards at a time. I’d had my fair share of battles with fish in my time, but I immediately knew this one was special. I’d had this kind of hit before, but I’d never been able to land any of them. It was going to be a struggle and I’d have to be sharp the whole time if this one was ever going to see the inside of the boat. I let him take line when he was going to but always made sure not to let him loose.

Yeah, you know how it is, when you finally catch a glimpse of your first big fish, in this case a Northern. You just see him for a second, aren’t sure exactly what it is in the dark water and all the excitement, but it’s almost frightening. Well, he caught sight of me too and decided he didn’t want any part of me. He took off again and again I struggle to haul him back in.

Life isn’t fair and often times it’s not the person that wants to fish the most that catches anything. “I just wanted to go fishing, but you had to go catch a @#%!ing whale,” said Tom. Both he and I liked to fish, but both of us were in a little deeper than we really wanted.

“I just wanted to go fishing, but you had to go catch a @#%!ing whale,” Tom repeated. He wasn’t normally one for swear words, but they were flying pretty freely at this point.    fishing blind river

We finally netted the thing and I said: “You take it off.”

“You caught it.”

There were twelve hooks total on this lure, and a good portion of them were buried deep in Northern flesh. The others were exposed, waiting to catch the first person that stuck his hand too close to this still flopping fish.

“You’re my older brother, you do it.” I said.

“I just wanted to go fishing, but you had to go catch a @#%!ing whale.” Tom was repeating this like a mantra know, but it was doing nothing to calm or center him. It was a stalemate: neither one of us was going to put our hand anywhere close to this thing’s mouth. Finally Tom flashed upon an idea: “Uncle Joe’s house is right on the river, we’ll take it there.” And so we did. We took him away from whatever he was doing in order to get this pike off the line for us.

I never weighed or measured it, but I know for a fact that it was the biggest fish I ever caught. I’m sure there a lot bigger fish in the river, but that is my story. As for Tom, I don’t remember him ever asking me if I wanted to go fishing again. fishing blind river

 

James Rozoff author

fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river

fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river

fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river

fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river fishing blind river