Hamilton Reef
08-19-2006, 10:27 AM
Reunion overshadows lack of fish
August 19, 2006 Bob Gwizdz (517) 487-8888 ext. 237 bgwizdz@boothnewspapers.com
ANN ARBOR -- Back when I was a teen, my buddies Pops and Worm (and just in case you think I'm the only one with a somewhat normal name, I'm known as "the Goose" in this crowd) and I used to hitchhike about 40 miles from western Wayne County where we lived to a spot on the Huron River where we could fish.
The last time we did it, best as I can recall, was in the summer of 1967. I remember it because the Motor City was burning and state officials halted beer sales. We used to think that drinking beer -- and smoking those cheap Swisher Sweet cigars -- was an important part of fishing.
(I do not think we were alone there; anyone old enough to pre-date pop tops can remember when a church key was an important tackle box accessory.)
The three of us have been pals for almost ever -- Little League, altar boys, safety patrol, even the same all-boys Catholic high school. Worm and I were in the same first-grade class, Pops in the other. And though neither Worm, nor I, can recall exactly how we met, I distinctly remember meeting Pops. In those days, if your behavior was deemed anything less than perfect, the nuns would send you out to the vestibule, where we kept our boots, to contemplate your sins.
That's where I met Pops. In the vestibule. With the boots.
At any rate, back in the day, we fished at a park where the river widened into a pool and we'd drown worms for the afternoon. We never caught a lot of fish, but it didn't seem to matter.
We've stayed friends over the years despite a number of moves, but I don't recall fishing with Worm since college. And the last time I fished with Pops was in the early '80s when he visited me in Texas. Neither of them stuck with fishing.
But when I recently broached the idea of the three of us getting together for a day of piscatorial pursuits, both jumped on board.
For old-times sake, I decided we should fish the Huron, though I chose a pool significantly downstream from our old stomping grounds where I could launch a boat. I fish here once in a while with my dad; it's close to where he lives and the bass fishing is generally pretty good. But more importantly, it's quiet and, considering its proximity to a jillion people, surprisingly scenic.
It was an unusual position for me to be in; 98 percent of the time, I fish with someone who is showing me a technique or a place to write about. This time, I was fishing with a couple of guys who barely knew a bass from a burbot -- Worm hadn't fished in 10 years, Pops in 20 -- and I was in the guide's seat.
(Just for the record, the other 2 percent of the time, I fish with my dad, but he never pays any attention to anything I try to show him, anyway.)
I tried to stick with basics -- spinnerbaits and crankbaits, the kind of lures that can just about fish themselves -- but my buds weren't having much luck. I caught a few fish (it was a pretty tough bite) but couldn't get my partners into any.
It didn't seem to matter. Worm said he felt like he was on vacation. Pops said he hadn't thought about business all day.
We stopped for lunch at a river-side picnic table, then I switched to a plastic frog, started throwing at lily pads, caught a nice largemouth, missed a giant, and thought I'd finally figured out what to do. But the bite when south and we never caught another fish.
At day's end, I found myself on the giving end of a speech I've heard a million times -- geez, sorry, thought we'd do better, yadda. yadda, yadda. Next time, I told them, we'd go out and fish for perch or bluegills or something that promised a higher probability of getting some fish on the line.
But neither of my buds was having any of it.
"I'd do this again," Worm said.
"It was perfect, Goose," Pops said.
And almost 40 years later, I came to a realization about fishing that I guess I more fully understood when I was a teenager.
It really wasn't the fish we were after.
It just took a couple of non-fishermen to remind me of that.
August 19, 2006 Bob Gwizdz (517) 487-8888 ext. 237 bgwizdz@boothnewspapers.com
ANN ARBOR -- Back when I was a teen, my buddies Pops and Worm (and just in case you think I'm the only one with a somewhat normal name, I'm known as "the Goose" in this crowd) and I used to hitchhike about 40 miles from western Wayne County where we lived to a spot on the Huron River where we could fish.
The last time we did it, best as I can recall, was in the summer of 1967. I remember it because the Motor City was burning and state officials halted beer sales. We used to think that drinking beer -- and smoking those cheap Swisher Sweet cigars -- was an important part of fishing.
(I do not think we were alone there; anyone old enough to pre-date pop tops can remember when a church key was an important tackle box accessory.)
The three of us have been pals for almost ever -- Little League, altar boys, safety patrol, even the same all-boys Catholic high school. Worm and I were in the same first-grade class, Pops in the other. And though neither Worm, nor I, can recall exactly how we met, I distinctly remember meeting Pops. In those days, if your behavior was deemed anything less than perfect, the nuns would send you out to the vestibule, where we kept our boots, to contemplate your sins.
That's where I met Pops. In the vestibule. With the boots.
At any rate, back in the day, we fished at a park where the river widened into a pool and we'd drown worms for the afternoon. We never caught a lot of fish, but it didn't seem to matter.
We've stayed friends over the years despite a number of moves, but I don't recall fishing with Worm since college. And the last time I fished with Pops was in the early '80s when he visited me in Texas. Neither of them stuck with fishing.
But when I recently broached the idea of the three of us getting together for a day of piscatorial pursuits, both jumped on board.
For old-times sake, I decided we should fish the Huron, though I chose a pool significantly downstream from our old stomping grounds where I could launch a boat. I fish here once in a while with my dad; it's close to where he lives and the bass fishing is generally pretty good. But more importantly, it's quiet and, considering its proximity to a jillion people, surprisingly scenic.
It was an unusual position for me to be in; 98 percent of the time, I fish with someone who is showing me a technique or a place to write about. This time, I was fishing with a couple of guys who barely knew a bass from a burbot -- Worm hadn't fished in 10 years, Pops in 20 -- and I was in the guide's seat.
(Just for the record, the other 2 percent of the time, I fish with my dad, but he never pays any attention to anything I try to show him, anyway.)
I tried to stick with basics -- spinnerbaits and crankbaits, the kind of lures that can just about fish themselves -- but my buds weren't having much luck. I caught a few fish (it was a pretty tough bite) but couldn't get my partners into any.
It didn't seem to matter. Worm said he felt like he was on vacation. Pops said he hadn't thought about business all day.
We stopped for lunch at a river-side picnic table, then I switched to a plastic frog, started throwing at lily pads, caught a nice largemouth, missed a giant, and thought I'd finally figured out what to do. But the bite when south and we never caught another fish.
At day's end, I found myself on the giving end of a speech I've heard a million times -- geez, sorry, thought we'd do better, yadda. yadda, yadda. Next time, I told them, we'd go out and fish for perch or bluegills or something that promised a higher probability of getting some fish on the line.
But neither of my buds was having any of it.
"I'd do this again," Worm said.
"It was perfect, Goose," Pops said.
And almost 40 years later, I came to a realization about fishing that I guess I more fully understood when I was a teenager.
It really wasn't the fish we were after.
It just took a couple of non-fishermen to remind me of that.