Get Out: A perfectly ironic fishing story

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

By Benjamin R. Bombard

Jackson Hole, Wyo.-In a story about a fishing trip where the fish didn’t cooperate, your offerings weren’t up to piscatorial snuff and you end up doing a lot of sitting there, checking out the scenery and making bitchy little jokes to your fishing buddy about the dearth of fish on your line – well, in a story like that, you’re supposed to write about how fishing isn’t only about catching fish. It’s also about being outdoors with a friend and quietly checking out the scenery.

So I guess this is that kind of story, but it always takes some inner whip-cracking to repress your disappointment about getting skunked and to turn your frown upside down. I’ll admit it – my frown was positively Cheney-esque after coming up empty handed on a recent trip to Slide Lake with my roommate Kevin for a day of lure and bait fishing from out of his homely yet reliable little boat.

We pulled into the Atherton Creek campground around 9 p.m. the night before. After pitching tents we had about 30 minutes to discuss the sexual depravity of Tijuana before rain started coming down wholesale and chased us to our sleeping bags. Being hardcore fishermen, we were up at 5:30 a.m., broke camp and taxied the boat down to the dock with every intention of putting in by 6:30. Instead, we spent a half hour in the truck warming up until we could actually, y’know, move. There was negative improvement in conditions when we got out on the wind-brushed lake. I was so freezing even my teeth were cold.

We putzed up and down the lake, praying in silence that one fish, just one fish showing up on the fish finder would find our worms appetizing and deliver us momentarily from our misery. No luck. By and by, atmospheric conditions improved. The sun broke over the Gros Ventres, and the winds died down, leaving the water glassy and warming our spirits. However, fishing conditions remained bleak. The fish were unrelenting in their obstinacy. The fish finder beeped and promised us fish, we coaxed them with worms, minnows, Red Devil, Rapala and Mepps lures, and Kevin kept repeating his lucky fishing chant – “Here fishy fishy fishy” – but all to no avail.

Meanwhile, I sat in the boat doing something I hardly find time to do, what with the neverending slog of excitement and anxieties that attend the late-twenties – I actually sat there in silence observing the scenery. For five whole hours! I even surprised Kevin with my stick-to-itiveness at not doing much of anything for that long. The clap and chop of the water against the hull was accompanied by the honking of a flock of Canada geese flying in a populous cloud above the southern shore. I noticed puffs of smoke coming from a western ridge, a smoldering fire ignited by the previous night’s lightning. Eagles screamed and ravens cawed. Mostly, my gaze was fixed on the peaceful sight of my feet crossed in front of me and the glaze of azure waters.

In the end, Kevin landed a couple smallish cutthroats, one the size of his hand, so at least he didn’t get skunked. And he sure did enjoy rubbing in my bad luck when we arrived back at the dock and a young girl landed a fish within minutes of casting a worm into the shallows, giving me a perfect ironic ending for my fishing story. JHW

BENJAMIN R. BOMBARD photo
Feet crossed, worm in the water, placid waters and time to reflect.



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Get Out: A perfectly ironic fishing story | Planet JH News Article: Sports & Recreation

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