When it comes to fishing, many folks go about the sport in an expensive way.
They have boats that cost more than any car or truck I’ve ever owned, being that I’m on the chinchy side. I have owned two new cars in my life and drive most of my vehicles until they’re within an eyelash of giving up the ghost. My current Ranger, a 1991, replaced one that barely made it into the used car lot gate before imploding.
Their boats have big motors to get them to a favored spot in a hurry, and a trolling motor moves them about without disturbing nearby lunkers. They have equipment that Bass Pro’s mighty proud of, and a tackle box filled with lures to entice any fish not on its last fin.
They tow boats loaded with equipment behind pickup trucks that cost more than our two-story house in Iola fetched and think nothing of driving to lakes all over the country.
They arrive meaning to spend a weekend, maybe longer, which entails lodging, food and off-lake evening entertainment.
Monday afternoon, with enough clouds to make the experience all the more pleasant, I decided a little fishing was in order. I geared up in my typical fashion.
I pulled down one of Dad’s old lunch pails that he carried daily to Monarch, one to which he had added a brass pin to keep the two latches on front from accidentally opening at an inconvenient time.
I tossed in an old pill bottle with a few lead sinks and, in concession to not sparing any expense, a couple of cards of hooks with short monofilament leaders attached. A stringer I’ve had since the 1960s, a cotton rag (you’ll understand why in a minute) and a paring knife.
I snatched a two-pound plastic coffee container from the freezer and plopped it in our microwave to soften turkey livers it contained.
With those things nicely arranged (where they landed) in the back of my Ranger, I pulled a pole from the corner of the garage, purchased for a quarter a few years back at a yard sale. It does have a new reel, though, a Zebco 202 that set me back about five bucks.
A few miles later I drove through an old barn lot overgrown with weeds that nearly hid my truck and followed a cow path to a swale filled with muddy water, a sure sign the pond contained what I was after, bullheads.
Sure enough, my liver-baited hook had hardly settled to the bottom when slack in the line took up. I gave a quick jerk, and a bullhead, about a foot long, resisted.
Bullheads may not be the fightingest fish around but they do give a good account of themselves.
Mysteriously, while reeling like the dickens, I wasn’t gaining any. The fish was having its way. I checked the reel’s drag and, sure enough, it was loosened to the point I could have spent all afternoon reeling and still wouldn’t have landed the little beauty.
Once in hand, I was pleased to note the fish hadn’t swallowed the hook, which bullheads, greedy little buggers that they are, often do. I removed the barbed villain and tossed the fish back, not knowing I’d catch several more about the same size over the next hour: or, enough for a nice mess of fillets had I so desired.
At time to leave, I tossed what liver remained into the pond to give the bullheads a painless feast.
Home a few minutes later, the thought occurred to me I’d had a whale of a time (no pun intended) for less than a gallon of gas and $1 worth of turkey livers.
Can’t beat that.
At Week’s End: Fishin’ on the cheap
