Road Trip Number Eleven--Fishing Gene?

Nicole has nothing to do with this story--I just think she's cool.

     On the way back to Medford from Crater Lake, we passed a fish hatchery and decided to visit, since I had never seen anything like that.  They don’t hatch many fish in Lubbock.  The place was designed for self guided tours, with signs leading us into the facility from the parking lot and other signs and closed circuit television showing and describing every segment of the operation.   It was basically a No-Tell Motel for fish.  Salmon eggs were laid, fertilized and hatched here, allowed to grow to a certain size and released into the adjacent Rouge River where they found their way to the sea.  The cycle is complete when these same fish reach maturity, leave the ocean and find their way back to this very place to deposit their eggs—I’m not sure how long that takes.

     The hatchery was interesting, but we discovered something more interesting along the banks of the adjacent river---dozens of fishermen.   There was a dam with a spillway adjacent to the hatchery—an intergal fish ladder allowed the  fish to enter the facility and conduct their mating rituals.  Down stream from the hatchery, beneath the spillway, both sides of the river were lined with fishermen.  Several were wading in the chilled water, and a few had rowboats anchored in the rushing stream.  All were very determined and seriously working at the job of catching fish.

     As we watched from the bluff above the river, one of the fishermen on the near bank shouted, “Fish On”!   Immediately all the fisherman in the vicinity reeled in their lures and stepped back to allow him room to work his fish.  As he wrestled the silver giant to shore, a friend hovered nearby with a net.  When the fish was sufficiently tired and near enough to the bank, the friend quickly dipped the long-handled net into the water and captured the fish. 

      In spite of the fact that Lubbock is surrounded by some of the best fishing in the country--only about four hundred miles in any direction—I evidently did not get that gene.  Still, the whole thing was as exciting as all get out. 

     The successful fisherman and his net man carried the fish, the net, and all the tackle up the bank to the bluff where we were standing.  This allowed the others to resume their places fishing, while these guys admired, weighed, disengaged the hook and put their fish on a stringer.   It also allowed us an up-close look at a beautiful twenty pound salmon and a visit with the lucky guy who caught it.

     Wayne, being a learned fisherman, questioned the fellow on the weight of his tackle, type of lure, strength of line, type of leader, etc., and other fishing minutia that I don’t understand.  They immediately became kindred spirits and engaged in lively conversation about all things pertaining to fish and fishing.  I simply sat there and observed the whole scene and the individuals who surrounded us. 

      We could have been in Louisiana—these guys were Yankee Rednecks.  They all had boots, camo suits or jeans, and heavy sweatshirts.  Some had missing teeth, crew cut hair, tattoos and chewing tobacco.  I learned that they got here this morning about three thirty, made chili on butane camp stoves, sipped a bit of whiskey and started fishing.  They went home before dark and repeated the process on Sunday morning.  Monday morning they went back to their day jobs--hammering nails, selling hardware, lawyering, working in a bank or trading stocks and bonds.

     Wayne and his new found friend continued talking when another fellow yelled, “Fish On!”  The whole scene repeated itself, and another twenty-something pound Salmon ended up on a stringer.  I was fascinated by the ritual and the courtesy displayed---everyone stepped back and stopped fishing while the lucky angler landed his catch.  It occurred to me that these rules were unwritten, but strictly adhered to by all the participants because they made good sense.  It would be almost impossible to land a fish with seven or eight other lines, lures, and hooks confounding the issue.  Common courtesy was at work here, and probably something else—anyone who ignored the unspoken rules likely ended up with a couple of missing front teeth.

     It is a tribute to Wayne’s engaging manner, and his knowledge of fishing, that two of the rednecks  invited him to join them at three-thirty the next morning.  They would provide the tackle, the chili and the whiskey if he wanted to join them, and he could keep what he caught.  Wayne thought long and hard before he declined the invitation.  He knew I was not going to get out there at three-thirty AM when the temperature was below freezing to eat chili and try to catch a fish, no matter how much whiskey they had.  But he was tempted. 

     I cannot help but be a bit sorry that I missed that fishing gene.  It binds devotees into a big fraternity-like organization.  Fishermen respect each other for their dedication and knowledge, their skill and prowess at catching fish.  Nothing else.  They don’t confuse the issue with economic or class structures, education or breeding.  They are all equal when they step up to the bank with a casting rod and a lure.

     As we reluctantly left for the drive to Ron’s, I went over to inspect some deep blue, almost purple flowers that grew in patches over the little bluff and down by the river.  Fascinating.  Here in the forest in Oregon, to form a proper background for these displaced rednecks and their fishing rituals, were little blue flowers.  Flowers that were, just like us, almost three thousand miles from home.  The whole bluff was dotted with Texas Bluebonnets.



Happy Real Estate salesman with part of his catch.  Note the smattering of Bluebonnets in the baclground.