I grew up fishing in the Summers with my Swedish grandfather when he wasn't at away at sea. He was a fairly good fisherman, but his expertise was limited to salt water. He was a perfectionist, truth be told, and thus, he was a hard man to learn from. I had a little Spin-casting rod and Erik had a level-winder that he had attached to a stubby little fibreglass rod which he had outfitted with a curved antler pistol grip. Between Summers, I was stuck in the suburbs of Houston, Beaumont or Baton Rouge with a father who didn’t fish.
The Swede and I fished the Gulf of Mexico between High Island and Galveston, Texas. We were gunning for Golden Croakers, hoping for Red Fish and in between we caught lots of Drums, Channel Cats, Sand Sharks, Eels, Blue Crabs, Flounders and Angel Fish. If we hooked a Ray, we cut the line to save our small gear. We used fresh shrimp, fresh cut fish, blood paste, earthworms and live minnows for bait, but shrimp was our main standby.
We had two folding canvas chairs, two rags, two home-made long knives, a cooler of ice and a couple of Grape Sodas. Usually the temperature was in the low one hundreds with soaking humidity, so we preferred to start at 5 AM. My grandfather would grab my foot gently and shake it a few times to rouse me. About a year after he passed away, I was in his house with my fiancée sleeping on a couch-bed in the living room and the girl started awake. It was about 5 AM and I asked her with heavy-lidded eyes what was the matter. She said something had grabbed her foot and shook it three times. I told her not to worry, Erik was just saying hello.
The best fishing was down at the Intracoastal Canal which runs from Florida to Mexico and my grandfather knew most of the men on those boats by name and by reputation. Big tugs drawing big barges would scare up all kinds of fish and set constellations of shrimp to jumping. Sometimes we were lucky enough to have live ones splash out onto the baked gumbo mud banks and skitter into the saw grass. Their eyes were luminescent and blinked on and off like faulty head-lights.
Once my grandfather heaved a mighty cast and caught himself a large sea-bird. It was surreal watching him reel it in from the grey-blue sky. It was a complicated affair to deal with and nearly gave Skipper, his beagle, a heart attack. I had read Coleridge's, Rime Of The Ancient Mariner and I was very relieved that the bird wasn't killed in the process of freeing it.
Because we never knew what we would catch, Erik used thirty pound braided line and I used twenty pound mono-filament. This was Texas and our object was to catch fish not to play with them, so we used barbed hooks. We were bottom fishing and believe me, we filled up many a cooler over the ten Summers we fished together.
A Croaker is so named because it makes an audible noise when out of the water. The Mexicans call it la piga, because it reminds them of the grunt of a pig. Croakers ranged in size from seven inches to twice that. I was always honoured with cleaning the catch under our beach cabin's raised floor, while Erik had a little nap. I reckon I cleaned a few hundred of them, all told. I buried their guts under two palm tree sprouts which eventually grew into thirty foot trees and survived many a hurricane.
My grandmother then coated the fish with salted and peppered cornmeal and fried them in lard in a big iron skillet. We ate them with fresh squeezed lemon, ketchup, home fries and a crock of strong, sweet ice tea. I usually ate six of them and I couldn't tell if I liked the cornmeal or the fish best of all. Of course, my grandfather got to eat the golly-whopper, regardless of who had caught it.
We only fished in fresh water once, if you could call it that. It was a slow moving bayou near Beaumont. It was a thirty minute hike through palmettos, poison ivy and water moccasin snakes to get to the mosquito infested, sulphurous, muddy banks. We were fishing for Catfish and we wanted big ones. Erik got a fine, blue four-pounder and I got nothing.
On our way back through the jungle, I got nipped by a spider as big as my hand. It was a beautiful thing, chrome yellow and lime green in colour. I had seen the web and had knocked it aside with a stick, only to have the escaping spider land on my knee. It was far more important to watch where your feet were in that country. The wound puffed up real good on the way home, but my grandmother taped something onto it and drew all the venom out.
And so, that was the extent of my fresh water fishing until moving to Lynn Valley in North Vancouver from Louisiana when I was twelve years old. Scottish and English immigrant kids were catching trout on the corner of Lynn Valley Road and Mountain Highway back in those days but there was a significant accent barrier between us and I had no equipment. I was horrified to see some of them using lures instead of fresh bait. I figured that if I was a fish I'd sure know the difference between a chunk of metal with a shiny paint job and a nice fat minnow or worm.
After I saw another boy fly-fishing, I nearly gave up hope of ever learning how to catch fresh water fish. I had read books like, Izaak Walton’s, The Compleat Angler, and I erroneously thought that by the time I’d bought the my tweeds, creels, weighted lines, flies, rods, reels, hip-waders, sweaters, pipes and berets; that I wouldn't have enough money left over for a scone and a cup of tea.
One day, as I was walking along a creek in Lynn Valley and I saw some Squamish Band boys my age. They just flipped a shopping cart onto its side in the creek bed and big old salmon were swimming right into it! Then, they righted it, dragged it out of the stream and carted it off home. I liked what I saw and was excitedly hopeful of bringing a big one home to my Mom to cook. As I made my own plan of capture, a kid from my new elementary school told me that only the Native boys were legally allowed to do that.
I decided over the ensuing years, that I would wait to learn the mysteries of the river fishing upon my retirement. After retirement came and I moved to Lillooet, I was surrounded by lakes and creeks and lived near a big salmon river. I tried fishing by all the methods known to me from my salt water experiences. Over the space of the first five years here, I managed to land only a minuscule trout.
Somewhat maddening in a place where you can walk along a creek at an arm’s length away from metric tons of spawning salmon cruising upstream in the crystal waters. Those are the non-resident fish and it boggles the mind to think that another, entire population of resident fish also share these same waters. My cowboy hat is off to all fresh water anglers, native and non-native. It is a skill-set in which there is much to learn.
One fine afternoon, my wife and I were at Seton Lake and saw a man fishing. We started to chat and he turned out to be one of the nicest people I have ever met. He taught me what he could about fishing as we stood there and the next time I saw him in town, he invited me to go fishing with him. Within ten minutes of arriving at the spot he had chosen up by Goldbridge, my fish drought ended. I caught and released a too-small trout and then caught a nice Dolly Varden of keeping size. That was followed by another too-small trout and then we left. I gobbled that Dolly up as soon as I got home and it was sweeter than cotton candy.
Some time later, I was nursing a badly bruised vertebrae that I sustained on a solo fishing trip to the Fraser River, wherein I learned not to cross drifted logs wearing flip-flops. On that trip, I met an old St'at'imx man who tried to show me how to rig up bait for a big salmon. We were on Cayoosh Creek and he was too drunk to tie his knots, so I did that for him as he instructed me as to which tackle to use. While I listened to his instructions and to his life story, his little dog fell asleep in my lap.
We got one baited hook cast out into the strong current and as we worked on a second one, a couple appeared from upstream in little kayaks and put to shore on the rocks beside us. The commotion caused the elder's gin bottle to capsize and I just managed to save it before its contents mingled with the torrent. As I was tying on a spark-plug weight and he was rolling some fish roe in his mahogany hands, a young woman appeared and started to clean up his empty beer cans. She had come to take him home and as she gathered up his things, he shook my hand and cried. Then he told me that he had found a friend of his cold, stiff and dead right on this very creek side many empty bottles ago.
The next day, I went back to the creek and rigged up as the old man had taught me. I fished to no avail. A young man fishing across the creek asked me if I had fished on his side that day. I said no and decided to roll up my gear. I went to talk to him and soon learned that he had lost his expensive cell phone. I helped him hunt for it, while his gal sweated and fretted in their car.
Scanning the rocks in front of us, I saw a big patch of gore. It was fresh. I pointed it out and learned that was where he had cleaned a twenty-seven pound salmon only an hour earlier. We never found his cell phone. That is, not that day. The next day, I was back there fishing and where the Cayoosh Creek joins the Fraser, I found it, minus its SIM card. Another kilometre down river, I found a massive head and tail-fin of a salmon, likely the fish that fellow had caught the day before. I caught and released a too-small trout.
At this point, I took a little break from fishing so as not to deepen my negative reinforcement. My chess computer came out and by the time I had clawed my way up to Level Six, a neighbour asked if I would help him assemble his new storage shed. I gratefully accepted and we began the next morning. My wife walked over in the early evening to tell me that I had a visitor who turned out to be my recent fishing friend and teacher. We had a chat and I was invited to join him for a fishing trip on the coming Saturday. We would go early in the morning and would be gone all day. I was stoked and ready to try again.
In the following days, the bottom fell out of a previously blue sky and buckets came down for so many hours, we lost count. My fishing friend said we'd have to put the trip over until Sunday due to some unexpected work he'd taken on. I decided to cut my grass and wax and polish my Suzuki. I finished up about 8 PM and decided to walk over to the Rec Centre and listen to a band that was playing live outdoors.
Satisfied and looking forward to the coming day of fishing, I walked home. At just past mid-night, our power went out. In the room where our electric panel is located, my flashlight revealed that one wire had shorted and another one had melted insulation. A glance at the hand-written chart that had been edited by previous owners of our trailer taught me that to ascertain which breaker controlled which circuit was going to prove as difficult as deciphering cuneiform tablets.
My main concern was our freezer. It would be Monday before someone qualified could attend and another day or two at least before the needed parts could be procured. My plan was to leave one circuit on in order to save our frozen meat but shut off everything else. I flipped on/off all the circuits. I asked my wife to stand out on the porch and tell me when the little orange freezer light went out. The process took several minutes and our front door stayed open, so we could hear each other without shouting.
After some trial and error, we got the freezer circuit sorted out. I made a big pot of coffee for the next morning before shutting down all the breakers for the kitchen. Within an hour of dozing off to a troubled, one eyed sleep, we heard sparks. Back in the breaker room, I could see a little Niagara Falls of electrons cascading out of the breaker panel and over the computer keyboard below, where from I write these missives. Behind the sparkly stream was a wicked blue arc steadily eating into the metal lug. That was it! Everything was shut down forthwith. Checking my watch revealed that my fishing buddy would be arriving in about three hours to pick me up.
Staring into the gloom like a character in a pulp novel, I awaited sunrise. At just past five, I phoned to cancel my participation in the fishing trip and apologized for the short notice. That done, I remembered the emergency pot of coffee. On the way to the coffee pot, I stumbled on several apricots which were piled on the floor near our dishwasher. Then I saw the Marlboro cigarettes my neighbour had given me for helping him with his shed construction.
The cigarette packets were on the living room floor and the filters were in a little pile off to the side. That's how I liked to smoke them, but I trimmed them one at a time. Nearby to these items were some leaves neatly clipped off of my wife's houseplants. I decided to drink some caffeine before trying to process anything further. As I scanned all the rooms, I saw dozens of things out of place. My forfeited fishing trip was long forgotten and now the electrical crisis was also being pushed onto the back burner. We were under Check, our opponent had a Pawn one move away from Queening and we were down to a Bishop, a Rook and a Knight.
On my second mug of coffee, I heard it! A light thumping like a rabbit makes. It was coming from the dishwasher. I opened the door expecting a mouse come scurrying out. We haven't had any for years and I am proud of that. Nothing came out, but I heard a bottle clink a few feet away inside the cupboards.
I opened a door and there between a bottle of dish soap and the goose-neck of the drain, were two big soft eyes and about seven inches of stiff whiskers looking right my way. Judging by the size of the head, I thought I was looking at a possum. Then it ghosted across to the right where our pots and Pyrex were stacked. It took a long time before the tail disappeared from view. It was about fifteen inches long, at least and had mighty back legs like a jack-rabbit. It was a beautiful, healthy specimen and its fur was thick grey with white, black and buff tones.
I opened all the cupboard doors and emptied some of the pots. I crawled inside with a flash-light to look for a hole. There was no hole, which perplexed me. Whatever it was, it could have easily chewed through an oak desk but as big as it was, it shouldn't have been able to become invisible. I found my wrist-rocket sling-shot and some ball-bearings.
I decided to look into the space behind the dishwasher. This sounds easy but it involved inserting my torso and one arm into the lower cupboards, then turning my body into a ninety-degree angle. Once in position, there was no guarantee one could make it out again, particularly if one was in a hurry. Once contorted and wedged in good and tight, I saw a long tail and a large pile of dried grass. Nestled together in the pile were some Marlboro cigarettes missing their filters and a few apricots.
The mystic beastie gave me the slip yet again as fast as a Tangiers taxi and as quiet as a Benedictine Monk. Worming my way back out of the cupboards, I readied my sling-shot. Scanning the length of the cupboards again, I saw my target reappear behind a stack of Pyrex glassware. It regarded me with some interest while remaining absolutely motionless. We both knew that there was no way to get a clear shot. I aimed anyway and it disappeared.
I decided to check the living room for damage and let the fugitive calm down a bit. While picking up the cigarette filters from the floor, I heard a light thumping again. It seemed to be coming from under the floor.
“Just bloody lovely,” I thought. He's calling in reinforcements.
I imagined beaver-sized holes chewed through my trailer's underside and various occult mammalian dramas taking place in the hollows of our walls. I knelt down and put my ear to the floor.
My eye-glasses banged against the linoleum and I removed them. My uncorrected vision revealed the interloper eyeballing me from under our couch and lustily drumming its foot. It was only inches away and didn't bolt. Tip-toeing back into the kitchen, I got the sling-shot and turned it upside down so I could draw back the projectile only an inch off the floor. When I got all situated, my quarry had vanished. I looked at my watch. By now, my friend would have probably caught his first fish, I reckoned.
I drank the rest of my cold coffee and smoked a sawed-off Marlboro. Outside, the day was coming on and I heard my wife rising up back in our bedroom. I didn't have the heart to tell her this latest news, just yet. I phoned the only electric company in the Lillooet Phone Pamphlet and left a message as a plaintive thumping issued from behind the fridge.
The modest appliance stood in a little alcove and had about an inch and a half of space on either side. My flashlight beam revealed that indeed, the mammal had somehow made it across open hostile ground, right under my gaze and was now barricaded behind our food box.
Now it was a proper Mexican stand off. The bold little devil stood defiant with its head cocked around the corner and its body solidly planted safe behind the appliance. It was looking right at me now and did not flinch. My wife stumbled into the kitchen and was advised to suspend her questions, get a stick and hand me my weapon. She is a cool head in a crisis and without any fuss I was armed with my sling-shot and her with a long stick.
I fired once and missed. There was a commotion behind the fridge and as I was loading another shot into the leather thong, my rival appeared in the gap, this time looking ready to bolt. My wife used our dining table leaf as a barrier across the other gap, so jumping would be the only means of escape. I hoped the obstacle would buy me time, in case I botched the next shot. I bit down on the flashlight between my teeth and shone it into the big eyes inside the dark narrow space.
I drew back like an archer of the Guard of Xerxes, released and hit it right between the eyes, killing it instantly. We pulled the fridge out and retrieved the unfortunate animal by its ear. It was a foot and a half long from snout to tail. We figured it had sneaked in while we were trying the breaker switches for the freezer. The mess it made had taken only three hours give or take. I sure didn't want it sharing our living space. It looked like the love-child of a wharf rat and a jack-rabbit that had put on an expensive fur coat and rolled in sage.
Later that morning, a neighbour told us that it was a pack-rat. Everything may be big in Texas, but I am here to tell you that everything is bigger yet in Texas Creek. The day was spent cleaning up the mess, disinfecting and inspecting our entire premises, inside, out and underneath. There wasn't a hole bigger than my little finger to be found anywhere in the building and that included the dusty, dark crawl space. This finding supported the theory that it had been a crime of opportunity when the front door was left open too long the night before. The little bugger may have caused our electrical short, but it could have been coincidental.
I crumbled some tobacco on the little carcass, out of respect and bagged it up. Our landlord loaned us an extension cord and power for our freezer and provided me with the number of an electrician who promised that she would come the next morning. Two days later, we had new breakers, two fire extinguishers and a clean bill of electrical health. My new friend phoned to see how things were going and I told him that although I had missed our fishing trip, that I had gotten to go hunting.
A local man once told me, “Lillooet won't entertain you.”
I beg to differ.
fin
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