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by Rick Howat
Rick Howat lives in Southern British Columbia, Canada with his wife Karen, and two boys, Josh & Justin. Rick has been a Business Owner/Operator, a Pastor.. He and his family have spent many years camping and fishing together in the great outdoors.
I don’t know where the picture was taken, except that it’s near a lake with cabins and large pine trees. The year is about 1962. There I am in black and white: little tiny guy beaming for the camera, fishing pole in one hand and shiny dead trout in the other. I’m told this was my first fish. I’ll have to take their word for it, as I don’t consciously remember it at all. Subconsciously, though, it had a profound impact on my life.
Fishing has become a passion for me. Maybe it has something to do with bringing home the catch for the women-folk. Maybe it’s conquering the unknown deeps, or the anticipation of the strike, or just being outdoors in complete union with the wilderness. Whatever it is, it is wonderful.
To me, time spent fishing is timeless: hours can go by and I won’t even notice. It’s the only time when I can miss a meal and not even care. I’m not sure how this happened, it just did. As I spend time with other fishermen, I understand they feel the same way. Fishing is more than just a pastime. It’s a way of looking at life.
I remember one fishing adventure in particular, about six years after I caught that first fish. I was in a dusty old cow field in central California - my happy hunting ground. I was hunting for fish most of the time, except for the occasional bird that flew in front of my BB gun.
Mom had dropped me off with a few of my friends for a couple hours of fishing. The cow-watering pond was legendary for holding huge lunkers down in the muddy deeps. I had become a bit of a fishing expert amongst my peers. If I heard or read anything about where the fish were biting, no matter how trivial, I would never forget it. And I didn’t mind sharing this enticing information.
It was hot that summer day - 110 degrees. That was not uncommon for those parts. As we made our way across the field, the cows stared at us with that half-menacing, half-dumb look on their faces. It was enough to make you scared to death, but we all faked bravado very well. The pond was probably 40 feet square and about four feet deep with muddy cow footprints and cow pies all around it. The water had about half an inch of visibility. Thinking back, it must have been a mighty stinky, dirty, ugly environment. We didn’t care at all, though. We was after them fish. Bigguns!
We all had cheap little K-Mart spinning rods loaded with six-pound test fishing line and some big old bass lures tied to the end. I always liked those bass lures because you could cast them a mile and they looked real cool coming through the water (not that you could see them in this particular pond).
We all took up locations around the pond. Dodging thirsty cows, and their accompanying pies, we began to work the water. We tried casting way out and reeling in fast. We tried jerking in with quick little tugs. We let ‘em sink a little, and brought them in very slowly.
The first hour went by and my reputation as a guide was beginning to fade. I was starting to think up excuses as we sat down for a much-needed drink of water. Going home and jumping in the pool was starting to sound like a good idea.
It was right about then that I learned one of the secrets of fishing: Don’t give up. It’s called “fishing” not “catching.”
I got up and kept on fishing. My buddies just sat there, complaining and wisecracking (mostly at my expense). I don’t know if it was just to try to save my reputation, or because I was angry or bored, but I started to fish again.
I threw my line out far and reeled in slow, then tried it again fast. Nothing. Then I tried a new idea, casting it way down along one shoreline and bringing it in right against the shore. Then it happened - from out of the murky water came a massive splash, and a mostly-unseen fish attacked my lure. I was so stunned; I just froze with amazement. The rod was bent in half and the line immediately snapped.
I no sooner turned to look at my friends than I heard them screaming. “Unreal!” “Did you see that!?!” “Oh Man, what was that!?!” They came a-running, casting and jumping and focusing on that one spot where the monster hit my lure. And me? Well, I was telling them just where to cast, how fast to retrieve it, how to stand - all the necessary professional techniques.
They tried and tried, but soon enough we heard the horn honk. There was Mom to pick us up. We headed back to the car, my reputation as a true fishin’ guide intact. By the time we got to where Mom was waiting, the fish must have weighed about 15 lbs. We couldn’t wait to go back to the cow-watering pond.
Wise old age of 10 years that I was, I reminded my friends all the way home, “Now remember, you can’t just give up so quickly. You gotta stay at it, and try different things, cause you never know when those fish are gonna hit.”
My, oh my, what we learn while fishin’.
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