Fishing
“Whatsoever things are . . . lovely . . . think on these things.” Philippians 4:8
Fishing
By Foy Valentine, Founding Editor
Unlike the avid fisherman who was dressing to go to church on Sunday morning and while absent-mindedly tightening his necktie with the necessary tugs suddenly fancied that he had a fine fish on his hook and jerked so hard that he choked himself to death, I myself have never been caughtup in fishing.
Nevertheless, fishing pleasures me.
While I can take it or leave it, I`d really rather take it.
For instance, just this morning, quite early, I had an inordinately pleasant dream that I had gone fishing. The lake was calm. A light wind from the south was at my back as I ambled around a little bay looking for a likely place to try my luck. The early morning sun was at my back and a few fleecy clouds floated desultorily overhead. A particularly attractive patch of water caught my fancy and I put down my beat-up old tackle box with a fine feeling that this might very well be their address. A medium-sized lure was chosen and snapped into place. My first cast was a little short; and the second was pulled off unsatisfactorily to the left. The third try was on target, at least close enough for government work. The lure had sunk well out of sight when something hit it like a ton of bricks, in the most gloriously thrilling experience a fisherman can be convulsed with. I set the hook and, nostrils flared, started reeling in my unknown quarry. The lake bank at that point was not satisfactory for landing a fish so I sidled my way to the right about 30 or 40 feet while slowly taking up as much slack as I dared without breaking the line or losing the fish. When it had tired a little, I backed up until I caught a glimpse of the beauty and was able then to drag him up on the grass. Boy and man-I`ve fished a long time, but never have I seen such a member of the finny tribe as this. It was nearly two feet long, full bodied, astoundingly active, and beautiful to behold. Its coloring was yellowish brown with a white underside, mottled like a tabby cat, and a snow-white tail section. It was like no other fish I have ever seen. I will never know its true pedigree, however, for at that moment I woke up, much too exhilarated to go back to sleep. The dream was wonderfully vivid, in gorgeous technicolor, and its images are indelibly fixed in my mind.
In my day I`ve caught my share of catfish and perch (not to mention crawfish, heavy-bodied and deep-voiced bull frogs, and an occasional cottonmouth moccasin gigged at night with a steel gig and a good flashlight) from the tank below our barn at my boyhood home. With catalpa worms for bait, I`ve hauled many a channel catfish into a boat over East Texas lakes. Trolling about 30 feet deep in Coal Lake not far from Mt. McKinley in Alaska, where fish and wildlife authorities assured us there were no fish whatsoever, I`ve caught marvelous salmon-fleshed rainbow trout, one whopper 22 1/2 inches long!
But the mountain streams and small lakes of the Sangre de Cristo range in northern New Mexico have brought me more sheer delight than all my other fishing experiences put together. There have been rainbow trout, fat native brook trout, native cutthroat trout, an occasional German Brown trout, and now and then a rare Rio Grande trout, gloriously and uniquely red-bellied and splendidly delicious when fried to perfection. The rushing mountain streams are best for me; but at 9,000 to 10,000 feet altitude, there are so many trees and bushes at the edge of the water and over the water that fly fishing can be done only with great difficulty. Salmon eggs and worms are better for me; and the streams provide a good trout hole about every 30 yards or so. High mountain lakes provide a diversion and offer the added incentive of breathtakingly beautiful mountain scenery that is second to none in all the world. And the fish hooked there are almost invariably jumpers, adding immeasurably to the sport.
Of course, there is a bit of a downside to fishing. Under certain circumstances including appropriate climatic conditions, a fish out of the water will stink. Also when you are unhooking them they can fin you without a qualm leaving a painful infection that can persist for days. Then I am loath to recall how many hooks I have lodged in my poor clothes, not to mention my poor body-fingers, hands, legs, and once a hapless ear. Hanging your hook in a tree limb over the water can be an exasperating experience, especially when you have just missed a big one after a vigorous strike. Preparing the gear is nearly always aggravating, particularly when you know you left it in tip-top shape and a raucous young grandson has come along and trashed it to the max. Furthermore, the flesh of a fish may well be the most expensive meat you can ever expect to eat.
Still . . . still, a body keeps going fishing.
Especially when under some weight like Peter who, after the Lord`s crucifixion, simply allowed to his fellow disciples, "I`m going fishing" (John 21:3). Or like one of the greatest Christian statesmen of the last century, Dr. J.M. Dawson, who was told by his medical doctor, "You can maintain your present schedule and die within a couple of years or you can take off one day a week and go fishing and expect to live another 20 years." Dr. Dawson took the good doctor`s good advice and lived well into his nineties, having fished up to the very end.
Please excuse me now.
I simply have to go.
Fishing.
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