Woke up at 4:15 a.m. Had to take a wicked piss, and after I flushed the toilet, heard the loud sound of water running down the pipe say, "This is not a good idea!"
Now that's a wicked piss.
Surprised at the pre-dawn sensitivity of my perception (weird things happen just before sunup), I wrote the words down for future reference, quoting them. And then I drove off for Lake Hopatcong, in total defiance of the Accuser. After all, what am I but the accused, if I were doing something not a good idea?
It did turn out to be a Day of Judgement. With a start like that, I guess so. You might think most anyone else would freak out and phone a psychiatrist! Well, as soon as the office were open. Isn't it funny how assumed emergencies are mitigated by routine. That's because their nature is indeed nearer to routine, than that of the terror of a teenager while watching The Exorcist.
I was on the road, headed north in the darkness of Interstate 287. I got to Dow's a few minutes before Kevin said he'd get there. I waited awhile before getting out and reading a posting about tagged trout. Before I would finish reading, Joe Welsh came into view, walking a dog, greeting me, and Laurie Murphy followed behind. She and I began talking, while I began to feel as if Kevin wouldn't show, and I told her he and I would choose another day to come. But his white sedan came onto the scene before Laurie and I finished talking.
My favorite trolling lane produced only a bump. Probably a trout, but it could have been a hybrid striper, although usually they bump, bump again, and then slam. Afterwards, our favorite cove offered us no more than a couple of hits and a small fish on my line that got off. Probably a crappie about nine inches long.
Finished trolling little plugs for awhile, we cast white twister jigs, and finally had some real action. I had a fish on before the line broke. Take my advice if you're using light test. (I used an ultralight and four-pound test.) After you free rock snags a few times--retie. The knot obviously seems strong, as you had exerted pressure against those snags. But knots often weaken. Kevin and I both saw the smallmouth bass in mid-air after it broke off. The white jig clearly visible on its mouth. Bass about 14 inches.
Temperatures were chilly. Initially, I thought the water temp good at 62, 61, but it's not really warmed up into the optimal range of warmwater species. I felt it no surprise I had hooked a smallmouth, not largemouth, as smallmouth prefer cooler temps. Kevin was telling me that once the air warmed and we took our coats off, the fish would hit. Like last year, when the fishing improved later in the morning. As I remember from this morning, we cast persistently, avoiding further trolling until the temperature rose somewhat, but Kevin caught a tagged brown trout a moment after I got bumped by something, possibly the same trout. Later in the morning, Kevin would hook what looked like another brown, though I suppose it could have been a rainbow that went airborne, throwing the hook.
Finally, I got fed up with the whole range we fished. (Basically, an entire bay of the lake.) I wanted to move us back down lake and hope for the best (after more than five hours skunked), and I feared that I would come away from Lake Hopatcong with no fish to my credit for the first time besides when ice fishing and once late in November.
Lake Hopatcong is loaded with opportunity. The shoreline weaves and dips, allowing for shadows among rock and weedy habitat. If it all seems unproductive, try and allow its nature to change your mind. At least, that's what I did. After I caught my first smallmouth of 14 inches or so, Kevin said, "That's what you said you'd do." And I immediately recalled that I had said I'd catch no trout or hybrid, but a bass. Said that only some minutes before. It seemed entirely self-evident to me the lake had warranted my statement.
Kevin missed hits. He used a Senko, too, and one of the white jigs. I thought my big smallmouth on a Senko was a 20-inch largemouth. That's what it looked and felt like, until I got it near the boat, when I thought it was the biggest smallmouth of my life. No. It was really only 18 1/2 inches, but a really good bass at that. Hooked it in a boat lane with dock-work on either side.
Going in, I told Kevin that I'm not one of those guys who need to catch a whole lot of fish every time out. Ego is insatiable. And I really don't mean to downplay ego by saying so. Think of how life would suck if you didn't want anything. Ego makes it all worthwhile--if the cards are played well. I told Kevin that catching fish makes the difference, though. I told him I felt satisfied, and he told he felt satisfied, too. The difference between that and feeling empty is that we caught fish.
Think about it, and it's a pretty big difference when you consider the investment of a full day.
Some other guy out there caught nearly 20 fish. I was shocked when he told us that. When he said, "They were all small," I felt relief! But I don't have to be Top Gun. I thought the recent movie sucked anyway, hardly paid attention as I worked on my laptop. I like coming in first, but when it comes to fishing, there are always going to be guys out there somewhere in the state better at it than I am. Maybe not on the scene we share. Who knows, maybe not on the entire scene "throughout the Great Garden State" as they say about temperature on Jersey Radio when the music comes out to play. But that's a lie, and how do you break down success, anyway? Who chooses what segments? Anyhow, when it comes to writing about fishing, I might do better.
And that's why today was a Day of Judgement. Because coming home on the Interstates, the satisfaction I had enjoyed had faded, and in its place a harsh realism seemed to rule. Am I really going to buy a boat and keep it in a slip? That question posed against how tired I felt. And I'm going to do the likes of this every week? Drive the long route home while I struggle to stay awake?
The most dedicated anglers willingly accept such suffering. I listened to NJ Multispecies Podcast recently, when that very issue got discussed. The willingness to suffer, and it's true. I can vouch for the fact, however, that as a younger man, doing so was much easier. When I was 15, I once pedaled my 10-speed before dawn 10 miles while suffering a very nasty hangover. At least once, I braked so I could cleanly vomit. I fished five or six hours, pedaling home restored. Who the hell does the like but a fisherman?
But beyond the age of 60, you lose some of that sort of willingness. Perhaps. Or at least I do. Some of it. You do have to balance with the fact that retirement as a couch potato is a waste of time.
When I did get home, carrying the 70-pound marine battery upstairs felt like hell, when it was easy to do this morning carrying it downstairs. Amidst all the stress, I realized some jobs are many times more physically difficult to do than my supermarket job. And yet, I was kind to myself. Here's how Judgement fell: After I retire, nothing requires me to make up my mind right away. I can wait a whole year, if that pleases me. I can let things tell me if I want to do it or not.
One thing I do know. I don't want to be anyone's sucker. If I feel slip prices are unreasonable, I'm not buying.
I haven't put all my stuff away yet. I felt driven to go up and catch a nap. That ended up lasting three hours, even though I slept eight hours last night. I wanted to blot out my doubt, but of course it was there waiting for me when I woke. But as I postprocessed photos, the day settled into a calm, positive acceptance. It had its rough edges. It has its persistent question. It won't be easy to decide, but today was a good enough day to help weigh the balance in favor of more.
