GONE
FISHING
by John W. Carlson
Delivered to The
February 23, 1998
My
earliest recollection of going fishing was in one of the ponds next to the #2
(Ladies) Golf Course at Medinah Country Club, at age six or seven. This was in
the early 1930's. I understood my Dad's dues was $25.00 per month at that time.
Tommy Armour and his brother Sandy were the golf pros - giving lessons to a lot
of youngsters including a freckled face kid named Patty Berg and an older girl
named Babe Zaharias. I was old enough to take lessons but not old enough to
play without an adult on the courses, so there was a lot of spare time for
exploring land, water and building.
I was greatly fascinated by the rabbits, squirrels, gophers, grass snakes,
turtles, swans, ducks and other birds (no geese ), butterflies, moths, bats,
bugs, crayfish, frogs and especially the bull heads that were plentiful in
those days. Most things could be caught by hand or net except the bull heads.
Gophers were fun to catch but it was a two man job. One guy poured a bucket of
water down the gopher hole while the other waited at the other end of the
tunnel to catch him by the tail. We didn't catch many. I remember one time all
we got was the tail.
A white string tied to a stick and safety pin, with a little piece of well
squeezed hard roll, was a great way to catch the ever hungry bull heads. I
borrowed one of the old green waste paper cans to put them in. This might be
classified as the good fisherman's barbless hook, but I found that bending the
end of the pin was effective in keeping the bait, as well as catching the fish
.
Knowing that fish were on the Club's menu I took the bullheads to the Chef.
There was not a great demand for bull heads among the membership but the Chef
knew that it was a popular item among the waiters who in those days were
primarily Filipinos. The Chef agreed to split the proceeds if I did the selling
and delivery. He did the filleting and cooking. The agreed price was $.25 a
piece.
There was a highly confidential side benefit. The men's locker room was
equipped with a series of slot machines. While I was frequently evicted from
the area, I noticed some of the machines hadn't paid off for awhile and
inserted my share of the profits from fishing with some lucrative results. This
worked fairly well until my Mother discovered a cigar box under my bed with all
my hard earned as well as ill gotten gains.
I was permitted to continue the sale of fish but not the gambling. The proceeds
were placed in the neighborhood bank which had recently reopened.
In 1937 the foregoing fishing story was documented in an article with a cartoon
in the sport section of the Chicago Tribune. I have the article framed and
hanging in the office. My string, pin and stick fishing ended thereafter when
one of the club members, who manufactured fishing equipment, gave me a complete
outfit - rod (with a pistil grip), reel, string, artificial bait and bait box,
which I still have 60 years later. I remember some of the stories my benefactor
told about fishing the
I practiced casting in the back yard by the hour, occasionally, accidentally
looping the fishing line around the telephone and electric wires that ran
across the back yard.
I am sure I inherited my joy of fishing from my Dad. He grew up in Edgewater
near lake Michigan. He hunted and fished along the lake front with his buddy
who was a preacher's kid by the name of Dave Newel. Dave was very good at
drawing pictures including some of his Father preaching sermons with lightning
coming out of his eyes and fire out of a near by pit. Dave never stopped
hunting and fishing and later became editor of Field and Stream Magazine. He
owned a beautiful spot in
Between semesters, in Dad's college days, he had a job with the Department of
Indian Affairs which required that he and a co-worker visit a number of tribes
out west. Apparently there was time for fishing on the reservation. He had some
great pictures of their catches with the Indians in their canoes.
Many years later he was made a trustee for the liquidation of some waterfront
property. A big utilities' dam created a large lake on land acquired for that
purpose for the utility. Dad's duties included the disposal of all the waterfront
property after arranging for the
My Dad loved fishing and the great out of doors.
About the time I was old enough to be allowed on the golf course at Medinah,
Dad quit the club but a friends' family, whom I'd met there, had a home on
They had speed boats and row boats with a large home right on the lake. We did
some fishing in all kinds of weather, throwing most of the catches back. I
particularly enjoyed catching the ugly gar fish and northern but there were
some very good eating fish too and a great lake in which to fish and swim. It
was even fun casting from their pier. I remember resting on the pier and
watching the fish congregate around and under it.
Digging worms was always a challenge. It was sort of fun and an important part
of fishing. Worming was best at night with a flashlight and a bucket of water
or hose. Keeping the worms in the ice box always seemed best but there was a
division of opinion on this, especially if they were not used promptly. I
appreciate what the Robins go through pulling some of those fat stretchers out
of the ground and sometimes only getting part of the catch. No doubt Robins
know the remaining part will survive and grow big.
I remember one day we were catching frogs at Big Foot Country Club near
The
I had a long standing hay-fever allergy and succeeded in getting a job at the
resort for the rest of the summer, as well as the next two years, thereby
avoiding much of the pollen that was so prolific at home. My hay fever struck
annually on August 15th and lasted till the first hard frost.
Most of my work at the resort was squeezing oranges and cutting dead birch
trees for fire wood, killing bats on the ceilings (the owners apparently didn't
understand how beneficial they were and let some of the guests talk them into
their extermination). I was also assigned any other job that no body else
wanted. I did get some good cash tips for hauling luggage and was occasionally
allowed to guide some guests fishing the big lake with some success and a $5.00
fee. One day I rescued one of the alcoholic guests whom I saw drowning at about
5 AM while I was squeezing oranges. I managed to get him on a raft and revive
him at which point he dove back in the water and had to be saved again. His
wife gave me a big tip. There were some great barbecues at this resort with
much singing and story telling. I remember one song in particular -
"There's a red light on the track for boozer Bill". The Chef was part
owner and also worked as a chef in the Palmer House in the winter. I received
room and board plus $1.00 per day for work at the resort and a nearby home,
plus the tips and miscellaneous charges for special guest services.
One of my duties was to drive guests to see their children at a nearby camp
where I discovered our high school football coach and his wife worked every
year. I could not resist the coaches offer that my buddies and I come there to
work the next year. The deal was still $1.00 per day plus room and board, but
permitted us use of all the facilities including horses, boats, cars, and a
couple of old college girl counselors - one of whom was a red head that could
smoke cigars. The fishing was not great but everything else was happy until the
owner decided he should count the value of the room and board on the amount he
withheld for income tax. This netted me about $.25 per day. I was never able to
convince the IRS that the difference was deducted from my pay for which there
was no record. The owner died shortly thereafter.
He did give me a $20.00 bonus for staying on to help him close up the camp and
drive a truck and trailer back to Chicago. Two days before we left I was
burying garbage when a bear approached. As I was running away I stepped on a
board with a protruding rusty nail that went through my foot. The owner
explained that due to gas rationing he would not be able to get me to town for
medical attention but we could stop on the way home in the next day or two. By
the time we left there was a red and black line up my leg. The doctor took care
of the puncture and I drove home with the trailer and a large bandage and very
sore foot.
The next year we went fishing with my Dad, Uncle and Cousin. My Uncle was a
great bass fisherman with a beautiful fly rod technique which I never mastered
but enjoyed watching. I admired his great results and love of the sport. His
cigar smoke kept the flies and mosquitos away. As I recall about the only thing
I hooked that time was one of the family members in the boat.
I enlisted in the Army Air Corp. while in high school at the age 17 in 1944 but
was discharged before being called because they were over crowded. I was given
seven days to enlist or be drafted in the army. I then enlisted in the Naval
Air Corps V-5 program. Primary training was in Corpus Christi and the officers
promised the cadets a deep sea fishing trip in the Gulf. It ended up being a
couple of hours ride in a barge with bamboo poles, a drop line and bobber. When
we arrived at the reportedly great spot for Gulf fishing one of our group dove
in for a swim and hit his head on the sandy bottom. There was about five feet
of water over a sand bar with a lot of sea urchins but no fish. Back at the base
there were dolphins performing off the end of one of the piers. When leave time
arrived Dad arranged for a trip with his college pal and son up to the Sea Gull
Lodge near the Canadian border, at the end of the Gun Flint Trail. We started
out in an open launch with an Indian guide trailing two canoes until we came to
a waterfall which it was necessary to portage around. The launch was left for
the return trip. We hauled the canoes and equipment up the steep embankment,
around the falls to a placid pool, where we embarked on our day's journey.
I did most of the paddling and we both trolled through the beautiful waters and
North Woods spectacular scenery with all the "murmuring pines and the
hemlock". We frequently snagged our lines in the rocks and weeds.
I decided it would be better if I just paddled and let Dad do the fishing. He
again announced a snag and handed me the pole to work it loose. I noticed
however that in spite of the heavy drag on the line we were still moving down
stream. I told him that whatever he snagged was coming with us. At this point
he said "gimme the pole". After much struggle a very large Northern
Pike appeared along side the boat with Dad's triple jointed pikey minnow lure
protruding from its mouth full of sharp teeth. We had no net and our gaff hook
was of an age that could no longer be assembled. Dad asked me to gaff it
anyway, which I did. With my hand at the hook of the gaff I managed to slip the
hook through the large gill and drag the big fish over the side of the canoe.
The fish frantically jumped and flopped all over the canoe with the hooks from
the tipple jointed bait flying menacingly close to bare legs and arms. I was
instructed to put my foot on it. I was wearing a well worn pair of moccasins
but managed to hold the big fish down with one foot. The instruction was then
to kill it.
I had been taught that the way to kill big Northern was to grab their eyes and
insert the point of the knife in back of their head which provided a quick and
merciful execution.
I have always enjoyed the thrill of landing a big fish but the little ones
usually tasted better. I preferred the catch and release of a beautiful big
fish if survival was possible. We found our friends at a cabin nearby. It was
loaded with supplies and a couple of bed springs. The guide explained we could
take whatever we wanted for food but were to leave a comparable quantity for
others. The cabin was used primarily by hunters. In those days Canada was
promoting the sale of the islands at a nominal cost with timber rights to build
a cabin. Later on I understood everything was confiscated for national parks,
at least on the U.S. side of the border.
After a hearty fish lunch it was Dad's and my turn to take the guide. The old
Indian was thirsty after lunch and repeatedly dipped his felt hat into the
fresh cold stream for a drink of water. He was very healthy and made annual
trips on snow shoes to the big town of Ely, Minnesota which was about 100 miles
west. He was at least a senior citizen at that time. Before long Dad tied into
another big Northern. When he got the fish about 25 or 30 feet from the boat
the guide picked up his rifle to shoot the fish. Dad protested loudly. The
guide replied ( in his high topped boots and gloves) he would no more think of
bringing a fish like that into the canoe than to try landing a crocodile.
I looked at Dad and said, yeah - gaff it, put your foot on it . The guide shot
the fish at some distance and used a huge net to bring it into the boat. Later,
the fish was served beautifully with an apple or something in its mouth and all
the trimmings. It was delicious. Food always tasted better after fishing -
especially if the food included the catch of the day.
About the middle of the afternoon it was time to head back and we agreed to let
our friends have the guide who took the big fish, equipment, etc.
All went well until we arrived at the placid pool ahead of the falls. There was
ice around the shore lines. Dad decided to try one last cast and tied into
another keeper. As he brought the fish along side the canoe we both leaned over
at the same time to see it. The canoe tipped over. The water was extremely
cold. We retrieved the poles and bait and even the fish. We then portaged the
canoe around the falls to the waiting barge and the laughter of the guide and
our friends.
I don't ever remember being colder than I was riding in the open launch in
freezing weather soaked through. The guide felt it necessary to travel at full
speed. I didn't know whether I preferred freezing faster or slower at that
point.
When we arrived back at the cabin there was a large black bear on the porch .
The Indian threw a stone at him and he took off quickly.
We got into the cabin and headed for the fireplace and hot shower, which only
had cold water - but felt warm. This was to be our last day there and my Dad
grabbed the bottle of Bourbon he'd been looking forward to. Holding the empty
bottle up to the light with a few expletives and a shaking hand, he was advised
by his old college chum that he had been drinking with the Indian guide to find
out where the best fishing holes were.
It was about 60 miles across extremely rough terrain to the nearest store, so
it was the next day before we could replenish our supplies. The story of Dad
holding up the bottle to the light, with only a few drops left in the bottom,
was often repeated The story got a little better each time it was told. I have
tried to keep my version factual.
When we arrived home we enjoyed telling our stories and showing our pictures to
our neighbor who promptly took his son up there for a similar expedition. Upon
his return he told the story of coming to the placid pool ahead of the falls,
where the Indian guide told them to be careful, that a couple of men had fallen
in and were very cold on the ride back. They acknowledged that they'd heard the
story and knew the characters.
After getting out of the service I went back to the Sea Gull Lodge, with a
friend. We caught a lot of fish but the big ones escaped.
My sister settled in Boise, Idaho in about 1950. Her husband was one of her
students at the University of Washington. Later he worked with the Department
of the Interior and had grown up in the Northwest Territory working in logging
camps as a tree topper with his father. His primary duties were in the Bureau
of Reclamation but included escorting visiting dignitaries on hunting and
fishing trips. He and my Dad had some great salmon fishing. Later, we went
fishing with the girls. It has been my experience that, frequently, the girls
are the only ones to catch a fish. I remember one trip especially to a
beautiful stream just below the hatchery. Periodically a gate would open at the
hatchery and down came a bunch of trout, acting half starved for the little red
salmon eggs we used for bait.
Except for that one trip I never caught many fish in Idaho but the territory
was incredibly rugged and beautiful. In those days the only paved roads went
around the south end of the state. There were logging trails which were narrow
and treacherous, especially when the big logging trucks came roaring down the
hill with no intention or way of slowing down or giving an inch. There was
usually a steep cliff on the drivers side.
Later my youngest daughter taught school in Boise and loved to go fishing.
Again, we never caught much but found a lot of wonderful, scenic places to
fish.
A couple of times Dad made reservations for the family at Sun Valley. Golf was
probably his first love but fishing frequently took precedence. The trout
streams around Sun Valley were spectacular. We could see some beautiful big
trout lying in the bottom of the clear streams or shooting by in shallower
spots. That was one of the places where it was great fun even if you never got
a bite from anything but a few bugs.
Dad had a friend with a home on top of the highest hill in The Virgin Islands.
It was a beautiful spot complete with swimming pool and gardeners. We could
look down on the coral shore. One day I enrolled on a catamaran combination
fishing and scuba trip. The old sailor had bare feet that looked more like
hoofs. We trolled for barracuda on the way out to the island where he ordered
everyone into the water. I said what about the barracuda. He replied that they
never came there at that time of day.
With the hope that the barracudas had the correct time, we dove into the
crystal clear water. There instantly appeared great quantities of fish of all
sizes, shapes and colors. One huge growth of coral housed dozens of small
multicolored fish that eased in and out of the coral as if it were breathing
them. Less beautiful but most interesting was the head of a huge eel neatly
camouflaged in an opening in the rocks, waiting for breakfast to arrive.
Breakfast did arrive and he swam away exhibiting his long wide snake like
dimensions. I don't remember any sight more beautiful than the coral with all
of its colorful and most interesting inhabitants. My Dad often talked of the
Great Barrier Reef off Australia which is high on my list of places to see.
My four children, while in grammar school, enjoyed going to the Fisherman's
Dude Ranch on Golf Road. They were all pretty good fisherman so it could be a
very expensive form of entertainment, until I persuaded them to each take turns
bringing in the same fish. They particularly enjoyed catching the half starved
trout on a peace of yellow cheese. The water would fairly boil with trout the
minute the bait hit the water.
One of our wealthy friends had a large home in northern Wisconsin on the lake.
They had a beautiful Irish Setter that would stand on their pier and gaze in
the water until a fish came by at which point he dove in and frequently came
proudly ashore with his catch. We purchased one of his offspring that was a
wonderful pet but didn't like to get his paws wet and never learned to swim like
his father.
We took a couple of golfing vacations with some friends to Myrtle Beach and
Nassau. My friend's ball rolled into the river a short distance from the ocean.
When I went to retrieve it, I found a crab examining the ball carefully. As the
label appeared the crab tried to bite the ball which promptly shot up out of
its grasp. This process was repeated a few times until it gave up and glided
smoothly toward the middle of the stream. At this point I endeavored to lift
the ball out of the water with my sand iron, at which time the crab swiftly
reappeared, took the ball off the face of the club and repeated his effort to
bite the ball. By this time my golfing partner arrived wondering what took me
so long. Finally the crab gave up and we retrieved the ball. I've often thought
how great it would be to have a pet crab that could go out in the water and
retrieve your golf balls.
In Nassau we stayed at the dull but enjoyable south end of the island with its
great golf course. Any balls hit off the fairway could never be found until the
end of the hole where a native appeared with your ball and a few others that
could be purchased for a modest sum.
I remember one spot in particular where a giant hole had a sign warning golfers
not to attempt retrieving their golf balls. It reportedly was a very deep hole
and had an underground connection with the ocean. It had been explored by the
National Geographic Society and was inhabited with sharks and others.
My wife enjoyed swimming along the sandy beach until one day while standing in
waste deep clear water she was bumped firmly by an unseen swimmer, presumed to
be a smooth skinned large fish.
Judge Ray Berg had his locker near mine at the Union League Club. He was an
avid fisherman and from our old neighborhood and high school. We used to call
the neighborhood Edgewater but later it was referred to as Andersonville (spelt
with an ON). Our conversation frequently turned to fishing. One day he arranged
for my Dad, my son and I to stay at one of the Judge's favorite islands in The
Lake of the Woods. When we arrived we were the only guests at a great little
resort. He'd also arranged for us to have the best guide in the territory. This
guide was one of those that other guides would follow because he knew all the
best spots. We caught many walleye and some big Northern before the weather
changed. I remember looking out the cabin window watching a little seaplane
make a dozen runs before it was able lift out of the big rolling waves. When my
Mother passed away Dad arranged another trip for my wife and I to go with him
to Mazatlan. We stayed at the Balboa Club and enjoyed the sandy beach along the
Baja. The food and accommodations were wonderful. One of their men spent all
day sweeping up the flower petals that were raining on the courtyard from the
surrounding walls they covered so beautifully.
One day we were watching one of the natives fishing from a row boat when a
young whale grabbed his bait as he trolled along the surface. He rowed his boat
up to the whale and retrieved his line from the whales mouth. We later learned
he just didn't want to lose his line and lure.
There were some huge turtles that appeared along the shore. Once I saw what
appeared to be the head of a deer. The beach was lit by torch light at night as
torch bearers came by on horse back. We could see a lot of crabs that appeared
magically at night and congregated along the shore.
Dad and I engaged a small economical power boat with a crew of two that didn't
speak English. Our Spanish was somewhat limited. After a three hour ride at a
rather slow pace into the Baja the motor conked out. There were no flares or
radios on board. The only sustenance was a case of warm beer and smelly old
fish bait. A series of fins circled the boat as a fog bank rolled in. Motor
repairs were undertaken by the crew equipped only with a screwdriver and pen
knife. Suddenly some very loud fog horns sounded nearby as a couple of
invisible freighters passed us. After what seemed like a very long time the
crew got the motor started. We came out of the fog bank but it was getting
late. Having seen all the fins around the boat we felt sure we could catch
something and the trip would not have been in vain. Sure enough I had a big
strike and after a lengthy struggle I pulled a seven foot hammerhead shark
alongside the boat. The crew appeared anxious to land the fish which we learned
was of substantial use and value to the crew. The older crew man proceeded to
drop a noose over the shark's head, hitting it with what looked like an old baseball
bat. At this point the shark jumped up over the side of the boat and knocked
the older man flat, cutting his face, breaking his glasses and watch. His young
assistant dispatched the shark with a mighty blow from the bat, followed by
some dagger work.
The older crew man revived and we decided it was time to head back. The shark
was laid across the stern of the boat extending over both sides with its hammer
head upon the rail looking in my direction with one of those big eyes. It was a
long ride back during which the thought came to me once again that it was
better to leave the big ones in the water.
In later years our family met annually in the Boundary Waters area along the
border of Canada. The last time we were there a large black bear stood on its
hind legs and looked in the window to see the new arrivals. I met a bear later
as I took the garbage out to the trash can. He was waiting there as I rounded
the corner of the cabin. The bear and I were equally frightened. We both ran in
opposite directions.
We had a wonderful guide up there every year. He trapped game for a living in
the winter and supplemented his meager income with the sale of his art work. He
was a fantastic cook as well as a great guide and a most interesting person. I
have never enjoyed food more than the lunches he prepared after a morning of
good fishing. In addition to the delicious fish there was a lot of potatoes,
onions, beans and peas, good coffee and cookies as well as a few cold beers and
soft drinks. Lunch was cooked over a wood fire on any one of the many beautiful
islands. There were always a lot of birds and critters nearby for handouts and
to clean up the remnants left for them. Occasionally there would be signs to
avoid certain islands because of problem bears. The troopers or Mounties would
trap them and transport them to the far north.
During those years it was important for my Dad to walk a lot. We did quite a
bit of hiking down the trails and roads. On one of the longer walks in the
middle of no where we met an unfriendly very serious jogger running by himself
with the strange fast walker's stride. Dad raised his cane and shouted at the
jogger "keep going - you're way ahead".
Storms came up quickly and it was often a race to shore with a 50 horse power
motor on a little row boat. The lightning and stinging icy rain pellets made
arrival on shore a great relief.
The beautiful spots we fished and good times we had often come to mind during
periodic day dreams.
My Dad lived until age 94. The last few years all the fishing was done from a
boat.
We had a couple of great salmon fishing expeditions with rented boats out of
Burnham Harbor. However, each time the best fish were caught by my wife or
daughter. We'd take a salmon steak home for a cookout and have the remainder
smoked for leisurely consumption later on.
Our last venture with Dad ended with a storm wave breaking over the bow well
above the boat. When the weather is decent the view of our City from the lake
makes you very proud of our home town.
When fishing is good on Lake Michigan it seems foolish for people to travel
great distances to fish. We had it all right here. However, last spring, Judge
Dean Trafelet arranged for a combination Safari and fishing trip to Kenya.
My son and I and three others took off from Nairobi for the MasaMari. Not much
fishing there because the stream next to our tent was full of hippos and
crocodiles. We had a great balloon ride and some interesting safaris. One day
we saw a big old lion eating a gazelle. I asked the guide how the old lion
could run fast enough to catch a gazelle. The guide pointed to a nearby,
dejected looking, cheetah and explained that the lion stole the cheetah's
dinner. When we drove over to look at the cheetah, he jumped up on the hood of
our Land rover. I took a close up picture through the windshield which won an
honorable mention at the Union League Club's ‘97 Photo Exhibition.
We visited a small village in the middle of the Masa Mari country. The chief
introduced us to his ten wives and many children. The young men danced with
spears to their musical chant. They took turns jumping up and down in their
bare feet to their music. Each jump was well above my waist line with no
visible effort. They would all make fantastic basketball players but there was
not a tree in sight or any place to hang a basket. They kept baby goats and
calves in a separate stall in their very little huts which were covered with
cow dung to keep the rain out. There was a severe drought while we were there
in February. The inside of their hut had a small fire in a hole in the dirt
floor. There was a small hole in the side of the hut to let the smoke out. The
huts were full of flies and a pungent odor. I always thought the Kenyans were
great runners because they had to escape the wild animals that surrounded their
villages. However, we were told that boys were not considered men until they
had killed a lion with their spears or knife and that the lions shied away from
these natives as they walked across the plains alone or in small groups, sometimes
herding their cattle or goats. They were a fairly handsome group except for
many missing teeth. The young twelve year old boy who escorted me was fluent in
English and brilliant in communicating the ways of life in his village. There
are recent reports of flooding with loss of life through drowning or disease
due to mosquitos and flies. Elections were recently held with occasional
shootings. The police frequently carried rifles and dressed like soldiers. One
day, while we were away, there was a student riot at the University across the
street from the Norfolk Hotel were we stayed in Nairobi. The students claimed
the police killed a popular student leader in his dormitory room and set fire
to him as well as his room. A similar incident was recently reported in our
newspapers. The University was then shut down in both cases. We next flew to
Resinga Island in Lake Victoria. The small plane landed a few yards from the
beautiful huts near the lake where we slept. In just three hours of fishing we
caught four Nile Perch weighing from 10 to 94 pounds each. The largest had a
huge mouth that could easily accommodate a regulation size basketball. We were
chased away by a radio message that they were trying to film a National
Geographic movie of the Stanley & Livingston story staring Anthony Quinn
who reportedly stayed in one of the huts where we slept. Our boat didn't fit
the picture of the beautiful African sails on their brightly painted canoes
which frequented this area. Ours was the only power boat I saw on the lake.
I toured the nearby fishing village and examined their catch of smaller perch
and minnows. My young guide knew everyone in the village and introduced me to
his school teachers and others along the way. I took pictures of some of the
native ladies with big baskets on their heads and babies slung on their backs.
We shook hands as they switched their machetes from their right to left hand.
There was a line of the beautifully painted African canoes along the shore with
the sails stretched out to dry. There were piles of minnows and smaller Nile
Perch which were sold to merchants who came by in large tanker trucks. There
were floating torches along the shore for night fishing. We saw the natives
bathing along the shore and farming on islands with a 45 degree slope that were
terraced for raising crops without the benefit of any farming equipment. Goats
were common and could easily maneuver the steep slopes. Masses of birds could
be seen above the islands catching the flying insects. My guide took me to a
place where they had excavated fossils that were many thousands of years old.
On the island where we stayed, there were huge trees, reportedly many hundreds
of years old, laden with the sewing birds busily building their nests.
Lake Victoria is second in size only to Lake Superior. It was fairly calm and
very clear the day we were there.
From Lake Victoria we flew to Mombassa passing by Katmandu whose snow capped
peak was visible above the clouds. We then drove south to the Pemba Channel
adjoining Tanzania in the Indian Ocean. I have never heard anyone describe
fishing like we enjoyed there.
Two fisherman and a three man crew operated each boat. About 30 minutes from
shore we always hit a school of Bonito. We took six or eight that were about
one to two feet long for bait. The crewman cut strips of these fish and sewed
them on to large hooks that were covered with brightly colored lures. We
usually had four to six poles trolling at 15 - 20 knots with an exciter
twirling off the back of the boat to attract or aggravate the big fish. The
crew perched high above the deck where they could follow the baits skipping
across the waves perhaps 100 to 150 feet behind the boat. My son caught a
barracuda and a Mahi Mahi on the way out on our first trip into the Pemba
Channel. The crew could usually see the fins when the big Marlins and Sailfish
were approaching the bait and would come screaming down the ladder in their
bare feet from their perch to set the hooks, put us in a harness and strap us
in the chair.
On our greatest day we had four sail fish on the line at the same time. All
were caught, tagged and released as were over 90% of all the billfish caught
from our camp all year. Each fish we caught was estimated to weigh from 70 to
over 100 pounds. The crew described the action as the best they'd ever seen. On
this occasion we encountered a school of over a dozen sail fish fighting for
the bait. We fished with lines testing 50 to 70 pounds. One day I tied into a
huge Marlin. There was a drag on the reel set at about half its maximum
capacity. I thought I saw the reel smoke and it got hot to touch. I was
harnessed and strapped in the chair. The struggle was long and hard. I got so
tired I secretly hoped the fish might escape. Finally, we saw the Marlin dive
straight down off the stern with the motor idling. There is 600 feet of line on
the reel but the channel is over 1200 feet deep at that point. I shouted I
could see the binding coming up in the reel which was a different color at the
end of the line. The crew tried to shift the boat to ease the tension on the
line when it snapped with all the colored line out.
There was no joy thereafter. The crew apologized for trying to move the boat
with the line completely out. I apologized for not being able to land the monster.
We finally agreed there was nothing any of us could do to prevent the
inevitable that time.
There was a great contrast between the fishing camp where we stayed on the
coast near Tanzania and the seething masses further north in troubled Mombassa
and the many beautiful luxurious hotels along the coast. The timing of our trip
was fortunate, considering all the problems we've read about recently. Our boat
crew had a saying which they oft repeated: "Don't worry - Be Happy".
I learned later this was a popular song among the natives from the 1970's. They
lived in what could be a real Shangri-la with the world's finest fishing. Their
fondest possessions were T shirts and gym shoes but they never wore shoes when
they went fishing. When we told them we were from Chicago, they always
responded most enthusiastically that Chicago was where Michael Jordan lived and
played basket ball. That made me think of how high they jumped from a standing
position while dancing and how fast they could run in their bare feet. Kenya,
its people and wild animals have left me with a feeling and appreciation of
life I will never forget.
While this probably ends the possibility of equally enjoying fishing any place
else, I am grateful to have had the chance to go there. No matter where you go
fishing, if the weather and the scenery are good, you "Don't Worry - and
Be Happy".I tried to remember that old poem about the fisherman who riseth
early in the morning and comes home late at night, smelling of strong drink and
the truth is not in him. Since I couldn't find that poem, I tried to make up
another which is fortunately brief:
Whenever I go fishin' I find a beautiful world,
When early in the morning, as dawn comes unfurled,
As skies brighten and the water clears,
My biggest worry disappears.
We then give thanks to God above,
For all the good things there are to love,
For peace and beauty and the critters there,
In water, on land and in the air.
So lets all be happy and not in a hurry
When you've gone fishin' there's no need to worry.
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