Fishing, like any sport, involves certain risks. Though slight, these dangers should be mentioned.
Any trout fishermen has had encounters with the dreaded slippery rocks. I can’t count the number of times one or both feet have lost traction in some fast water and shot out to the side. The results are immediate in my case; arms flailing wildly over my head, grotesque and violent physical contortions proving the remarkable flexibility of the human body, bulging eyes, contorted facial expressions, clenched fists, my rod whipping around like an airplane prop, white waters thrashing about my churning legs and various animal sounds exiting my mouth as I desperately lash about attempting to stay upright.
If successful in remaining erect I gingerly make my way to the bank and with red face cast furtive glances at any fishing companion I may be with. Usually, they’re lying on the bank rolling around helplessly, literally crying with laughter. When they can stand again and have wiped away their tears, they bewail the fact they didn’t have a video camera. Throughout the day, they usually explode in short bursts of laughter, shaking their heads at the memory.
I fish alone a lot of the time.
Hooks are a constant menace and I suppose anyone who has fishes often has impaled themselves or someone else with a stubborn barb. It’s with not a little pride that I mention my ability to remove hooks from these unfortunately has become legend among those I’ve helped in difficult circumstances. Well, at least they mention the fact I at least know how to do something right!
Memory shows I’ve hooked and then removed hooks from my father and daughter. Both were most upset I’d hooked them, but even more thankful I was able to remove the nasty hooks without a trip to the ER. The lesson here I believe is if you impale someone with a hook, be better at the repair than the damage, a skill that proved handy in my marriage — come to think of it.
Half a dozen other fishermen profited from my hook removal skills and when you are innocent of inflicting the damage, it is much easier to bask in the glory of removing the hook. I think there’s a lesson buried in there somewhere if you excuse the pun.
Branches, thorns and vines are a constant threat as you hurry from 1 hole to the other. Branches have torn off my glasses, poked my face and eyes, removed my hat and became tangled between my feet causing me to hop around like a drunken rabbit before toppling over in a shower of leaves. Again, accomplices usually fall prostrate, rolling helplessly on the ground howling with mirth.
Thorns seek me out and have ripped and scratched my face, ears, hands, and fingers, torn holes in my waders and imprisoned me in their embrace many times over the years while the proliferation of multi-flora rose makes this danger worse every season.
Ground hugging vines also lurk in wait, snagging both feet pitching you onto your face like a catapult. They’ve been responsible for breaking two expensive fishing rods over the years…alas!
On the water you must watch for logs, snags, other boats and large waves. Once I had a 10-horse motor on a 12 foot boat. That little combo flew across the surface with only the prop in the water and required a delicate hand on the tiller. As I skimmed over Buckhorn Lake one afternoon, I didn’t see a very large, dense patch of weeds floating on the surface. When I hit that immovable mass a lot happened very fast and none of it good!
My little boat literally flew three feet out of the water and turned 180 degrees, flying backward some distance down the lake before striking the water. The square stern hit with a crash, water exploding up all around me and it seemed for a second the boat was two feet below the surface in a hollow it’s made from the tremendous impact.
The abrupt stop slammed me backward into the motor, breaking a couple ribs, but luckily not tossing me out. My tackle box, fortunately closed, slammed into my knee but remained in the boat while oars, seat cushions and anything else loose flew overboard, including my fishing rod.
When the boat bobbed back to the surface and I managed to disentangle myself from the motor, groaning in pain, I saw my fishing lure had caught in the boat and I was able to recover my rod thank goodness. Motoring to the shoreline I loaded with about 100 pounds of rocks. Their extra weight kept the boat keel in the water, made me a little slower, but much safer.
The last danger, and the inspiration for this article, came from a recent Jamestown Post Journal article. Every fishing hole has one premium spot that presents the best opportunity of catching fish. Sometimes it’s the only spot you can effectively fish from and is much coveted by anglers. Competition can be intense.
A police report from the newspaper states that Burdette F. Gifford, 80 years of age, and Matthew L. Gifford were charged Tuesday with third degree assault and second degree harassment. The altercation occurred over a prime fishing area where both men used “shovels” to beat a stranger intruding on their sacred location. A court date awaits.
Wow, must have been a really great spot!
