Retired With Nothing Better To Do: Becoming A Piscator Millionaire

 Been almost a year and a half now, retirement in full. A life event long time in coming, but somehow snuck up on me and when it did, mixed emotions tended to argue between themselves. The thought of having nothing to do sounds appealing, while in other ways, not so much. This nothing better to do syndrome worked for a while, however sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch can only appease those inner desires for so long. After a while, other desires began to stir, working themselves into a froth, prodding and goading me to get off my duff and do something.

Moon and Venus - Barren River Lake Morning Sky

 Angling has been a lifelong adventure, one that potentially can satisfy that nothing better to do itch. I've pursued this sport trying to become a tried and trued piscator, off and on, ever since I was a little feller. More off than on for most of my life, but still something I've always enjoyed. Being retired with nothing better to do, well, it only seemed natural I would once again begin to regularly cast a line from time to time. I was recently reminded just how destitute I had become at the sport. The prospect of making a few casts toward a rocky bluff, to feel the strike and tug of a heavy fish on the other end, then the contest of wills to land an amazing creature against his instinctive will to get away, all served to reawaken long ago suppressed desires to get up early and chase the sport of fishing dream. 

To purposely miss out on several hours of sleep took a bit of will power, but once up and going it wasn't so bad. Rolled out of bed at 3:30ish AM to down a cup of strong coffee, a vital beverage that sort of helped to remove the sleepy fog hovering around my eyes, mostly anyway. The old Jeep was already loaded, completed the previous afternoon. On top my venerable Old Town Canoe was strapped down, fishing gear and other necessary gear thrown haphazardly in the backend. Early thirty is a hard time of the morning, but when I stepped outside into unseasonably cool air, I discovered the sky was selling its ebony tint with diamonds scattered across the empyrean palace. The moon, not to be left out, was on sale as well, a polished sliver of its self, stenciled low, just above the tree line. It was the kind of morning where I was granted the authority to feel very wealthy, a piscator millionaire of sorts, the kind where wealth is defined by the blessing of good health, a good home, and extra time with nothing better to do than to go fishing.

Backing out of the driveway I turned to take the backway to the main road, and once there, rolled confidently across the access and headed on toward the rendezvous of canoe and lake. The cooler than normal weather for this time of year was an escape from the heat and humidity of previous weeks. Low winds would make the canoeing part of the fishing trip more enjoyable and easier. This early, not much traffic was on the road and I passed all the familiar landmarks along the route; the antique store, the storage facility, a long white fence bounding a section of property, the water tower, the cut through the terrain to flatten the road, then at the halfway point, I passed through that first little town, you know the kind, one so Mayberry-like, you can easily identify with the folks living there. On past the other side, the country road rolled and curved through the hills more aggressively than the first half of the drive, and before long I crossed the first of two bridges, slowing over both, to take a quick first look of the lake. Fog drifted in columns across the surface. A good sign. Then I caught the first glimpse of the ridge that formed the long bluff where I'd be doing most of the fishing. 

The sun not yet risen was throwing out a bright reddish glow behind the hill and created a undulating broken silhouette outline across the ridge top. A few stars were still visible, tiny jewels accenting the morning sky. Just above the ridge a crescent moon shone bright and reassuring. Hovering below the moon and to the left, the brilliant glow of Venus, second only to the moon in brightness, provided an additional accent.

It was almost 5:00 AM as I backed down the boat ramp, no one else there yet. I briefly stopped and surveyed the lake. As I stood on the edge, columns of thickened fog danced across the deceptively calm surface, shoved and stirred with but a wisp of breeze. Having a piscator millionaire feeling well up inside sort of filled my heart as I anticipated the first morning cast, but first I had to off load everything.

My Old Town is a good old canoe, just shy of 20 years old now and has garnered its share of battle scars and scrapes. Fishing from a canoe has its own rewards. Not always comfortable, but always enjoyable for I have been privy to some amazing mornings through the years in spite of my lack of effort to get out. As a photographer it has provided me with both physical and emotional moments of the heart along with some amazing photographic opportunities.

 I backed it off the canoe rack, stood underneath and lifted my shoulders into the portaging yoke to feel the full weight of the craft, about 60 pounds or so. A few steps to the waters edge, a quick flip to one side then a gentle plop onto the shallows. Most of the time I just use a wooden paddle to get around, but when I am fishing I prefer to attach a trolling motor as it allows for quick and easy movements without having to drop your rod, lift the paddle, move into position, drop the paddle, then pick up the rod and make a cast...only to repeat the process dozens of times. More time is spent repositioning the canoe than fishing. With the trolling motor, just a twist of the handle and slight directional movements can be easily made and you're back to fishing.

I almost did not bring my camera on that trip, but at the last moment, my photographer instincts thought better and I decided to do so, with good fortune as a result. Just after I shoved off, a blue heron drifted through the fog to set down close to the bank about 40 yards away. I slowed down, grabbed the camera and snapped a few quick pictures in the low light. Turned out to be the catch of the day and another one of those piscator millionaire moments. 

A few moments later as I drifted past the first rocky point on the end of the bluff, I heard some splashing and a series of high pitched barks and chirps. Looking over my shoulder to see what it was I found five otters climbing out of the water onto the rocky ledge. I thought it strange cats would be playing around the water before I realized they were otters They scurried away into the cover, playing and horsing around with each other. 

I drifted next to the shaded bluff where the shelves of rocks and boulders stair stepped their way into deeper water. A perfect haven for holding bass along drop offs and submerged ledges. Although I fish using a variety of lures, my favorite is to simply use deep diving crankbaits. Before long, the line grew heavy with a dull thud and a large very nice bass engulfed my lure. It fought with noble contempt as I reeled him in closer to the canoe. Just to make his point as to what he thought of my feeble attempts to catch him, one quick jerk and a deep dive and the line parted. I always catch and release, so I considered him caught anyway, but reduced the drag on the reel just the same. 

Through the morning as I fished along that shaded bluff I managed to catch and release 3 additional good sized bass plus also managed to hang into another even better one who snapped my line for the second time of the morning. That 8 lb test line just was not up to par for the day and I replaced it with new heavier line later on. 

A pair of Kingfishers chattered and darted by alighting on a tree branch overhanging the waters edge. Nearby some yellow looking birds with gray backs and black on their face darted in and out of a series of willow branches. Several times along the bluff other blue herons made their attempt at fishing the shallows. Interesting birds they are with their long necks and spindly legs and their blue grey coloring helped them to blend into the stony gray background. With a smart jab, he too easily speared a small fish before gulping it down.

The last catch of the day came after a bit of a dry spell. I was heading back toward the ramp and was about half way there. Somewhere around 30 or maybe 45 minutes had passed since I last caught one and the morning was growing brighter and warmer as the sun climbed against the backside of the bluff. I made a long cast close to the bluff, started a slow retrieve and after a few cranks the line again grew heavy followed by a thud. I knew I had another good one on, but after having had my line break twice, I did not force the issue and slowly worked the bass closer keeping tension on the line but not horsing him in too aggressively. It passed across the front of the canoe then took to the air and jumped clean out of the water, twice, splashing me in the process. I just knew the line was going to break again, but I eventually worked him close enough to grab his bottom lip and lift him into the canoe. He must have gone somewhere around 5 pounds, the best bass I've caught in quite sometime. I was truly enriched, and that piscator millionaire feeling swelled into a new dimension.

Yeah, after enduring way too much time away from the sport, I felt like a real fisherman again that morning, with my simple canoe setup. Those high dollar bass boats may indeed be awesome and fancy not to mention expensive, but I'd rather not be in such a hurry and take my time to enjoy the moment with my vintage Old Town Canoe. Its all part of the process of becoming a piscator millionaire. Attempting to do so again was a good feeling for I had allowed myself to grow stagnant in that regard. What I rediscovered that morning was a comforting feeling, certainly not financially, but within an even more satisfying realm, one that filled my day with recalled memories, the kind that simply allows you to know things are the way they should be again, and peace of mind is the most valuable asset one can possess. 

Being retired with nothing better to do, well, that's not such a bad way of life. One thing for sure is, for the first time in a long time, I feel quite wealthy...as a piscator millionaire, someone who possesses the kind of wealth accumulated from great memories made, and good times remembered, rewards stored within the heart to be revisited during duller times. There is no better place for such things to reside, in a piscator's millionaire heart, especially when there is nothing better to do.

 

Morning of The Heron: The Making of A "Spur-of-The-Moment" Photograph

I almost did not take my camera that morning. I was heading out quite early to enjoy a morning of bass fishing at a local lake. Very summer-like temperatures and humidity had overtaken the previous couple weeks so when a cool front drifted through the area dropping the temperatures into unseasonable ranges, it was difficult to resist getting out. Seems like I had been cooped up far too long and the chance to do some bass fishing offered a wonderful reprieve, so much so, all I was thinking about was spending the day in my canoe and fishing. Photography was to take a backseat and pretty well determined I was not even going to take a camera on this trip.

At the last moment, just before I pulled out at 4:30am that morning, I grabbed my camera, an extra lens and battery and secured them in a watertight container. "Just in case I might see something..." I said to myself. 

The morning was indeed much cooler and I donned a light hoodie to ward off the slight chill. When I arrived at the lake, a lively fog was dancing across the surface stirred into movement by a gentle breeze that rolled down from the tops of the ridges that formed one eastern bank. By 5:10am I was on the water moving toward a mile and half long rocky bluff where I planned to spend most of the morning fishing. By this time the sun was still below the horizon and behind the bluff, but the sky was getting brighter with its glow being reflected off the shallow ripples rolling across the surface. The background appeared almost black and the fog took on a bluish nature to it in the subdued light of predawn. A blue heron drifted across the gap between me and the ridge and lightly settled into some shallow water just a few feet off the bank to my right. He was slightly backlit by the soft morning light and presented a silhouette. I slowed down, and drifted slowly forward while I extracted my camera. The light was very low and I adjusted the settings to account for the available light. With a slow shutter speed and long 300mm focal length, handholding a camera steady enough to prevent camera shake was difficult, even more so while sitting inside a canoe whose every whim is to bob and rock at the slightest provocation.

I framed the shot firing off several quick captures before the heron might spook. I reset the camera exposure to try to get a faster shutter speed...then fired off another set of quick exposures, the heron squawked and leaped into the morning air to disappear into the fog. On camera the images looked promising, but by this time I was ready to do some fishing so the camera was replaced in its box and the fishing pole readied for action. 

Later after returning home, I loaded the few photos from that morning and focused on that first series of the heron. A few of them were indeed blurred by camera shake, but several were clear and sharp. By applying a selective compositional crop, and adjusting the exposure values in post processing, I settled in on the one final image. Did manage to catch several good bass that morning, but the best catch of the day turned out to be this one iconic, spur of the moment, nature photo.

I've written at length about how planning and preparation are vital to the success of capturing a great photo, and certainly applying such principles to your photography can produce some positive results. However, there are times when instinct and spur of the moment action trumps any degree of planning. Listening to and acting on those inner feeling can at times produce a truly unique and spontaneous photo, and sometimes those often turn out to be the best photos of all.

My Favorite Sport - The Early Years and Then Some

Fishing...Man's favorite sport, so I've gathered. Well, maybe not every man's favorite sport, but certainly one I've been quite fond of for many years. My love affair with it began many years ago when I was just a little feller. Seems we went on a church outing someplace, I think it was on the banks of Poteau River in southeastern Oklahoma, and most everyone brought along a fishing pole. I could not have been more than four or maybe five years old, but I can still recall flashes of memories standing on a steep muddy bank throwing out my baited line that was connected to a seven or eight foot long cane pole. The old bobber simply sat there somewhat motionless in the slack water. There were lots of people lining the bank, some casting with fancy fishing rigs, but most simply using the old tried and true cane pole method. Not sure what bait I used, probably worms, but I do remember seeing minnow buckets dangling from the bank into the water several feet below. After what seemed like a very long time, someone, one of the men I think, walked by and asked where my cork bobber was. I said I didn't know, it went under a little while ago. He said lift your line up and to my amazement, a fish was dangling from the other end. I have no idea what kind it was, it was just a fish, but lots of folks sure made a big fuss over me catching that smelly old thing...and thus my career as a fisherman began.

A few years later on what was my 7th birthday I believe, my grandparents actually came to visit us and we went to some local park where there was a little creek with a bridge crossing it. My grandfather gave me a long package wrapped in brown paper. Of course I asked him what it was and he just smiled and said it was a flag pole we were going to setup at the park. I believed him of course and eventually after we set up the picnic table with whatever food and birthday cake we had, they all called me over and told me it was time to set up the flag pole. I was all excited and ripped open the long package. To my astonishment, there was no flag pole. Instead there was a brand new Zebco 202 fishing rod and reel. Like a dummy I asked where the flag pole was. After they all stopped laughing, my grandfather told me there was no flag pole, but that fishing rod and reel was all mine, a birthday present, and I could fish the creek below the little bridge if I wanted to. It took me all of three seconds to rush over there. I suppose I just naturally knew how to use that rig for I spent quite a while throwing the hook and bobber into the water...never caught anything if I recall, but every cast was filled with anticipation. 

That rig also came with a hookless practice plug, and after we left I'd spend hours throwing that thing as far as  I could throw it then reeling it in. The first thing each morning, I'd grab that fishing rig and head outside so I could cast it and begged my dad to take me fishing again. Eventually he did, on occasion, but he was trying to finish his college degree that had been interrupted by World Was II and he didn't have a lot of free time, or money, to take me very often.

Over the next several years my fishing exploits were sporadic and fell somewhat into a drought, but the drought was broken when my grandmother's brother, Uncle Manly, took me and my brother fishing one summer morning to a favorite farm pond of his. Said the pond was full of crappie and bass. By this time I had graduated to a newer, more advance fishing rod and reel, a classic True Temper brand, with a blue fiberglass rod and a bait casting reel filled with a few yards of braided fishing line. We over slept of course, and Uncle Manly got patiently irritated with us, but we managed to arrive at the pond just before sunrise. 

He extracted the sections of cane pole from his trunk and with the patience of a master fisherman, and in spite of arthritic fingers, attached a hook, bobber, and a minnow. I was too advanced to use such archaic fishing techniques and began to throw my Lazy-Ike fishing plug. Before he made his first toss, I must have cast a dozen times...no catches. He smiled and flipped the line out about 20 feet or so, and before the bobber settled, a huge crappie gobbled his minnow and he pulled it in. I turned the surface of the pond into a froth with that Lazy-Ike, still no catches, but he simply hooked another minnow on, gave it a quick toss...and within a few seconds landed a second nice crappie. After his third or fourth catch, I humbly asked him if I could use one of his minnows, and of course he said sure thing. A few seconds after tossing it about 30 feet out, boom, my first catch of the morning.

Classic Lazy-Ike like the one I had

This pattern continued until the sun got too high and the fish simply quite biting. I did manage to catch a couple with the Lazy-Ike, but I was taught a big lesson about fishing that morning, and I understood more clearly what being humbled really meant. We caught a good stringer of fish that morning and I caught my first glimpse of what it meant to be a real fisherman and the other values associated with the quest to catch a fish. I kept that old Lazy-Ike lure for many years and caught a lot of fish with it, but on a float trip down the Buffalo River in Arkansas, I, against my better judgement, cast it into a nice looking pool and true to its fish catching ability, I hooked a nice smallmouth bass. A few seconds later, the line snapped and the fish and my vintage lure were gone.

That old True Temper fishing rod and reel served me well during the summer. My summertime friend Geary, whose grandmother lived across the road from my grandparents, and I would get into all kinds mischief together. We'd hound my grandmother or his to take us out to Wister Lake so we could fish below the spillway, which was a great place to catch all sorts of fish, black bass and white bass, to drum and buffalo and even carp, catfish, or gar. One day my grandmother took us out there and simply left us, we were both probably about 8 or 9, unheard of today to leave kids like that, but we were excited. We had no food, no water, just a paper sack with a few hooks, bobbers, and sinkers inside. We waded a shallow area onto a gravel bar that offered a perfect location to cast into the current created by the outflow coming from the dam. Geary had made a DIY dip net out of an old screen door where he had extracted the screen, tied some string to each corner, and placed a rock in the middle to make it sink.

We'd wade over to a shallow area where some minnows were swimming, drop the net into the water and wait a few minutes for the minnows to return, then lift the contraption. Each time we'd catch 2 or 3 minnows, toss them into a minnow bucket, then do it again. After a few attempts we'd end up with a dozen or more free minnows. 

Curiously, an old timer had waded across onto that same gravel bar. He had one of those tackle boxes that opened up into 3 or 4 levels of trays and he carried 3 or 4 fishing rods with fancy rod holders he plugged into the gravel. Geary and I would attach a minnow to our hooks. Using a heavy lead weight attached a few feet above the hook, we'd cast way out into the current which was strong enough to bounce the weight and minnow along the bottom. Ever so often we'd reel in the line and recast. On one such cast, I felt a heavy jolt on the rod and when I started to reel it in, it felt like it was hung up, but then it started to pull back. Whatever was on the other end was so large and in that current, that old True Temper reel's drag could not keep up and it stripped out almost all of my line and bent the pole almost doubled over. I was unable to reel it in. Geary dropped his rod and grabbed the line and pulled it in by hand as I took up the slack. After awhile, we dragged a giant buffalo, or maybe a drum, I'm not sure which, onto the gravel bank. We were jumping up and down...and that old timer simply watched us in amazement. That was the single biggest fish I've ever caught of any kind. All afternoon we continued to catch fish like that until my grandmother showed up to take us home. Cannot recall if that old timer with all the fancy gear ever caught anything, but I don't think he did. 

Since those years I've been able to enjoy fishing in places like the high country of Colorado, the clear  mountain streams of the Ozarks, farm ponds, big lakes and small, and have pursued it in all kinds of weather and conditions. By far my favorite way to cast a line is from the inside of my canoe. Many times when I lived in Arkansas, just a few miles from the Buffalo River, I'd take a Saturday and haul my canoe to one of the put in locations. Being by myself, I'd paddle, or wade and line my way upstream as far as I could go, fishing here and there just enjoying the refreshing flavor of the place. Eventually, I'd find a shady spot and just sit for a spell before floating back to my truck. Those quiet moments were the best moments of the day and they offered me time to reflect on growing up learning about how to fish. I still do such things when I'm fishing, take time to just sit quietly and absorb the peaceful respite of nature.

As a photographer, I am always looking, always observing the world around me. When I find the time to load up my canoe and head over to a favorite fishing spot, most of the time I take my camera with me simply because the nature of bass fishing usually requires an early start, and that consequently, most often is when the light can be at it's best. On one such recent outing, I almost did not take my camera, but at the last moment decided to do so. I arrived at the location well before sunrise and with the air being cooler than normal for that time of year on that trip, magical whiffs of fog danced across the surface of the lake. The ridges that formed the boundary of the lake, hid the horizon, but the sky was beginning to turn bright and reflected off the surface of the water. A gentle breeze stirred the fog, and tickled the water into a light ripple. As I shoved off, to my right a blue heron gently settled next some limbs extending out of the water near the shoreline. 

My eye instantly locked in on the scene and I extracted my camera from its watertight container. The light was low, very low, and I had to shoot at a very slow shutter speed in relation to the 300mm lens focal length being employed, even after boosting the ISO up a notch or two. I fired off several shots trying to hold the camera steady, hoping that at least one of the images would not be blurred by camera shake. The fishing that morning was excellent and I enjoyed those few hours alone with nature. When I returned home and started to browse through the few images I took, I locked onto that first series with the heron. Although I caught several nice bass that morning, that one photo turned out to be the best catch of the day.

Those days afield during the early years when I learned about the sport of fishing were some of the best teaching moments of my young life. During those years more than fishing skills were engrained into my world, things like self reliance, adaptability, persistence, strength of character, and respect for what nature has to offer. As the photo of the heron demonstrates, the most important thing I learned about fishing can be summed up in one phrase: There's more to fishing than catching fish.