Possible At Area Lakes & Ponds

 . . . With a Little Practice

by Tom Anselm

“I, for one, have this idea that constant exposure to the ordinary is good for the soul.” So said John Gierach, columnist for Field and Stream and author of many books on fly fishing. Now, I am not a fly fisher, as it is called, although I did pick up a very inexpensive fly rod and reel at Farm and Home this spring. More on that later.

I do, for some reason, enjoy fishing. Maybe because it reminds me of my dad a bit. He would take me and my brothers to the backwater sloughs over in West Alton, creeks really, that had run up from flooding of the Mississippi. We would get out our cane poles and snap up little blue gill and sunfish. Very low tech, very quiet. Very fun. Very… ordinary.

I tried to emulate that with my own kids, and grandkids now. Spanish Lake with our own, St. Ferdinand with Bubba and Weesie, and the little pond in Barrington Downs with Emma and Ella and Abby. Me and the boys, Pete and Bubba and Johnny, tried out Busch Wildlife once, but all we caught were a couple of good laughs and a story that they will likely never forget.

It involved a fat guy, a campfire, and … well, a tale for another day, perhaps.

There is a good-sized body of water by our house now, and what really is a retention pond just behind our property line, where I sometimes wander for a short spell, pulling up blue gill and the occasional catfish. Nothing ever bigger than my hand. But the breeze is always drifting, the sunsets breathtaking, the frogs with their night song presenting a concert to nature.

I am not a high-tech fisher. No boat, no vest, no ‘sure-to-catch-the-prize-winning-bass’ lures. My kit consists of a small tackle box with the requisite bobbers, hooks and leads and plastic bait. I hear that a true fisherman does not refer to his instrument as a ‘pole’, but rather must be named a ‘rod’. Therefore, in keeping with that nomenclature, I have accumulated several rods and reels, all rigged differently.

And, that fly rod previously mentioned.

It occurs to me that fly fishing is surely more an art than a sport. It is most generally associated with rushing streams and trout, as chronicled in that classic book and movie A River Runs Through It. That type of fishing requires an investment in travel, lodging and equipment far exceeding my humble means.

But that doesn’t say that this gentle method can’t be used on favored ponds and lakes. It takes a good bit of practice (aided by a number of youtube sites!) to get the flow and rhythm of casting a very different type line with no discernible weight and an almost-ephemeral fly as bait. The first time I tried it was in my driveway, and I managed a good two feet out. Insufficient to the task at hand, clearly.

Now, with a minimum of effort in keeping with that art, I can cast out far enough to make things interesting for the few little fishies that like to hang near the banks. And believe it or not, it works! No trout, but some of the prettiest blue gill you’ll ever see, shimmering and glistninig, a bit perplexed at what they just did to themselves, but flappingly thrilled when tossed back to their watery home.

When using the rod and reel, there’s just something thrilling about seeing that bobber start to twitch, then get hauled under, feeling the line pulling away, setting the hook and reeling in a thrashing water-beast (well, okay… a five-inch guppie, but still…).

However it is characterized, I will continue to go solo, or with a grandee or three, out to the ‘wilds’ of local waterways, reveling in the ever-changing sky and rippling surfaces, seeking that ‘constant exposure to the ordinary.’

Hey, a guy could do worse with his time, right?

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