When you have a problem, it’s best to talk to someone who knows the answer. So that’s what I did. For those of you who read my blog religiously, you know the problem I speak of. I’d been outsmarted on my last fishing trip by a school of brook trout. An aquatic college that had been educated in the dangers of ingesting rubberized hors d’oeuvres. If these finned einsteins were capable of laughing, no doubt they were having a great chuckle at my expense. With my ears still burning, I sought out the only person I knew in the area capable of retaliating against this gilled gestapo, my father.
After talking to him I learned that I was the problem. No surprise there really. According to my Dad, (who’s name makes most fish shudder in terror, so I’ll just call him Dad in case any are reading this) I needed to hide or blend in with scenery if I was going to be successful fishing a beaver dam. This led to a whole multitude of problems. I’d seen lots of people wearing camoflauge and was in no mood to start wearing it myself. As a matter of fact I’d made fun of it on lots of occasions. Whenever I saw burly hunters heading into the bush decked to the hilt in various shades of forest colours, I would wonder if a moose could wear a sofa and big screen tv sweater and sneak into a house unnoticed.
Now it looked like I would have to get disguised. But there was no way I was shelling out a bunch of dough on camoflauge duds. I’d have to improvise. At first I contemplated dressing in brown pants, green shirt and a green hat complete with branches stuck in it so I’d look like a tree. I soon realized that was a horrible idea. There were beavers in the area, what if one of them decided to have me for lunch and bit my leg? Ouch! Of course a moving tree would never fool a beaver. Then again I suppose it wouldn’t fool the fish either, unless they thought there was an earthquake which would probably kill their appetite. This was getting more complicated by the minute.
Finally, I decided on dark clothing and made my way to the combat zone. I carried my fishing rod like an ak-47, ducked and dodged behind bushes and trees, terrified that someone might see me and call the nut house. As I approached the beaver dam guarded by trout with hawk-like vision, I crawled on my stomach, my eyes darting about nervously in case I was spotting by some swimming sentries. When I knew I was in range, I lobbed my line like a grenade and caught a dead spruce tree, as it’s hard to cast when you’re lying face down in the dirt.
To my horror, the worm stayed up on the branch. I knew if the trout saw it, I was finished. Certainly they’d know that worms don’t climb trees. With the speed of a marine, I rebaited my hook and cast into the center of the pond. Moments passed. Bubbles rose from the bottom near to where my bobber was floating patiently. I imagined the bubbles were coming from the trout squadron, discussing the pro’s and con’s of trying the free lunch in case it might be a trojan horse. Suddenly, the bobber went south! I reeled in my line and viola; a beautiful trout fit for the frying pan. Too bad it was such a chore catching it. I’m so exhausted that I don’t have the energy to cook it…