LITTLE ROCK — Aweek ago, our country marked another Memorial Day with a variety of pomp and circumstance as we paused collectively to remember those who have served in the name of freedom, particularly those who have given the ultimate sacrifice for us.
For years and years, that weekend has translated into activities such as cookouts, fireworks displays and, yes, Riverfest. Personally, however, that weekend has often culminated in a fishing trip.
My father was one of the many Americans who donned a uniform during World War II. He’s been gone a few years now, but I still think of him quite often. This veteran, known to me as Dad, gave me one of my earliest Memorial Day memories when he, Mom, my brother David and I piled up in our Plumoyth (another story for another time) station wagon and headed out of town for my first fishing adventure.
With sectioned cane poles purchased at the Fred’s store in our hometown, a can of worms dug from the backyard and an old tool box/tackle box with Dad’s gear, we took our stand on an old wood-plank bridge across a swampy slough.
We must have caught a 5-gallon bucket full of bream that day. Of course, that means something more when considering that only a handful of those fish would likely have qualified as true keepers.
When Dad swung open the back door to that station wagon that day, he opened to me the world of fishing, hunting, camping and more - a door that I would seek to keep open so I could venture through it for the remainder of my life.
Fast forward a few years to my time as a teenager. Mr. Roper, another veteran, had taken several neighborhood children fishing over his lifetime. Since his daughter - and only child - was not as enthused about fishing as he was, I got to take my turn in the back of his flatbottom boat.
I suddenly found myself shifting in phase from wanting to catch anything to wanting to catch everything. While Roper was still doing the majority of the productive fishing,I was beginning to have more prosperous times. Whoever caught what didn’t really matter a lot, though, as long as we trucked home with an ice chest full of crappie, bass, bream and an occasional catfish.
That’s something we did several Memorial Days in a row from the time I was in junior high school until I was into my college years.
Having morphed into more of an adult by my mid-20s, my attention had shifted again. The wish for more fish was replaced by a pursuit of power - power in the form of a true wall-hanger.
The species didn’t matter as much as the size. I wanted to mount a bass that was bigger than any I’d caught before. The same was the case for crappie, bluegill and redear. While I didn’t necessarily want a catfish to mount, I was definitely looking for something well into the double digits. Ten-pounders weren’t the target. We weretalking 20, 30 or more.
One Memorial Day, I was out with a younger buddy trying to pack some big crappie and cats into our ice chest. The biggest thing we saw that day was an alligator of about 4.5 feet in length. He enjoyed chomping on my buddy’s Styrofoam bobber.
As for me, I found my big-fish opportunity when I saw some buffalo gulping air in the shallows of the Grand Prairie reservoir we were fishing. I jerked my bass/catfish rod through the water with a 3/0 hook about a foot from the pole’s end. The result was a battle of several minutes that wound through endless stumps in less than 3 feet of water. Somehow, the line held, and a 42-pounder came over the side of the boat.
Moving farther down life’s road, the word marriage netted me by surprise. Soon, Ihad a new disciple ready to be enlightened in the ways of the rod and reel. (Sounds a bit like Star Wars, huh?)
My wife and I spent several days fishing from the bank, particularly in the Russellville area when we lived there early in our married life. It didn’t take long, though, to convince Tiffany to try boat fishing with me - a big step considering that she hadn’t tried to step foot in a boat since her single-digit years when a wasp took note of her presence in an unfriendly manner.
But there she was that Memorial Day, riding in the back of our 14-foot flatbottom armed with her mediumaction rod and reel. Her mood would darken, however, as she pined for the days and ways of bank fishing. She wanted to stay in one place longer, saying that we didn’t give the fish enough time to find the bait.
I knew that if the fish were cooperative, she would soon see the advantages of boat fishing as we slipped through a canal to the back side of a friend’s farm reservoir.
About three hours later, after baiting her hook, netting her fish and loading our catches into an ice chest, she was converted. She caught the majority of the 26 crappie and nine bass that went home with us that day.
Over my lifetime, I’ve seen my motivation for going fishing change. Those shifts remind me of a Steve Bowman column he penned while outdoor editor of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, a column I’ve mentioned here before.
Bowman wrote that all anglers (and all outdoorsmen, for that matter) go through a variety of phases en route to becoming a true outdoorsman. They begin, much like I did, by wanting to catch anything and then transcending to where they want to catch alimit or “mess” of fish.
From there, fishermen’s minds and efforts begin to target the goliaths of the waters, wanting the thrill of a tangle with a giant bass or catfish.
Finally, the angler rises above the other phases to realize that it is the experience he truly cherishes, not the quality, quantity or catches.
I will readily admit that at times I still exhibit behaviors characteristic of those earlier phases.
Sometimes, I want an ice chest full of crappie for a big fish fry, or I spy a bass chasing forage fish in the shallows and imagine what the scales will show when I win our one-onone battle. Other days, I just wish anything would bite my hook to end the monotony of a bad day of fishing.
By realizing the importance of the entirety of the surrounding experience, though, I feel I have become something more than a fisherman. I have ascended to a place where, I believe, I can better understand the reasoning behind our military men and women fighting so hard for us.
Like an angler who appreciates that entire fishing experience, these soldiers see the whole picture of what we have come to expect as citizens of the United States of America.
It is the freedom to do things like casting a line for a fish or a vote for a candidate that serve as cornerstones to our life, liberty and pursuit of happiness.
It is more than reason enough to listen to the wordsof Henry David Thoreau: “Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing it is not fish they are after.”Staff writer James K. Joslin can be reached at (501) 399-3693 or jjoslin@arkansasonline.com.
Three Rivers, Pages 120 on 06/03/2012