Social distancing for me means seeing no footprints on the bank of a pond.
The absence of boot indentations and trampled grass allows me to indulge in the delusion that I am the first person to visit this place. At least, I am the first to visit this spring.
In Travels With Charlie, John Steinbeck described his habit of eavesdropping on people's secret lives by inspecting items they left behind. He called these mementos "spoor." For example, the wastebasket in a motel room contained a tissue smudged with red lipstick and a business card. Steinbeck constructed an entire narrative around those two clues.
After the initial fancy of being the first person to set foot on this pond bank, I find the weather-worn cap from a can of Grizzly smokeless tobacco. I also see a small length of fishing line, a bright orange foam bobber and a bream hook hanging from a limb. From the brightness of the cork and the fade of the tobacco lid, I assume that the same person did not deposit these items. The snuff user probably scooped the last dip from his can and dropped the lid. Doubtless, the container is nearby, probably buried in the mud.
That back right pocket of that angler's jeans doubtless bears the telltale ring of that peculiar addiction, and he or she probably wore scuffed and faded brown, square-toed Ariat boots. Somebody that discards smokeless tobacco spoor on a pond bank doesn't deserve to catch any fish.
The bobber in the tree is the reminder of a parent and child snatching a few elusive minutes from a hectic schedule. The parent works too hard and too long. The child has always got something going on, baseball, soccer, and other activities which scarcely leave time to breathe. Coronavirus and its social distancing mandates put the brakes on their treadmills and forced them to slow down and hopefully appreciate some of the finer things in life, like sneaking away to a fishing pond.
The limb overhangs a fallen treetop that stretches far into the water. Bream and bass love places like that, but the dang limb makes it darn near impossible to land a cricket in just the right spot. You know how it is with bream rigs. The bobber makes the length of line topheavy, and the split shot unbalances the rig at the other end. It tries to go end over end when you flip it, and inevitably the hook and sinker loop over one of the higher limbs. The bobber snags in a small fork, stranding the rig. There's no way to reach it by hand, so the only thing to do is break it off.
Here's hoping they brought extra hooks, sinkers and bobbers so they could retie and continue. Perhaps they found a better spot and caught a big mess of palm-size bluegills. It would be a shame if they had to end the trip on account of the accident because quality fishing time is so hard to find. Coronavirus and its social distancing mandates will end soon, and people will go back to their old routines.
A fringe of aquatic weeds rims the bank like a green hem. Bream nest among the weeds. Bass raid the nests and seek refuge from the sun. I am using a 61/2-inch cotton candy/pumpkin, Texas-rigged worm with a 1/4-ounce bullet sinker. The weeds are dense enough to hold the worm on top. I retrieve it slowly, jiggling it like a snake and waiting for a bass to smash it. It does not happen, so I cast to the outside edge of the weeds.
I let the worm soak for a few moments and then hop it across the bottom by bouncing my rod tip. I don't feel the strike. I only notice my line move slowly through the water. I lift my rod tip slowly, reel the slack out of my line and whip my hips and shoulders to the left in one fluid motion. The fish feels the pressure and runs toward deep water. I turn him, and I know it's coming, like sitting at the top of a vertical plunge on a roller coaster. The tension loosens, and the bass rockets out of the water, shaking its entire body in an attempt to eject the worm from its maw.
It's a dandy, about 3 pounds, but it's the only bite I get for the afternoon.
I release it and hope that the bobber child returns to catch it.
Sports on 04/09/2020