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I was taught at a young age how to fish by my late father. He instilled in me not only the skills of fishing, but the art of the fishing trip. It was never about how many, how big, and what type of fish…on the contrary…it was about taking in the beautiful Redwoods, deciphering animal tracks and droppings next to the water, and relaxing away from the hustle and bustle of city life. The act of fishing merely fit into it all like a piece to a puzzle. My father gave me an in-depth appreciation for what most people take for granted, and yet offered up valuable fishing lessons in the mean time. While fishing for native trout he showed me how to crawl on my belly through thick brush taking only the tools that I would use at that particular fishing hole.
"Ya gotta sneak up on these sonsabitches," he began. "These are Native Rainbows, unlike those goddam planters in the lake, if these guys see ya coming, they won't bite. Skittish as all hell they are."
He lifted a rock at the edge of the pool we had just crawled to and flipped it over revealing a hellgrammite. I learned that trout are more apt to strike natural prey from their own surroundings rather than a Panther Martin. Good information for an eight-year-old.
A couple of years after my California based lessons I traveled to upstate New York where I would see if these tricks my father had taught me would hold any weight 3000 miles away where he grew up. I went back east for a three week visit to see my grandparents, (my father's parents of course) in the little one-horse town called Balston Spa. They took me camping, where I would fish from the time the sun came up until I couldn't see the multitude of Sun Fish attacking my bait due to a setting sun.
The third day, my grandmother, (a Native American woman with a keen sense of humor) asked me to accompany her for a canoe ride. I rolled my eyes in protest, and then placed my fishing pole reluctantly next to the trailer.
"You'll need your fishing pole if you want to catch something," she said donning a bright red lipstick smile.
Grandma made me row but a short distance from the shore, dictating my lanky awkward form along the short trip, and then helped me cut a ninety-degree angle on the outskirts of the lake's reeds by taking charge of a paddle. Grandma tied a number two hook to the end of her ten pound test and then took a pair of small needle nose pliers and bent the barb down.
What is she doing? I thought, resisting the urge to ask.
Then she took a red piece of cloth and cut a quarter inch square from the thick fabric as I watched.
Grandma poked the sharp end of the hook through the fabric about a quarter of one inch, and smiled. "Stop here," she said as if I had probably gone too far already.
My father taught me not to question adults, so I kept my mouth shut. Grandma must not know that fish, in California or New York, aren't going to bite at her hook.
"Stay still, Brian!" she demanded.
I did.
She pulled out a bit of slack click-pop, click-pop, the reel made a delightful sound, and then she pulled once more click-pop, click-pop, the red cloth was dangling but four-feet from the tip of the fishing pole. The lake was calm and the air was close as she located her prey. I looked into the dark water hoping to see the dark wagging tail of the lunker she had found, but I didn't. I leaned over the side of the canoe searching for a fish with great anticipation.
"Don't rock the boat, B.J." grandma whispered.
Finally I positioned my head in the direction of the reeds and held it steady.
Grandma took a deep breath and held it as she stretched her short arm, leaning the boat slightly to one side, and dangled the bright red cloth about two inches above the water. Then she skillfully placed the red cloth on the water and twitched it fiercely creating rings small ringlets of water.
Suddenly it happened.
Four large pond frogs scampered across the water for the red cloth startling me with their sudden assault.
I watched in amazement. Grandma was hunting for an entirely different species.
The largest frog committed itself to the artificial bait and grandma's pole-tip went down hard and her arms lifted a beautiful two pound bright green frog from the reeds with her Ugly Stick.
"Open the ice chest, B.J." she said excitedly. "We're havin frog legs for dinner!"
I opened the chest, and she deposited the frog and closed the lid. The chest bumped and bashed violently as the frog desperately tried to escape.
"Now you try."
Grandma told me to bend the barb on the hook and she cut a nice piece of square red cloth for me. After a couple more pulls on the old ores with my skinny arms, we searched the reeds until I found one. Without saying a word I dangled the red cloth just as my grandma did just minutes ago and the frog frantically went for the bait. My heart pounded, pumping adrenaline as my pole bent in half and I pulled up a frog from the lakes surface. It was incredible! Grandma watched smiling from ear-to-ear as she raised the lid to the ice chest with her other hand flat to guard against her frogs escape and I deposited my part of dinner to the ice.
Napa California, and many years later my younger brother and I made a habit out of fishing at least once a week. On this particular day in late May the sun was blistering, the waters were clear, and the bass were quite stubborn. We threw out Rattle Traps, Power Worms, spinner baits, and even large night crawlers, but the Bass refused to even look at our offerings. At the end of our trip I twitched one of the larger night crawlers next to a seven to ten pound bass and thought I may have pissed him off a bit by the way it shifted from side to side and that gave me a little satisfaction, but no trophy for my efforts.
We decided to pack it in without so much as a nibble that day and halfway back to the truck, listening to frog after frog splash into the lake from the shoreline, I realized what my father and grandmother taught me, the lessons came to me simultaneously…natural prey, crawling on my belly to the hole, and catching frogs.
I tossed my gear to the ground anxiously, bent the barb of my hook, grabbed a Salmon egg and crept to the shoreline like a man on a mission. My brother watched from under the baking hot sun, but agreed that this effort was worth a shot. I dangled the salmon egg tapping the water to create waves in front of the frog and it pounced on it! The frog was smaller than the ones grandma and I cooked back in 1976, but this one, stretched out, was only as long as a beer can and plenty long to use as bait. I quickly baited the frog and we hiked back to where I aggravated the seven to ten pound lunker. Yes, the bass was still cruising in and out of submerged rocks when I launched the splay frog through the air and it hit the water with an awkward slap.
The frog kicked frantically in search of refuge under one of the lakes bottom vegetations, but the Largemouth Bass twisted its girth with snake-like speed, and kicked its strong tail gracefully from side to side then sucked the frog almost effortlessly into its mouth all in one poetic move, and expelled the excess water though its gills. It was like watching a fishing show on television except it was my twelve pound test line that was slowly departing from my reel. I held the pole with my right hand and fed the gigantic bass more line with my left. I heaved back once…I saw the ten-pounder roll…then I heaved back a second time to ensure that I set the hook.
I did!
The fight was incredible with my drag expelling with that delightful click-pop, click-pop sound, and after that catch we combed the shoreline that afternoon taking on more sun than any dermatologist would have recommended as we landed several more Largemouth bass between five and seven pounds.
A Fish and Game officer saw our success, (I'm guessing through binoculars) and confronted my brother and me. When I told him that we were using pond frogs as bait, he quickly leafed through his handbook eager to catch us in violation. He didn't. Fishing with frogs was legal here in California.