Looking For Lead In All The Wrong Places

Looking For Lead In All The Wrong Places

Fishing Buddy Charles, forever after referred to as FBC, called me yesterday to go hunting for lead. Not quite sure what he was up to, I went along. Actually we rode in my truck down to one of the busy streets here in town. We parked, got out and started walking the street slowly looking for wheel weights that had come off unsuspecting folks' cars. There were a lot of bare spots, but there were places especially near traffic lights that were a bonanza for us. In about an hour-and-a-half we filled a one-pound coffee can with weights and pieces of weights of all sizes. The mother lode was near the dumpster by the tire place (We should have looked there first!).

All our time was not spent looking for lead, though. We seemed to squeeze in a few fish stories that no one else would ever believe, and we found a couple of ponds that are downtown but can't be seen from the street. When it gets a little warmer we're going to check them out. Still bragging about the size lead weight we'd found, we stopped for a milk shake and puttered on home. I didn't give it much thought after that.

Well, today FBC came over and said, "Let's make an anchor for your kayak." Yes, I had traded my canoe, BOB, for two kayaks. So I followed him around the corner to his house where he'd already buried a soda can in the ground. Suspended by a pair of vise grips was an eye bolt that had various nuts and 'wings' attached to it. It was then bent out of shape so it wouldn't slip out under a strain. In another coffee can sitting on the ground were the weights we'd scavenged from the street. Around this can FBC built a fire. This was to be a melter, not a smelter.

Since it took a while for the fire to get hot enough to do its job, we stood around the fire warming ourselves and reliving yesterday's lead hunt. Finally FBC figured it was time. With a huge pair of well-worn and charred channel locks, he lifted the can from the fire and brought it over to the buried soda can. Gingerly he poured the molten lead into the can, filling it almost to the top. The excess he poured into a mold that made ingots. He pulled the extremely hot can from the ground to let it cool in the ambient temperature. While it cooled, he dropped the ingots in some water so I could inspect them (It gave me something to do with my hands for a while.)

After peeling off the remnants of the soda can, I had a brand new 9-pound kayak anchor! The only investments we had in it were our time, some scrap lumber used for firewood, an eye bolt and a soda can that had been scavenged from the trash. Now I'll have to buy some line (rope for you lubbers) and put a cleat on the kayak. FBC suggested I tie it around my leg in a hangman's noose. Very funny.

If you're wondering why I'm telling you all this, it's because there is a multitude of things to do to get ready for warmer fishing weather that doesn't involve cleaning and reloading reels. My favorite is hanging out with FBC. The anchor was just icing on the cake.

Winter

"Winter. Ugh! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing!" My apologies to Edwin Starr. That's the song most fishermen sing when it's 'too cold' to go fishing. That doesn't count, of course, those hearty souls who drag a hut out onto a frozen river or lake, cut a hole in the ice and jig for whatever's got the energy to strike.

Those of us down south use this time for maintenance in much the same way a gardener pores over seed catalogs in February. I was brought up by an avid fisherman who spent his bleak days cleaning reels and loading newly waxed line and repairing chewed-up, well-used lures.

Here's how it would go: Dad would call me in from play on the appointed day. Funny. It was never too cold to go outside and play, but it got too cold to let me even near the water. I guess it was because I always found a way to get immersed -- or at least wet. Some days I'd come in and find the reels, tools and oil already spread out on an old, soft towel. Other times there'd be spools of line, wax and empty reels.

Cleaning reels was my favorite. Dad broke down the reels in 'exploded view' order. My job was to dab oil on a piece of old tee shirt and carefully -- no -- tenderly wipe them off, removing rust and lubricating moving parts. It was work for a pre-teen; actually it was tedious work. But, that wasn't the fun part.

We, Dad and I, filled up the time talking about fishing trips we'd taken that year. We'd tell and retell stories of getting on a bed of bream or discovering the lair of a particularly large bass. We'd talk and drink cocolas (Cokes for you yankees, foreigners or both), laugh 'till it hurt or even cry -- always wiping away each other's tears.

When we'd done all we could, Dad reassembled the reels and tested them. Only when they passed both our approvals would he declare them ready to fish. The two I remember best were an early 1940s Pflueger Supreme bait casting reel and his mid-1940s fly reel he bought from Reeder-MacGahee's. The bait caster sits on my shelf now, retired but still loaded with Dad's last bit of woven line. The fly reel, however, is loaded and screwed to the butt of my fly rod ready to help bring home supper.

Those were good times back then. Father and son fishermen bonded over shared experiences, becoming closer than best friends ever could. It's what made winter worthwhile.

Why We Fish

January 17, 2010 -- Way back when the early men carved hooks of bone, chased down prehistoric insects and impaled them on the hooks, fishing was an integral part of the survival of the human species. I can only imagine how the conversations went in caves all over the land:

"Where are you going now, Grog?"

"Fishing," he answered his mate, Brooda.

"Why do you have to go fishing now? The bones need taking out, the cave needs a good sweeping and the baby needs his grass changed," demanded Brooda.

"I'll be back back with supper if the tiger doesn't get me," said Grog, his eyes rolling and his step quickening to get out of the cave. He grabbed his stick with the sinew tied to one end and the hook to the other.

Flash forward to now:

"Where are you going, Honey?" asks Linda.

"Fishing," answers John as he loads his rods, reels, creels and assorted high-tech tackle into his 4-wheel drive.

"Why now?" whines Linda. "You know good and well my mother is coming tomorrow to stay for a week, and the grass needs mowing, the windows need washing and you promised to paint the guest room before she gets here."

"I'll be back later," John says. "And if I have anything to do with it, it'll be later," he mutters under his breath.

Throughout man's history, fishing has been a bone of contention between human mates. Men view it as a survival necessity, while women see it as an abandonment of duties and affections. Since it is both, I'm not about to step into that smelly goo of an argument. Instead, I'd like to tell you of some of my fishing adventures and misadventures, talk about gear and upkeep and maybe even show off a recipe or two that I've tried and enjoyed.

So, sit back and enjoy (I hope) as I reminisce a life full of the joys of fishing.

--RL