First-Time Fisherman Not Hooked

Fish stink. And when it comes to fishing, so do I. It took me fours hours in a boat to realize this. It was the first time I fished and most likely will be the last.

On a recent sunny May morning, fearless “Cedar Post” photographer and boatsman extraordinaire Brent Tucker took me on a four-hour angling adventure. The purpose was to catch fish, and I was the right man for the job.

After getting ourselves and our gear settled on the boat, we drove around Lake Pend Oreille, looking for the perfect fishing spot. After 20 minutes we decided neither of us had a clue where the best spot was.

Eventually, Brent decided the best place was in the middle of floating debris. He reasoned that the debris provided a hiding place for the fish and that under all that muck, fish were there for the taking. Since he had more experience in the wild world of fishing (he actually caught a fish when he was 10), I listened to him.

Before I baited my line and threw it in the water, Brent had to instruct me on the proper casting procedure. “Bait your line and then throw it in the water,” he said.

After 15 minutes of intense waiting, I began to doubt there were any fish. Brent felt my despair and tried to encourage me.

“I doubt you will catch anything in this stupid lake,” he said.

He suggested we were probably using the wrong equipment. He mentioned something about not using trolling lures without a trolling motor and added that he should have brought a non-trolling pole. Not paying too much attention to his babbling, I insisted the fishing go on.

As we jetted across the waves looking for a new spot, something caught Brent’s eye. He saw something magical. It was historic. It was great. It was … dead.

The white carcass floated in the water. Brown tufts of hair hung off its legs and hide. The creature’s body was bloated, and a terrible stench lingered in the air.

“I think that’s a deer,” Brent said.

Well, it once had been a deer. It looked like Bambi had tried his luck at swimming and failed miserably. I was saddened by the death of this lovable creature. I wanted to cry, to curse. In fact, I wanted to poke the fat carcass with a boat oar. But Brent said no. He didn’t want the oar covered with maggots. He’s such an animal lover.

Soon the dead deer lost its appeal and we moved on. We were in search of a perfect fishing spot - or more dead things.

Brent guided the craft into the Hope area, where I felt the fishing had to be good. Once again, I threw my line over and hoped that the fish were pretty dumb.

For one thing, my lure was so big that any fish trying to grab a bite would have trouble getting its mouth around it. Also, the amount of noise coming from the boat could scare away even the deafest of fish. But I still had hope that a very dumb, hearing-impaired, large-mouthed fish would take my bait. If I were a fish, I would have been all over that lure.

After another 15 minutes of patient waiting, we decided to quit chasing fish and start chasing birds.

To correctly chase a bird in a boat, one must carefully follow directions. Cruise lake in a boat. Spot poor, helpless bird. Push boat throttle to maximum speed. Point boat at bird and chase. We followed these rules to the letter but never did hit a bird with the boat. I was very disappointed but thought bird chasing was much better than fishing.

After all the birds had flown away, Brent and I encountered some serious trouble. It was the worst kind of trouble for two juvenile punks like us. We encountered the sheriff’s boat.

He approached cautiously. He was out there to maintain law and order. We were a couple of thrill-seeking teenagers with no respect for the law. The air seemed mighty thick as he closed in on us. We glared at his boat, challenging him to make the first move. He looked forward and drove right past us. He had no intention of pulling us over or arresting us. He was just cruising around the lake.

We were a little disappointed he didn’t attempt to board our vessel. After ducking the law, we decided it was time to head back. I thought I’d give fishing one last chance.

I removed the large lure and traded it for the biggest lure in Brent’s tackle box. I’ve seen whales smaller than this bad boy. I put the massive monster on the end of my line and threw it out behind the boat. Then, as Brent steered the boat to Sandpoint, I let out a great deal of line. With about 200 feet trailing behind me and a whole lake full of fish, I was determined to catch something.

As Brent edged toward Sandpoint, my determination turned into agony. Not only had I failed to catch a fish, I had failed to catch anything. I thought for sure I would hook onto one of the many floating logs on the lake, but I didn’t even come close. Aware of my pain (or maybe mocking me), Brent threw what was left of a blueberry muffin into the water.

“Catch the muffin,” he said.

I directed my trolling line at the muffin several times, but I could not catch it. After five minutes of trying, I gave up.

As I helped Brent put the boat back on the trailer, I thought of all the lessons I learned.

Don’t fish with no skills. Bring more food next time. Don’t use improper fishing equipment. And NEVER listen to Brent’s advice.

But the most important lesson I learned was to always fish in a crowded area. That way, even if you don’t catch any fish, you can always steal someone else’s.