Some lazy fishing | Alan Liere

Yes, I am guilty. While fly fishing is something I do a lot, something I really like, there are times in my life when I become a bait fisherman. Hang me by my whatevers. Go look for a rope while I finish this essay.

I began my fishing life as a bait fisherman – a drowner of worms, an impaler of crawdads, grasshoppers and waterdogs and even (gasp) a fan of dough baits! So when adult pressures become such that I wish nothing more than to be a kid again, I go fishing and revert to the simple ways of my youth.

I’ve heard that one can simply relax without fishing, but I feel the minutes of my life are too fleeting to waste doing nothing. Without a fishing rod, kicking back on a beach somewhere to soak up the warm summer rays cannot be done without feeling I am missing a significant piece from the puzzle of my life.

Bait fishing is lazy fishing, the only activity I know where I can do nothing and still feel I’m doing something. I think Izaak Walton made a comment like that once, but it may have been my great uncle, Walt Issac or even my not-so-great brother-in-law, Thayer the Abnormal.

Because lazy fishing is normally but an occasional indulgence with me, the experience must be perfect. I must forsake all gadgetry but a cheap rod and reel. I do not wish to wrestle with the temptation to float, drift, double-haul, or “present.” I just want to chuck some bait out there, prop the pole up on a forked stick, and forget it. If the fish do not like my offering, that’s OK. In fact, I will usually lie back with my hands under my head and hope nothing interrupts the flow of recuperative juices.

One summer, a friend, Mike, joined me for a lazy weekend of catfishing (with worms) on the shore of Lake Bryan, the Washington state impoundment formed when Lower Granite Dam backed up part of the Snake River. I brought my springer spaniel, Ami, and a 12-foot aluminum boat propelled with oars rather than a motor.

We slept under the stars the first night, but on Saturday morning, the sun but a pink suggestion on the bluffs across the water, Ami was facing downstream and barking wildly.

I sat up groggily in my sleeping bag and yelled at the dog to be quiet. Then, Mike rubbed some of the sleep from his eyes and peered into the gray dawn. “The boat’s gone,” he yawned, as if losing a 12-foot boat was an everyday occurrence.

I followed Ami’s gaze downstream; a hundred yards away I saw my boat floating slowly downriver with the current. I’d forgotten that on this Snake River impoundment the water fluctuated dramatically. My 12-foot aluminum vessel had been liberated from its shoreline mooring by rising water and was heading toward the dam.

Shedding my sleeping bag, I raced barefoot along the shore in my underwear, waded into the chilly water above the boat, and began swimming. To appreciate the entire effort, one must know I hadn’t run a step since the third grade and am routinely set upon by lifeguards whenever I so much as look at the water. My breaststroke is laborious, sometimes described as a man having a seizure. When I reached the craft, I somehow kicked myself aboard and flopped panting to the bottom. Eventually, I began the hard pull back upstream to camp. Not a good way to start a lazy weekend.

Mike was up making coffee when I got back. “So how was the triathlon?” he grinned as I slogged toward the truck for some dry underwear. “Hey,” he called again, “I thought you told me we were gonna relax!”

I was too exhausted for even a small obscene gesture.