I hate fishing. I know that this declaration is sure to alienate a number of people, but I have to be honest, I HATE the whole "fishing" experience...I hate baiting hooks, I hate casting, I hate idly waiting for those stupid fish to bite and I'm REALLY not fond of trying to get a fish OFF of my hook on the off-chance that I catch one...Slimy and stinky aren't really my two favorite things in this world...I've done enough fishing in enough locations to now feel that I'm "experienced" enough to begin to make broad sweeping generalizations based on past "fishing experiences." With this empowering thought in mind, I reinforce my original statement with this other (similar) one: Fishing really, really sucks...

Oh, and before you "outdoorsy chumps" start muttering derogatory things about my lack of appreciation for nature and things like that, you should know that I HAVE tried it., I wasn't lying about that. In fact, in retrospect, I've "fished" many more times than I SHOULD HAVE. To make the point that more clearly, I shall outline a couple particular fishing trips in the paragraphs to come so that you may see where I'm coming from...Prepare yourself to bear witness!..

One of my earliest "fishing experiences" was when I was about 8 years old. I accompanied my dad and his friend Bert, who is a self-styled "outdoorsman." Bert does all of that hunting and camping and fishing stuff, in fact, he's pretty damn good at it...My dad CAN fish, he just chooses not to...At least I don't recall ever hearing him say "Hell of a day, let's go fishing," not that I'm complaining...Anyway, we went with Bert on a fishing trip in the mountains outside of town...I'm sure Bert's two sons were with us but, for the purposes of this story, they're inconsequential. My memory of this fishing expedition is a little sketchy, I don't necessarily remember where wen ended up...I DO remember fishing in a stream, casting a few times, eventually creating a 'birds nest' out of the reel I was using and quickly becoming disenchanted with the whole "fishing" process. I'm sure I then enjoyed a snack or two and waited around to leave...

Eventually, we DID leave, though I'm sure it wasn't soon enough for me. (Just so you know, I would NEVER have voiced my displeasure, I wouldn't have risked causing a "problem" at that age. I would've just been a "cryin' on the inside kind of clown" I guess.) So anyway, we had all gone up to this particular "Fishin' crik" in Bert's stupid old Suburban. Now, don't get me wrong...I like GMC, Heck, I drive a GMC...I just don't know what the Hell it is about Suburbans that were made in the 70s, the simple thought of riding in one gives me a damn headache. They're noisy and musty and are totally effing unpleasant. I'm convinced that the exhaust in these beasts is somehow routed through the ventilation system...Due to bad luck, I've ridden in enough of these "infernal contraptions" to know that I simply DO NOT like them. My distaste for Suburbans (and, by proxy, fishing trips) was magnified on the ride home by the fact that, due to my earlier snack ingestion and the musty, smelly, bumpy, shitty ride (and Hell, let's blame the plastic seat covers too, they were there), I threw up...Granted, I didn't puke INSIDE the Suburban, although that could only have improved it's character...I was able to give Bert "fair warning" to pull over and open the door...Either way, the regurgitation didn't make the experience any less unpleasant for me. For many years following that trip, I equated "fishing" with feeling both "uncomfortable" and "nauseous," two sensations that I do my best to avoid...After that "incident," I didn't pick up a rod and reel for another 5 or 6 years.

Much like anything else, if you haven't done something or been around something (or someone) in a while, you can kind of forget how much it sucks. Such is the case with the activity known as "fishing." When I was maybe 13 or 14 years old, I had a friend named Ryan. Ryan was a real outdoor-oriented kid, he liked to fish and he liked to hunt and he liked to catch nasty little creatures like frogs and mice...In hindsight, he was pretty much the opposite of me...Regardless of all that, we got along pretty well...Ryan, like I said earlier, was fond of fishing and had convinced me to actually go fishing with him at a lake not far from my house. This lake is now called "KB reservoir" and is off-limits to any sort of recreation. Back then, though, it was simply known as "Carp Lake," due to it's having been stocked with thousands of carp at some point in it's history. You could fish there if you wanted, it was near a park and it was relatively easy to get to. In addition to hosting a large number of carp, the lake had crappie, bluegill, the occasional crawfish, a couple old tires, a Vietnamese family that lived in the underbrush and a TERRIBLE TERRIBLE CURSE!..

Ok, I'm just kidding about the curse...Anyway, Ryan convinced me that I'd have fun, so I agreed to go. In hindsight, It's something that, if given the opportunity, wouldn't do again. I guess that, without bad experiences, hindsight is worthless, so things even out...I guess...With that in mind, it's time for me to start a new "paragraph"...

So the big fishing day arrived...Ryan and I walked down to the lake and found ourselves a spot to set up (very near the Vietnamese family). Ryan, being the grubby dirt-kid that he was, had collected some bait worms from my yard the night before...We also had a can of kernel corn that had garlic salt added to it. Ryan told me that this "Garlic Corn" was a very magical bait, and that all of the fish would bite on it. Magical or not, I figured that if I didn't have to touch any of those Goddamned worms, things would be ok...Garlic corn for me...I baited my hook with the magic kernels and attempted my first cast of the day...I don't necessarily remember, but I'm sure it didn't go far, I've never been good at those kinds of things...After a while, though, I got the hang of it...Soon enough I was even "catching" fish...

I will say that Ryan was dead on about one thing...That garlic corn was, indeed, "magic bait," Hell, it was like CRACK to the bluegill...Those little fuckers couldn't get enough of it...Like addicts jonesin' for a fix, they made their way to our hooks one right after another...By day's end, we had hauled in 47 bluegill between us. Soon enough, It was time to head for home...Somewhere between the "lake" and "home," we agreed upon an idea...We had CAUGHT all of these fish, we shouldn't let them go to waste...We should, in fact, EAT all of them too! (Brilliant!) Ryan said he could teach me how to clean the little guys, that it wasn't hard...We then figured that we could cook 'em up and have 47 little "Bluegill McNuggets" (as we called them) ALL TO OURSELVES...Never mind that the water in the lake is all nasty and smelled funny...Never mind that I had NEVER IN MY LIFE cleaned a fish...never mind that it was widely recognized that, even if you caught a fish in carp lake, you really weren't supposed to EAT it...We were gonna do it, dammit. After all, we were sportsmen. By God, sportsmen eat what they catch.

Ok, let's have a show of hands...Who, in their lifetime, has cleaned a fish? Good, good, you know what it's like...Now, who's cleaned 47 fish IN ONE SITTING? Bearing in mind that this was also my FIRSTEST TIME attempting this activity, facing a considerable pile of dead fish, even smaller dead fish, with nothing more than a knife and a friend's assurances that it's "not that hard" doesn't make the task any more pleasant. In fact, it's a lot like buying a scratch ticket in the lottery...You don't know what's underneath until you scratch off the top...In the case of the fishies, when you plunge the knife in, you don't know what might come out...Unlike the lottery (where sometimes you win), with the fish it's always bad...There's just different LEVELS of bad...During the "cleaning," the amount of fish we came upon that were pregnant was disconcerting enough, let alone the amount of fish we caught that had recently filled up their little fishy bowels. There were some, whom I will call "Elvis fish," that SURELY were suffering from colon problems. The amount of "stuff" that spewed out their (bloated) little fishy bodies SCREAMED of "impacted colon." Shaving their little sideburns was odd, too...But back to the pregnant fish...We picked the little eggs out of the other muck after it was all over and spread it on Ritz crackers...Kind of a "bluegill caviar" if you will...

Of course, I'm lying about that...

What we DID DO, though, when it was all over MAY HAVE BEEN WORSE THAN THAT...We washed the "cleaned" carcasses off and tossed them into a pan with some butter and seasoning. They were then baked at 375° until they appeared "cooked." We sat anxiously by the oven, mouths watering like starving cartoon characters, waiting to sample our day's bounty...Soon enough, we got our first taste of "Carp Lake bluegill surprise"...I munched thoughtfully on mine, as did Ryan. It didn't take long, though, for both of us to realize that what we'd placed in our mouths really wasn't fit for human consumption. I'm not sure I even managed to swallow that first bite, as it was so completely foul and vile. Ryan looked at me and said, simply "I don't really like this." I echoed the same sentiment and asked him if he thought we should just scrap the whole idea. Ryan agreed that ditching the rest of the fish was the best plan, so that's exactly what we did. Those 47 little bluegill met their demise, BUT THEY DID NOT DIE IN VAIN. No, Ryan and I learned a very valuable lesson that day...

Well, actually Ryan just learned not to eat fish from Carp Lake...I guess I learned that too, but I received an even MORE useful chunk of wisdom that fateful evening...One that, perhaps I had forgotten as I had gotten a little older. One that I'd surely not forget again...That bit of knowledge?..

"Fishing sucks." Tell your friends.

Labels: indignities, lame stories, me roots