Showing posts with label the beginning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the beginning. Show all posts

$300 Freedom

300. 300 US American Dollars. Would it be possible to do what I wanted to do for $300?
I grew up fishing. I started too early to remember catching my first fish. I do remember my first significant catch at around six years old and it began a life pursuit of the scaley, elusive prey.

When we fished, whether with my dad, grandfathers or cousins, it was by any means possible. We fished from inner tubes, the bank and various boats that were owned by different family members through the years.
I craved the outings to try to outwit the fish. If the phone rang I would secretly wish for it to be PaPa asking if I could go “perch jerking”.

Capturing the attention of a child with the outdoors is important and hopefully plants a seed for lifelong enjoyment. I’m not sure my family could have predicted the forest of fishing fever that would spring from me.
Perhaps I was a bit spoiled. I had been able to be off the bank most of my life and now with a new bride and little money, I had to find a way to do that.

I thought about just using a float tube, also called a belly boat, but I had always hated bumping into trees and logs with my feet. Anytime I would catch a tree limb under the water with my foot I would move my legs like a sprinter to try to propel myself away from it as fast as possible.
That may seem a little cowardly for an outdoorsman but an encounter with several water moccasins while floating in a fishing tube in the Rio Grande caused the fear to take hold in my “fear factory” and take up residence. If you had a six foot long snake peek up from between your legs in a float tube while trying to relieve you of a stringer with fish on it, you too might have a fear. And a new pair of waders.
A float tube was out. My only other options were a used flat bottom boat or try to fish out of one of those yellow kayaks they sold at Academy Sports.
I had a Chevy Tahoe at the time and couldn’t afford a trailer too so I laid down $220 of my $300 and bought a kayak. I spent the next 45 minutes in the dimly lit parking lot, with crickets flying around the night sky, trying to figure out how to get it on my roof rack and tie it down. Luckily I grew up outside the city limits and knew a thing or two about knots. Once I figured out how to leverage the kayak and get it on the roof I used about 100 feet of yellow nylon rope to tie it down. Was it overkill? Yes. I needed to protect my investment! Ratchet straps were too expensive and cam buckles weren’t even a thought back then.
Just in time for the crappie to start biting in Texas, I had purchased freedom from the bank fishing prison.
It’s hard to believe that was more than a decade ago.

The Beginning of My Fishing Obsession

I can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t have a fishing pole. I also can’t remember the first time I went fishing. I have a few vague, water color type memories of small bream and a sunset but nothing else to really tie them together as a memory.

I do remember when I became hooked on fishing though. Every single detail.

My dad had taken me to Lake Trammel, a small impoundment outside Sweetwater, Texas. He and my grandfathers had outfitted me with a few lures they felt they could part with, a rod, a Zebco 33 and a lot of smiles, shoved into a small tackle box. 

Dad had found an area with lots of coontail that held some black bass. When we arrived, he tried every avenue to convince me to not tie on a lipless crankbait. A plastic worm would be better he implored. He knew in short order the gold Cordell Rattlin’ Spot I tied on my line would be a donation to Poseidon or the fisherman who came across it if the water level dropped.  

30 seconds later he thought he was right. After a short cast and a couple of cranks I was tugging, pulling and making quite a racket. I couldn’t get my lure back. He sauntered over with a half smirk on his face when I was pulled forward. Weeds don’t pull back! After a short fight he held the fish while I ran to get that blue stringer I had insisted on brining along. A two and a half pound giant black bass was toted home and shown to anyone who would look. After a few pictures, most of which I cried through because of the bristled teeth of my foe, the bass was prepared and made into a nice meal. 

The cycle had been completed and a new angler born. Little did any of us know that this one bass would start a fire that has yet to be put out.