Some Piscatorial Tales

A Fisherman's Tales

A storm in Glen Canyon is one to judge others by. The lightning lances down into that thousand-footdeep gash in the Earth cut by the Colorado River. The confined crack-and-boom of the thunder that follows, if you are running across a rocky beach as I was, allows you to find speed and agility O.J. Simpson would have envied. In the safety of a small cave, I searched for a one-word description of the scene. Fury was inadequate. A hundred or so yards away, where I had run the boat aground, dim figures danced in the deluge, looking like characters in one of those stylized Canadian short films. Friends of mine.

I have known the static-electricity jolt you get in high school science class when you rub a glass rod with a piece of silk. Or is it wool? No matter, I disliked it, intensely, and here we had possibilities that would intimidate Ben Franklin. Each of my friends was using a glass rod - fiberglass, to be exact, seven and a half feet long. My friends conducted no experiment. They were fishing. That's right, fishing. Casting, retrieving.

Under that ledge, soaked and shivering, trying to start a fire and wishing for my mother, I saw it confirmed: fisherfolk are well, shall we say, "different" from people.

The world of fishing is a world unto itself.

In those very same Navajo sandstone hallways, shortly after the Bureau of Reclamation closed the gates of Glen Canyon Dam and the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service and the Arizona Game and Fish Department stocked its tailwaters with rainbow trout, it was not uncommon to stand in one place and catch, and release, 40 fish in a couple of hours.

The best place to fish is not always where the big ones bite. Sometimes it may be in the quiet isolation of a scenic spot. Or maybe a place that spawns the tallest tale. Whatever the criteria, here are 10 spots we like best.

I acted as guide for many of the fisherfolk who came here. Among them was Swede Larsen. Swede was from the Pacific Northwest and wasn't in the habit of releasing fish. He caught them to eat, and he especially loved trout.We fished from my boat, and, after adding several 12to 14inch rainbows to his stringer, Swede hooked and was playing an even larger fish on his spin outfit. It made three jumps. Then the lure popped out and hit the side of the boat with a loud "thunk."

Swede was standing, cranking in slack line, when the fish made a fourth jump - right into the boat, flopping at my feet. It was fat and brightly colored red and pink, a prize for any trout fisherman.

"The law says a fish must be caught fair and square to be legal," I said, to see Swede's reaction.

A Fisherman's Tales

I was, in truth, rusty on this point. Swede looked at me with a poker face.

As "skipper," I picked the fish up by the lower lip and eased it into the river, moving it gently back and forth to get oxygen into it. I waited for Swede to say something, anything, and when he didn't, I let it go. It finned slowly away.

Swede's lips parted, but no word came out. I'd have given a dozen spinners to know what he was thinking, but I never asked.

After that, Swede didn't really "play" his fish. He cranked them in as fast as possible and went home with the limit.

When National Geographic got wind of the wonders of Lake Powell, it sent a photographer to capture its essence. At the time, I worked for the Arizona Game and Fish Department. Knowing my legendary fishing prowess, Bill Sizer, my chief, assigned me to guide and to pose for said photographer in the trout-infested tailwaters of Glen Canyon Dam. I suggested that my wife, Vicki, the Big Trout Champion in the family, might be a better choice.

Just below the dam, the photographer put his camera on a tripod, composed the photo with me in it, then said, "Okay, catch a trout."

Although I have caught fish on the first cast in Glen Canyon, I have never caught one on command. Instead, I snagged my Roostertail lure on the bottom of the river.

"Great," he said, thinking I had a fish, and before I could alert him otherwise, he snapped away. The water there was so fast no sensible foraging fish would be struggling against it. But it was an ideal location for a photo of Glen Canyon Dam, which was the focal point of the shot. I was semi-incidental. Across the water in a back eddy a pair of fishermen were having splendid success. We put on our friendliest grins and motor-boated over.

National Geographic ran a photo of Glen Canyon Dam on page 48 of the July 1967 issue. I am in the foreground, netting a trout, borrowed for the occasion.

Tommy Carr, gone now to the Great Fishing Waters in the Sky, fished with me in Glen Canyon on a regular basis. But whenever I think of him, San Carlos Lake jumps to mind.

Besides being a fishing addict, Tommy also was a litterbug. I picked up after him regularly. On our first fishing trip to San Carlos, as we planed at high speed toward a largemouth-bass "honey hole," Tommy pulled a new bass plug out of a box and tossed the box over the side. Without saying a word, I made a wide U-turn and scooped up the box with my dip net.

About the time we reached planing speed again, I saw something else go over the side. It was Tommy's Styrofoam

A Fisherman's Tales

Continued from page 21coffee cup. Again I made a U-turn and scooped up the cup with my net, saying nothing.

Later that morning, he opened up another box with a plug in it, and it, too, went over the side. Repeat performance from me.

A few days later at a party, I heard Tommy say to a mutual friend, “If you plan to get in some fishing time when you're with Jim, whatever you do, don't throw anything out of the boat.” Tommy never considered fishing a contemplative sport. To him it was an opportunity to try to catch bigger fish than the next guy, usually me. Almost always we would bet on the first fish, the biggest fish, and the most fish caught. One of his favorite expressions after catching a good fish was, “Ha, beat that.” Although he wouldn't admit it, Tommy was notorious for misjudging distances. At San Carlos Lake, we fished from my boat, and he was constantly throwing his lure up on the lakeshore or into dead treetops poking through the surface. “What's the matter, Tommy,” I'd say to rattle him, “don't you like fishing in the water?” On one of those wild casts, Tommy's lure went over a hor-izontal limb of a drowned tree and spun around it a couple of times. Then it swung there like a pendulum on a clock, dangling about 16 inches above the water. Would you believe a two-pound bass rocketed toward the surface and struck the lure? “Beat that!” he hollered.

On my very next cast, two one-pound bass struck my lure and hooked themselves on the tail-hooks and the belly-hooks, respectively.

Tommy was in the process of throwing his rod and reel into the lake, when I stopped him and passed him a camera.

“Get a shot of me with these guys,” I said, “and use the wide angle to make them look bigger.” The picture Tommy took was published on the outdoor page of The Arizona Republic, adding even more to his chagrin.

Fishing is the most popular source of recreation in America. And with 32,000 species of fish on this planet, every angler should have the thrill of catching one of each.

Fishing Guide: For insiders' information about where to find the big ones, we recommend Outdoors in Arizona, A Guide to Fishing and Hunting ($9.95). Filled with tips, detailed maps, and full-color photographs, this softcover book will lead you to a lifetime of angling adventure. For information or to place an order, telephone toll-free 1 (800) 543-5432. In the Phoenix area, call 258-1000.