It's Opener!

    10:00 am
    Yipee, I'm going fishing!
    It's May 8th,  a week after "Opener" here in Michigan, and I haven't cast a line over water since last season (not counting casting pools at fly fishing shows, mind you).   Last weekend, the official Michigan Fishing Opener, was painful, I'll admit.  While all my friends were heading up north, cars and trucks packed with gear and good thoughts, I stayed home and worked. My heart went with them, and the sense of fishing urgency was intense in my blood just thinking about the smell of the rivers in northern Michigan in spring after a long winter.

   But hey,  it's really not such a Cindarella scenario.  I enjoy the work, and besides, the price of gasoline has been enough to keep me close to home for all but the most critical errands and commitments.

   So where am I going today, you ask?  Why across the street, to Spring Valley Trout Farm. No need for gasoline today; I'll just dust off the spinning rod my husband gave me last year for laughs, scratch out a few shrimp from the ice embedded in the freezer, and stroll on over there some time after lunch.

   Now if I were hungry for trout, I'd leave the shrimp at home and use woolly buggers, but what's great about Spring Valley Trout Farm is the catfish.  Really.  I'm talking melt-in-your-mouth.  We have been jonesing for that catfish all winter, but had to wait until now; the first weekend in May is their "Opener."

   So don't go getting any ideas that fishing over there is a consolation prize.  For someone who works 18 hour days, anything that gets me out of the studio-slash-office is welcomed.  That's One.  For Two: we like our neighbors, Jim and Jeanne Kaercher, who own the trout farm, and their kids, so it's always a nice, though quick, visit.   Three: like I say, that catfish -- yummmME!  Four?  It's fishing. 

    I spent the better part of the day weeding in the gardens and getting dirty, working up a catfish sized appetite.

   5:00 pm
   Today I had to go alone -- a first. My husband was entertaining friends from the cozy environs of his studio garage, none of whom would be staying for dinner.  My thoughts were to just skip it and go with Jack later in the week (the trout farm is closed Monday-Tuesday), but Jack, see, had been jonesing, like I said.  I had to go bring home the vittles for my man.

   It was a pretty slow day as far as the crowd went. No crowd, truth be told.  It being Mother's Day explained things, no doubt.  I got my bucket of water and strolled past the trout pond right over to our favorite bank on our favorite catfish pond.  I rigged up the shrimp and threw (cast?  can you really call that casting?) the hook and weight rig out over the water.  (Jack had given me a quick refresher course in casting a spinning rod;  I'm really bad at it.)  I then did all the stuff he coached me in with regard to letting it sink, taking in line, setting the lock etc.

  A couple who arrived at the same time as I had and who had never fished there before strolled over to the trout pond with their little kid in tow.  Other people were collecting their buckets, poles, coolers and whatnot and leaving for the day.  It was a lovely afternoon and the sun was hot on my face, also a first for the season. The new-cut grass smelled good. I leaned against the pond's perimeter fence, balancing the fishing pole along the top rung, and I thought of what my shrink likes to remind me about:  being as opposed to doing.  

   Then suddenly out there at about one o'clock, a rise.  It was heartbreaking, really.  I cast over there, purely out of habit. But these are catfish, for God's sake! 

   The couple who had been at the trout pond now strolled over to the catfish pond where I was, but a good distance away.  They carried the 14 foot bamboo poles the farm supplied, each complete with five jillion pound test, a hook the size of my shoe, and a red-and-white bobber three feet from the end.  Their little kid toddled along with them, wearing his life vest.

   I cast again and set the shrimp on the bottom, shifted my weight and watched the kid.   

   You know where I'm going with this.

   The couple with the kid caught a fish in pretty short order.  It was fun to watch their delight and surprise.  I reeled in and cast again.  Soon they caught another fish.  I mean we're not talking rocket science here.  We're not even remotely in the realm of finesse.  We're pulling up bottom feeders with worms.  Or trying to with shrimp.  But I remained happy for their fun.  Really.  Happy.  Fun.

   I had never gone this long at the farm without catching a fish -- hell, without so much as a nibble!   I mean it was the second day of the open season. There had to be hundreds - hundreds! - of catfish trolling around on the floor of that pond. 

   Then the couple caught their third fish, swinging it out over the grass with a massive backstroke, before dangling it into their bucket.

   Well.

   It was really more a matter of dinner, though. It was NOT about catching fish.  NOT.  Catfish was what we had planned on.  It was about DINNER.  I didn't want to disappoint Jack, see.  I didn't want to go hungry. Plus, the trout farm was about to close for the day and I didn't want to be asked to leave.  Asked to leave: the poor neighbor dressed in rags who had walked over.

   Then there was the idea of going through the main building in order to leave the place, nothing in my bucket, and talk - talk! - to the nice kid who had let me in.  Got skunked! I'd have to say, jollying it up.
Better luck next time!

   But that's exactly what I did.  Got skunked! I sang, putting down my empty bucket.  The kid laughed casually and hacked off the head of one of that couple's catfish, then noted that I had been using shrimp.  That mighta been it, he said.  Really? I asked. Sure, he said, jerking his head in the direction of the happy couple while he gutted their fish, I mean everyone else has been catching lots of fish all day using the worms.

   Everyone. Lots of.  All day.

   Hmmm,  I said.  And then I walked home.

   Waiting for me were my husband and his friend, who had decided to take up oil painting while I was across the street.  The only thing for me to do was practice fly casting and admire the work I had done in the gardens.  Then, lo! I came upon a rare and precious twin treat awaiting me in the apple orchard, a treat that helped me forget about the ne'er-to-be-caught catfish.  Morels and asparagus!  Quite literally only a few feet apart, no less!

In short order they got themselves cooked up in a little butter and sat smiling at me from a happy little plate.  The first of the season, also.

Next week I get another set of firsts for the season: 1) to go up north and 2) fish for real, and also 3) float a river (yet to be determined).   In the meantime, the nice thing about asparagus and morels is that they keep on giving for several weeks.  Long enough to forget all about catfish.