The Fever

About the month of March every year I get the fever. No, not “Spring Fever.” I get the “Fishing Fever.” The fact is, I’ve had this malady since I was a small child. Since both my grandfathers were avid fishermen, I suppose this disease is genetic. Whatever the reason, I’ve got it and got it bad.

It all started when I was very young. My paternal grandfather would bring home catfish that he had caught in the Cedar River in a galvanized bucket. There is nothing so fascinating to a five-year-old than a close-up view of five pounds of slippery, silvery, whiskered channel cat. Better yet was when Grandpa would bring home extra minnows that had been given a reprieve from becoming a crappie’s lunch. Grandma would take a few minnows and put them in the bird bath. She would then tie some string to a couple of twigs for myself and my sister and voila’, the fever in me began to flicker.

A few years further into my childhood, an event occurred that fanned my fever into an irreversable inferno. The occasion responsible was my first fishing trip. I was spending time with my maternal grandparents in Victor, Iowa, near Interstate 80. I don’t remember for sure, but either they thought it was time to give me a proper initiation into the angling fraternity, or else I just bugged them to death until they finally gave in–most likely the latter.

That magic morning, they loaded up the gear and me and drove the short distance to Lake Iowa. After teaching me the basic operation of the old rod and reel, they set me to it. The fish were nibbling that morning, but must have been too small to hook and besides, I hadn’t mastered the art of setting the hook yet. This fact, combined with the typical impatience of a 10-year-old boy, led to much frustration. The fever might have died right there had my grandparents not gone to Plan “B.” It seemed they knew of a roadside pond along old Highway 6 east of town. It was not much more than a mudhole set between the road and the railroad tracks, but it would turn out to be fishing Nirvana for a my 10-year-old self. I would catch bullhead after bullhead that afternoon along with a few nice-size carp for good measure. I would insist on taking them home to my parents to show my best neighborhood buddy. The fact that he turned out to be an elite purist who proclaimed that bullheads and carp were trash fish and that he only fished for trout in the Colorado mountains didn’t dim my enthusiasm in the least.

By the time we got them home, my prize fish were getting a little ripe in the July sun, so, in the Indian tradition, they became fertilizer in my parents’ garden. These days, I’m a little more sophisticated in my fishing equipment and a little more discriminating in what I fish for, but I have never lost that joy. The joy of the little tug at the end of the line or the dance of the bobber on a warm July evening. The fever rages, but I don’t want to be cured.

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