by Bud Johansen, July 04, 2006

My pool shooting friend, Ron, invited me to go fishing with him in tidewater of the Trask River, in his old drift boat. I told son Ken about it. Ken said, "He’s an ornery old goat. He yells at everybody on the river." I said, "No, that can’t be Ron. He’s a nice guy. You just don’t understand him." Ron is an imposing and intimidating figure, big and burly with a scruffy grey beard. He’s almost totally deaf, from so many years of running power saws.

I got up at 4 AM and got to the boat ramp before daylight. I heard a clunking noise out on the river, and there sat Ron in his boat, impatiently waiting for me. We barreled down the river at full speed dodging snags and root wads. It was barely breaking day. Ron had about 10 poles all rigged up for whatever way you wanted to fish. We started trolling back and forth with green spinners. A parade of other boats began to show up. Ron took our half right out of the middle and the others better beware. They apparently were familiar with him because they began dodging and taking evasive tactics the minute we came into view. If they were a little slow, Ron would bellow, "Get out of the way, you stupid so and so." I began to think, "Hmm, maybe Ken knows something I don’t know...As we trolled back and forth the other boats began hugging the shoreline and tying up in safe places. I pulled my hat lower over my eyes, hoping nobody would recognize me. Mr. Shaw, a retired school teacher, grinned and called out, "Hi there, aren’t you Kens’ dad?" I bravely admitted I was. Now everybody knew who was fishing with the bully of the river. Several fishing guides, with a boat full of clients passed by, carefully avoiding the path of the old drift boat. They called Ron by name. They kept the other adjectives under their breaths. Their clients fearfully looked back over their shoulders.

Ron really knows how to fish and how to apply his knowledge. He had about six big trays of lures. He soon shouted, "Fish on.." He fought the wildly racing spring chinook while I fumbled with the net--praying that I wouldn’t screw up. The fish made several passes past the boat and Ron would roar, "He’s not ready yet!" or "Not tail first." It was a tiny little net, about like a big trout net." Though I had been fishing and netting fish for
sixty years, I felt like the greenest rookie in the world. My confidence was totally shattered and every time Ron bellowed, I was a little closer to a total nervous breakdown. Fisherman from a dozen boats around us were laughing and chuckling. Finally Ron roared, "Net him." I desperately took a wild stab at the fish--and missed cleanly. I nearly fainted. Ron said, "Be ready next time.!" The fish was finally tired enough that he cooperated and weakly swam into the net. Ron bellowed, "Hold the net handle straight up!" Then, "Don’t lift the fish into the boat with the handle straight out." Now, I already knew that much, but in the brow beating it might have been deleted from my memory. Probably natures way of helping me recover from severe stress. The fish was a beautiful mint bright fin clipped springer, weighing 25 lbs.
We soon were trolling again with many envious onlookers dodging our passes back and forth. Mr. Shaw grinned and chuckled every pass by. A little color began to come back into my face. I even offered Ron some coffee and nut bread. My hand wasn’t shaking too bad when I poured the coffee. Slopped only about a cup full--on my leg.

Ron shouts, "Fish on!" Then he asks me, "Do you want this one?" I weakly said, "You better play it--we’ed have a better chance of getting it in." He hands me the pole as the fish makes a wild run across the river. He said, "You can’t no more than lose it." I take the rod and find that the reel winds from the opposite side. This felt a little awkward. Also, the drag was totally loose, so I reeled away, but didn’t gain any on the fish. Ron constantly bellered, "Lift your pole, then reel down on him." With the loose drag, it wasn’t working so well. Luckily, the fish was well hooked, and in spite of my clumsy efforts, it soon settled into the net, which Ron expertly handled. While I was playing the fish, I not only had Ron yelling instructions, but several others in boats around were instructing me also. I think I could write a book on all the expert advice I got. I’m sure they all agreed, I had to be the clumsiest novice in the world. One guy shouted out, "It’s better to be lucky than good." Ron crushed my hand in his huge gnarly one and said, "Wasn’t that fun.!"
Out of all the boats, we saw one other fish caught, and it was a wild one, so had to be released. We fished a little longer then decided to head back up the river and bag it. As we passed Mr Shaw he grinned and asked, "What, no more fish.?"

As we parted, each with a fish, Ron said, "We’ll have to do this again soon. I hope you don’t mind me yelling at you. I get a little excited.." I thought, "With a few months a therapy and a few drinks for courage, I just might be ready to go again. After all, we were the only ones on the river to take home fish." Besides, all those other would be fishermen enjoy a few laughs--at my expense.



By: Bud Johansen – May 2006