A Different Drummer: Fisherman’s Journal, Part Two

I made 13 entries in my Solo Fishing on the Carson Journal. The first six entries ran last week. This week picks up here…
Entry 7: It’s 8:30 a.m. Wednesday and I’m back in camp. I caught my limit again. I fished for 90 minutes this time.
I started at the same spot as Tuesday when I caught nine. After two casts, I had two trout, and kept one. So far all the trout were a foot long. I moved downstream and changed bait looking for bigger fish. After a good walk, I found a roiling pool hidden from the road by tangled reeds. A smooth rock of butt size on the bank beckoned me. I cast and sat. Ah.
I’d switched my bait from a fluorescent orange worm to natural nightcrawler.
The pool had an awesome eddy. After I’d cast, if I paused a moment, I’d see my bait drift in a circle toward shore past my feet and back upstream. Then it would hit the current and go around again.
On the third rotation — Wham! My pole jerked hard. Silver flashed. Amid splashing and dashing, I reeled in a 14-inch rainbow. Headlines read: “Natural bait catches bigger second-season trout.” Two in the creel. Must be careful. I’d only been fishing for 30 minutes.
This time I didn’t even cast. I pulled out some line and lowered my bait. The whirlpool took it clockwise upstream into the current and swept it down again. Chomp! Now I had three in the creel. I was still sworn to release all foot-longs.
I switched to a pink rubber worm. KaPow! Something massive took my bait downstream. I lightened my drag, played him awhile. I didn’t mind if he got loose. Once he was tuckered, I lifted him out. He was the biggest, 16 inches and fat. I had to eat him. Four in the creel.
I paused to enjoy the scenery. The sun had lit up the mountain tops. Tall cliffs with scattered pines on the far bank led the eye up the canyon to the cotton ball clouds rolling east against a blue dawn sky.
Did I feel a nibble? Yank. No resistance. I waited, tugged again. Nothing. I reeled in and felt weight on my line. Fish on. He was a shorty, no fight, about 10 inches. The little bugger had swallowed the hook. A professional trout surgeon would need a fully-equipped ER to safely extract the hook without torturing the trout, so I snapped his neck with my thumb like I do, and made him five on my string. Time to stop fishing, start eating.
Entry 8: It’s 1 p.m. I just ate my 16-inch rainbow pan fried in olive oil, spices, and lemon. No side dishes. No beverage. The fish was enough. Too big for the pan, I had to bend him in a fish-yoga position – backwards-gazing trout.
Golden brown on my plate, I lifted his tail, and used a fork to pull the meat down off the spine. Then I flipped the fish, and did it again. On my plate was a one-pound mound of pink, deboned, skinless trout meat. I ate it with my fingers, just because.
Neighbor Dave and little Carson returned from a day of fishing. They had no luck. I gave them some of my Berkely pink worms.
Entry 9: It’s 3 p.m. New neighbors just pulled in, two bearded guys in red shirts pulling a windup. They walked around the campground. “Howdy,” I said. “Looking for a sweet spot?”
“We’re looking for about a hundred sweet spots,” said the elder beard. “We’ve got two hundred Clampers coming in tonight and tomorrow.”
“Is this the annual jamboree?” I asked.
“Yep,” he said. They marked off a few areas with caution tape, then set their camper up not far from me. Up went two flags, the red E. Clampus Vitus flag, and the black ECV Jolly Roger.
Entry 10:07 p.m. Got bored, ate two more trout. That’s seven. Again, no sides, but a cold Fieldstone to wash them down. Dave and Carson stopped by my site to show me something. “Look what we caught,” said Carson. Dad stood back. It was a giant 18-inch rainbow, bigger than mine.
“Holy cow!” I said. “Where’d you catch him?”
“Right over there,” he said, pointing toward the river. “We caught him on the pink worms you gave us.” He was so excited and polite. That made me happy.
Entry 11:09 p.m. More Clampers have pulled in, another windup. I can see six guys sitting around a cold fire ring. They were talking, laughing, drinking beer. I built a fire using hard almond from home. A couple guys walked by on their way to the excellent cinderblock outhouses provided by the Forest Service.
“Hey,” I said. “If you guys need firewood, I have several left over almond logs in my truck. I’m pulling out in the morning.”
“No thanks. No campfires.”
“Sure. You can have a campfire” I said. “I just got my permit from the Sheriff’s office.”
“No,” he corrected. “Our group cannot have campfires.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to get it straight. “So there’s a campground policy prohibiting groups from having campfires?”
“No,” he said. “We can’t have campfires because we’re Clampers. Someone will fall in or burn down the damn forest.”
“Ah.” I got it straight. Where do I sign up?
Entry 12: My insulated pad leaks. It’s flat. It’s me and the hard ground, so I moved my bed outside. If I’m going to wake up every hour, I may as well be looking up at the stars.
Entry 13: Thursday, headed home, stopped for ice. Caught nine trout this morning, kept three for dinner tonight.