A Fish Story

~by Jim Eagleman

There’s something magical about catching fish on the line. My old spincast reel is now attached to a high-tech, fiberglass rod, with a new tangle-free line. When I make a decent cast, I’m smiling once again. I wait for the bite and soon there’s a dip of the bobber. Off it goes, the line tracing a haphazard trail through the water. Even a small bluegill on my flyrod gives a thrill. This lightweight rod, thin and whip-like, sends small shockwaves into my hand when there’s tension. A living creature on the other end demands my attention.

I saw the entire experience differently when I recently went fishing with my grandkids. Their excitement was contagious— about a slight drizzle, a spiderweb of line, or the “slimy” worms in a can. Squeals of joy erupted when something jerked back; and they reeled in frantically only to have the line go limp. Taking turns on the narrow dock with lines and rods changing direction, they sometimes squawked about where to stand. Intense interest quieted the chatter. “Pop-pop, are we gonna eat these fish?”

An early morning ichthyology class I took years ago introduced me to a different world than the terrestrial one I was there to study. At the field station on the mighty Mississippi, swift, wide moving water seemed so foreign. We loaded up shocking boats each day at sunrise to beat the heat. As the boats moved along the water with two electrodes in front (powered by a gas generator), strange-looking creatures came up fast and flopped on the surface. Fish I had never seen before, large and grotesque with evil eyes, got handed in large dip nets back to tubs. We were asked to identify these creatures back at the field station using a dichotomous key in our text, “The Fishes of Illinois.”

Suckers with names like redhorse, quillback, and buffalo fish; long-nosed gar; paddlefish with flat, blade-like snouts; the prehistoric sturgeon; and catfish the size of your arm, were laid out on flat trays. They almost gave me nightmares. I tried to find characteristics of each fish, while my fingertips smelled for days, wrinkled with the preservative formalin solution. A sampling of the day’s catch was destined for the classroom back on campus. I saw them in jars on a shelf during a later term, without the color and fierceness.

Our instructor, Dr. Larry Jahn, ready for the next lecture, said, “Hello, and how are things?”

“Dr. Jahn, some of us in your summer class had always wondered, were you pleased there was a boat, the Jon boat, named after you?” I smiled and knew he’d get the joke. “Ha. It never fails,” he replied. “I wish I had invented it.”

His field station lectures highlighted biology, habitat, behavior, and predator-prey. Like all game species, fish were a “crop of the land,” a harvestable resource to be managed professionally. As natural resource students, we learned we worked for the resource user.

To prove that point, I was sent to a nearby group of fishermen that had been out all night. “Eagleman, go talk to those guys, find out what they are catching,” he ordered. I left unsure about how I’d be greeted and was a bit shaken, but I returned with good news. The class wanted to hear what I learned. “A lot,” I said and then added, “Oh, and we got invited to their house tonight—the whole class—to eat fish!”

More recently, Free Fishing Days offered by the DNR, gave us a great chance to get a fishing pole in the hands of kids for their first time—adults, too. At the Brown County State Park’s lakes Ogle and Strahl, we held day-long casting demos, bait-tying, and ecology talks. A shelter house grill provided a taste of freshly caught bluegill and bass. Local fishing clubs promoted safe handling of equipment, etiquette, and catch and release. We gave out bumper stickers stating, “The Quality of Fishing reflects the Quality of Living,” and “We all Live Downstream.”

My good friends, Jennie and Chris, never fail to invite me to their woodland lake, nestled in a cool, shaded ravine. There I can fish to my heart’s content—a “honey hole” if there ever was one.

“I love to fish, but I love to catch fish,” I said getting out of the car. They smile, like they’ve never heard that one before. At the shoreline and mesmerized, I let the mind roll, recalling a massive river, a long-ago class, terms I was assigned, even some of the bizarre fish. A nibble brings me back.

In late fall when this lake is still with only a few wind ripples—dead limbs stretching out and leaves covering the water—I look to the surrounding hills, a forested watershed. What little runoff occurs might perk through a network of rootlets, leaf litter, and debris.

Recently at a local restaurant near water, we dined on their famous dish, batter-fried catfish. So tasty and flavorful—it was a treat. Thinking it’s a local item on the menu, I asked where the fish was from. “Honduras,” came the reply. World markets serve local businesses—why would I think any different?

The resource user today purchases licenses, attends optional safety seminars, and buys equipment and boat stickers. The user is a tool of the biologist. They support a declining industry. The lack of youth entering the sport is evident. Fishing industries worldwide are being closely scrutinized to prevent over-harvest, to slow the impact of declining populations, and to check pollution. Today’s resource manager has more demands with less habitat to manage and warming temperatures. The resource manager continues to work for the resource user, be they hunters, timber owners, or fish people. I wish them well in this most challenging job.