Fish Five Ways

After nearly 20 years of dropping lines in the water with Kingdom, the editor looks beneath the surface of what he’s learned

There are five ways to fish, according to the Encyclopedia Britannica. One could fish in a bowler hat or from an airplane wing or while standing on one foot, but the actual process of attempting to secure a fish would fall into one of five basic methods, apparently. These include bait fishing; fly fishing; bait casting; spinning; and trolling. The good folks at Britannica do not count spearfishing, casting a net or dynamiting a lake as basic methods, though clearly fish can be gotten in those ways and others, and perhaps those methods are filed under a different category. As for the five, I’ve employed all of them at one point or another, often for stories in Kingdom with people who know infinitely more about fishing than I do. Here, then, are a few vignettes I’ve reeled in over the years, mostly Kingdom excerpts that demonstrate some of the moments fishing has brought to my life. Whether you keep ’em or throw ’em back, I hope they’ll stir some angling memories of your own. Good luck out there.

Bait Casting & Spin Casting:

Bait casting usually employs a reel with heavier line, often in the 10- to 20-pound test range. Most spinning reels are usually spooled with lighter lines in the 6- to 10-pound test class. Spinning rods are generally 6–10 feet long, while the usual length of a bait-casting rod is 5–6 feet.

Bluegill, somewhere

My earliest memory of fishing is someone putting a little fiberglass rod into my hands, pointing to a red and white bobber floating on the surface of a lake, and telling me to keep the tip of the rod down and to keep an eye on the bobber. “If it goes under, pull up hard and start reeling!” It would have been something like that. I remember that I held the rod tightly in both hands and that I fixated upon the plastic ball until my eyes hurt, barely daring to blink in fear that if I looked away it would disappear and I’d get in trouble for not paying attention. I’m not sure that the fish had much to do with my experience, but I do remember catching one, a bluegill, and the terrific mayhem of the moment when I yanked it onto the muddy grass bank and it flapped around like a frantic single hand suddenly bursting into applause; the joy of catching the fish and of pleasing the adults around me mixed with the sudden realization that the fish was more beautiful in the water, and that I had ruined it. I felt relieved when we threw it back.

Bait Fishing:

A bait is impaled on the hook, which is “set” by the angler raising the tip of the rod when the fish swallows it.

Halibut, off the coast of British Columbia

After an hour or so of not much luck, dad announced he’d hooked something. In his late 70s but still strong as an ox, his rod tip was stuck to the water and so Duncan backed off the motors and came over to help. At first, it appeared dad had hooked the bottom. “I don’t think so,” he insisted. After a few minutes of watching him hold the rod with no progress, Duncan took it from his hands and jerked on it a few times, sure it was hung on a rock. It only took a second or so before his face changed. Kind of a quizzical look at first, head cocked to the side, Duncan suddenly registered something else: Excitement. “That’s a fish,” he said with determination. “That’s a big fish. A really big fish. Do you want to bring in a really big fish? Do you want to bring in a really, really big fish?” By now he was excited, and we were, too. “Let’s catch him!” said dad, and it was game on.

We tried. Oh man did we try. At one point I was in front of dad pushing the rod up with my shoulder and reeling down in reverse as he struggled to hold it steady. Duncan tried to help with maneuvering the boat, but in the end it was no use. An hour? Two? However long it was, we set the resistance on the reel to maximum—more than 120 pounds—and when the fish decided he was bored, he took off, diving and stripping out line like there was no resistance at all. All we could do was to watch until it stopped, and it did stop, finally going slack when the fish broke free. Fair enough. It’s not like we were going to parade home as heroes carrying hundreds of pounds of halibut to sustain our village. And anything that had lived long enough to get that big might as well keep going. If nothing else, we had a great fish story to tell that evening, and we still tell it.

Fly Fishing:

Employing a rod 7 to 11 feet in length, a simple arbor reel, and a heavy plastic-coated line joined to a lighter nylon leader. The rod is used to cast artificial flies… designed to imitate the natural food sources of the fish.

Trout, on the Battenkill in Vermont

The riverbank had grown quite wide and so Antoine and I were walking side-by-side, moving to fish a new spot. I’d been pondering how much I didn’t know about fish and about fishing and I’d started to wonder how good a fisherman Antoine really was—and how much that really matters. It’s a fish, I thought. There’s some element of luck to this, right? I put my musings to Antoine and he stopped walking. He set his bag down, walked to the river’s edge, looked over at me and said in his marvelous French accent, “And now, I will catch a fish.” Then he cast his line into the water and pulled out a trout. Just like that. Maybe I counted to three in my head, but really, I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. Who needs luck?

Trolling:

Trolling involves the use of live bait or artificial lures that are drawn through the water behind a slow-moving boat, originally rowed but now generally motor-powered.

Dorado, off Zihuatanejo, Mexico

Motoring out of the marina, the 28-foot La Bamba feels ready to go. The two Ernestos are setting lines, checking reels and pushing hooks into bait. The sky has taken on the beautiful blue-black of a Japanese kimono, and all unnecessary sounds have given way to the purr of the Ford motor and the dark water against the hull. I, for one, am lost in thought, feeling a little rough from a touch of the ubiquitous stomach issues known to Mexico, but made contemplative by the surroundings. The others, too, are quiet, thinking their own thoughts. This pensive moment lasts until we round the edge of the bay, at which point the Pacific comes alive. From here through the end of the day, high and heavy rollers push La Bamba around like a drunk partner on the dance floor. The pitches, rises and falls are substantial, but after days of tranquil afternoons, they’re kind of a welcome change from the lazy beach we left behind. And anyway, the waves are forgotten when two of the lines suddenly take off, almost simultaneously whirring loudly and sending Ernestos into action. Not one hour out and we’ve two fish hooked! My friend Steve and I each jump into a chair and take a rod from an Ernesto. Immediately I’m pulling up and reeling down, pulling up and reeling down. I’ve no idea how Steve’s fight is going because I’m so focused on my own. The rod is heavy, then light, then heavy again, the line drawing a frenetic pattern where it disappears into the water, cutting waves as they rise and fall. It seems only seconds before Steve’s fish is in, a gorgeous blue dorado that immediately commences kicking me in the legs as I try to focus on the business at hand—and there is business at hand. Real fish fight to stay wet, and though this one isn’t huge it’s not long before my forearms feel a slight burn and my hands start to cramp. The fish is leaping out of the water, coming into view and then rocketing back out, the loud whizzing of the running line simultaneously frustrating and strengthening my resolve. Pull up, reel down. A hundred more turns of the crank and he’s in. Another beautiful dorado, this one startlingly gold with a strong blue back. What a day, and the light’s only started to come up.