The Digs

I had a friend back in high school who rented an apartment near a busy railroad station shortly after graduation. His friends all thought that he had it made in the shade (pardon that 70’s expression please). Here was a guy who had just turned eighteen and he had his own place already. Wow! We – the posse – were not only chartreuse with envy, but everyone also knew that from that day forward we’d forever (or at least until he got evicted) have a place to P-A-R-T-Y!

Can I get a “Hell Yeah!” Y’all know what I’m talkin’ ’bout, right?

To say his place was a little small would be like saying Texas is a little warm in the summer. The roaches had to work in shifts. And the mice had to commute, because there was no place for them to sleep.

Speaking of commute…

Did you ever hear a commuter train traveling down the tracks at about seventy miles per hour? Let’s just say you can feel it coming long before the sound gets to your ears. And when that happens, look out below!

Take a peek out the front window of your home right now and imagine three sets of railroad tracks about where the street is located. On average, roughly twenty-five feet away. That’s how close the tracks were to party central. The first time I was on hand for this mind-crushing event, I thought I was in an explosion.

All day long commuter trains would rumble-by. First they would head into the city during morning rush, then they’d bring ’em all back in the afternoon and evening.

It really got interesting after dark – around 10PM – when all the weary travelers were safe at home and tucked into their beds. That’s when the freight trains would roll. And roll they did, until morning, when the whole ritual would start all over again.

Did he get a break on Saturday and Sunday, you ask? Nope. Weekends were simply less folks and more commerce. My head hurts just thinking about it.

He had it made alright.

I also had my share of interesting dwelling places in my lifetime. Not the least impressive (but it was close) was my eighth floor apartment on Pratt Avenue in Chicago. The exclusive North Shore. But this was a little slice of heaven that was as far from upscale as you can get without being on some sort of government aid program.

Not fit for man nor beast, this place had a wonderful view of Lake Michigan out the bedroom window and a potentially profitable view over the left field wall of Wrigley Field – home of those lovable losers the Chicago Cubs. I say “profit” based on the highly unlikely event the team could stop losing just for one season, so I could charge folks money for my great view of the game. I wasn’t holding my breath!

Sounds pretty tasty doesn’t it? Hmmm?

First of all, this was an “artists’ community” that featured futon stores, over-priced bistros, wine caterers, and head shops – call them “smoke shops” if you want to, but I know what folks were smokin’ in those “hookah pipes” (read: bongs) and it wasn’t crab grass.

We had two movie theaters that the neighborhood aristocrats and visiting jet setters called “fine arts” centers. Centers? Heck, I went there to watch movies. Don’t know what y’all were lookin’ at?

Every Friday and Saturday night, at midnight, for as long as I lived in that neighborhood, one of the so-called fine arts centers played the Rocky Horror Picture Show. The other rotated the Star Wars trilogy. Movie goers came in full costume – every weekend – for both films.

It was not uncommon to take a late night stroll only to spot several Rocky Horror cross-dressing movie buffs (wearing Fredrick’s of Hollywood leather and lace attire), Chubaka, and R2D2 on the same street corner. Oh, wait, that could have been three hookers with a homeless guy standing by a city of Chicago garage can? I used to drink a lot back in the day.

Then, in the dog days of summer, when the Cubs were in town, the beer flow was like a frothy river of sudsy fun. After all, if you’re a Cubs’ fan, you’re also a hefty drinker. What else is there to do when you’re watching them blow another pennant?

There was a bar about every other doorway on Sheridan Road – the main drag. (Sorry, poor word choice there.) Loyola University provided much of the clientele that wasn’t part of the fine arts masquerade party.

Since when was Meatloaf (the singer, not the dinner) promoted to art? Did I miss something? Sorry, I digress.

Speaking of dining adventures in the area…

A greasy spoon that served a very tasty breakfast 24/7 was really the highlight around Pratt Beach, but only if you ignore the little adult book store and sex toy shop as being off the grading curve. (Editor’s Note: wear old shoes if you ever go – the floor’s a little sticky. In the restaurant, I mean.)

The apartment itself was a little charmer. Flush a toilet six blocks away and the water pressure would dip to a dribble. And if that flush came whilst you were taking a shower, you’d better bail out of the tub in a hurry unless you like being scorched by a scalding drizzle from a low-flow shower head. Ouch!

Not a single window in the place actually fit into the opening it had originally been designed to fit. It was not unusual to see one-half-inch of space between the window and the frame. Now imagine a forty mile per hour wind blowing at minus seven degrees.

Yeah. Brrr! Y’all got that right.

Fortunately, the building had those old steam heaters, which were always hot enough to bring a pot of water to boil if you had occasion to put one on top of the heater itself – like if you forgot to pay the electric bill and the stove didn’t work. Not that that ever happened to me.

Moving right along…

When the decision was finally made that a move was needed, haste was the order of the day. You see, maintenance had “taken care” of a “bug problem” on the main floor. Only problem with that was the “bug problem” moved up about eight floors.

I was lying in bed watching TV when a dog ran across my set. I’m sure you’ve all seen the TV commercial for Orkin where the roach runs across the screen, but not really. I hit my TV with a hammer the first time I saw that one. I lived it! My visitor was real – big too. It was like the film Joe’s Apartment, only not nearly as funny.

So many places, too many to talk about here, that provided the road map of my life.

I lived in St. Louis for almost one year. The Central West End was another artists’ haven that in no way resembled my horror show on Pratt Avenue in the Windy City. This classy setting of thriving night life was actually a fun area to live. Could’ve been that I could see a Hooter’s neon sign from my window though? Relax! I only went there because I like chicken wings.

(pause for groans and eye rolling)

When I moved to Texas back in 1996, I had to learn the hard way what they actually mean when they say, “location, location, location.” I moved into an area to be close to work, but that also put me pretty doggone close to the ghetto. Well, as ghetto as Fort Worth gets anyway. I was used to Cabrini Green and the Robert Taylor Homes – I assure you, Texans would not allow these two places.

To be fair, it took eight years of Texas living before I got robbed at gunpoint. Thirty-five years in the gun crime epicenter of the Universe – Chicago – and I had to move to Texas to be the guest of honor at a stick-up. Who knew?

During the last month of my East Side of Fort Worth stay, I counted four home invasions that happened at night when folks were at home asleep. That’s pretty brave if you ask me. Most folks have guns in Texas – this ain’t Illinois where the politicians disarm honest folks to make it easy on the crooks. Only reason that I didn’t get robbed in Chi-town was because I knew all the crooks and where to go get my stuff back.

Brings to mind a local police chase near Ennis, TX some years ago that featured several municipalities, state troopers, and even some Texas Rangers. The crooks took law enforcement on a whirlwind shootout tour of a number of towns southeast of Dallas. When the dust settled and the bad guys were behind bars, they pulled over one-hundred slugs out of the suspects’ vehicle and could only attribute half of them to police. The rest came from civilian guns.

Don’t mess with Texas! Y’all got that right too.

I just moved – again. I’m still in Fort Worth, but on the fashionable West Side. I don’t suppose I’ll be going anywhere else any time soon. I like it here. And I found a new place in a neighborhood I had been drooling over ever since I came to the Lone Star State sixteen years ago. It’s no bigger than the train stop dwelling my school chum rented. No trains (or critters) here though.

I call it my Man Cave and I dig the new digs. I’m snug as a bug in a rug. If you’ll pardon the expression?

A Dark, Cold Night (an argument in favor of catch & release)

Suddenly, I felt a chill and caught a glimpse of cold steel. A flash, then it penetrated – the burn of a razor-sharp instrument tearing through skin, flesh, and bone.

I was hurt – bleeding.

My attackers grabbed at my flesh and pulled me into their vessel. They dropped me to the metal floor and watched as I thrashed about in pain. I fought for my life; they did nothing.

I couldn’t breath.

My heart was about to burst. I was weak – helpless – submitting to the brutes.

The burley strangers pinned me to the floor.

I was terrified.

My wounds ached and leaked blood. I knew, if they didn’t release me soon, I would certainly die.

Did you ever wonder what “the fight” is like – from the perspective of the fish you catch?

I just used a little dramatic action to make a point. We anglers love our sport. We also like to think that we respect the species we chase enough to treat them right after the fight. But a lot goes into the art of catch and release. From hook-set to the deep breath we take after the fish swims away; there are many potentially life-threatening hazards to the fish and dangers to the angler, as well.

Mike Ponder correctly holding a Dryberry monster muskie.

Every Esox Hunter obsesses over these great toothy beasts, like an NFL star would the Lombardi Trophy, or an NHL’er Lord Stanley’s Cup. The coveted prize in this sport is the mighty Esox. The real “trophy” of any Esox Hunter’s heart is to hold a behemoth in a photograph shared, touted, and yes, even boasted about for years to come. A photograph that represents much blood, sweat, and tears through hours-and-hours of planning, fruitless outings, sleepless nights, and relentless casting.

It is certainly true that Esox Hunters do dwell on the object of their affection probably more than most. But after all, it is because the rewards are so great – if not, so rare.

Take muskie hunting, for example. The promotion of catch and release has transformed the “fish of ten-thousand casts” from a mythical creature that only a select few learned scholars and river rats can catch with any kind of regularity, to a rewarding adventure on the water for even a relatively inexperienced angler. When a little homework and then some heavy lifting are applied, you’ll have success. I’m sure of it!

But after all that is said and done, with as many big fish fifty-inches and more that folks allegedly have caught and released over the years, these encounters are still far less common than all the braggin’ boards on internet chat sites would lead one to believe. It’s not as easy as it appears to be, or as the pros would lead you to believe. I’m sure of this too!

Pat Elza performing a proper release technique.

That being said, we can all agree that it is truly a special occasion to be holding a monster at the bow of the boat, while your partner snaps pictures – just you and that big fish with the golden sunset as the perfect backdrop. The scene never gets old!

Often overlooked in the relentless struggle to catch an Esox is proper release technique. I have caught enough fish over fifty-inches to know that if the best part of Esox fishing is the strike, the second best part is feeling the tail tense-up in your hand and then watching a healthy fish kick out of sight. That’s what it’s all about!

Reports of severely mishandled big Esox over my decades-long career in the sport have made it clear that it’s never too late (or too soon, or too often) for a refresher course on proper handling of Esox – from hook-up to release and everything in between.

So, let’s have at it, shall we? I’ll start with…

THE NET

Before you even think about starting the motor and heading out, assume you will catch the biggest Esox of your life today (go ahead, it’s good to always begin with a positive attitude), then ask one question: do you have everything you need to perform a release safely with minimum stress on the fish and risk of injury to you? You wouldn’t leave the launch without life jackets. There are other items you should also never leave without.

The only thing better than watching a healthy fish swim away is the strike itself.

Skipping past hand landing (or water release) for obvious reasons – no one in their right mind intentionally grabs a four-foot long fish with razor-sharp teeth knowing full well there is a lure with three 5.0 treble hooks embedded in the jaw.

For this scenario, only one bit of advice will do: know where the nearest medical attention can be found. A typical water release is performed first by playing a fish out to total exhaustion – not recommended. Throughout twenty-five years of experience, I have had occasion to actually pop hooks with long pliers at boatside, foregoing pictures (and without ever actually touching the fish), for the sake of the fish.

But then there’s reality…

After the enormous strike and fierce battle with jumps and power dives and the occasional awesome tail-walk, you’re going to need a solid (muskie) net with a coated bag. Each fight is unique and it takes experience to know when a big fish is ready to be bagged. Always expect the unexpected and be prepared for that last power dive to throw the lure – you don’t want it stuck in your forehead.

Looks like the author is playing his guitar! This is a correct alternate hold to the hand under the belly style.

Beckman makes one of the best nets on the market, with a tough treated hookless bag that won’t leave you with a tangled mess if the fish decides to do a barrel roll. And it has a handle tough enough to lift the weight of a big Esox. The stiff bag easily serves as a “pen” that you can use to corral the fish in order to LEAVE IT IN THE WATER while you remove the hooks and get your camera ready. Time out of the water is the key to survival and it cannot be over-emphasized: keep the fish in the water as much as possible while you work.

Frabill also makes quality products. My colleagues and I have used them and certainly stand by their tough, big fish capability. A net that can stand-up to a 50, 53, 55, 57-inch muskie is an essential part of the arsenal. Do not skimp, or cut costs here. Trust me, you won’t regret the decision to go with the best. The Esox will benefit too!

A Cradle will also work, as it supports the weight of the fish in the water. And when closed around the fish, a Cradle will immobilize your catch for the duration. A Cradle has a very soft Esox-friendly mesh that won’t remove the protective slime coating on the skin.

Be advised: a Cradle may not be as effective as the aforementioned products for bigger fish 48-inches, or larger. I’ve had big fish escape and a couple that didn’t fit, because the Cradle wouldn’t close around them. Not that I’d brag!

HOOK-OUTS & BOLT CUTTERS

Simply put, you cannot hunt Esox without certain tools. If you do, the probability you will be hurt, or that injury/death to the fish will result, increases dramatically. There are four tools you should never leave the dock without:

1.) Hook-out


2.) Small bolt cutters


3.) Jaw spreader


4.) Heavy duty long-nose pliers

, and/or channel locks

Of course, it is ideal to simply “pop” the hooks with hook-outs or pliers, but every year lures get bigger, hooks get stronger, and it gets harder to remove them without more stress to the fish. That’s where bolt cutters earn their place in the box – if hooks are hard to reach, or in a vital place, cut ‘em. Replacement hooks are cheap.

LIGHTS – CAMERA – ACTION!!!

Revive a fish in shallow water, so your catch has a better chance to rest before fighting current, or having to swim a long distance.

Before you remove a fish from your net, make sure your camera is ready to go and your partner knows how to use it. It’s always a good idea to have a camera training session before you ever hit the water – if everyone learns all the camera gear in advance, it’ll save valuable time on the water and will most likely improve the quality of your shots.

This is a critical time when most mistakes are made and the greatest danger to the captured fish occurs. NEVER LIFT THE FISH INTO THE BOAT WITH THE NET!!! Removing the fish from its environment and placing it on the bottom of the boat (in or out of the net) will remove the protective layer of slime from the skin that prevents bacterial infections.

A fish placed at the bottom of the boat will most likely begin to thrash and there’s a good chance injury will occur when the fish gets tangled in all the lures and gear in your boat.

Once hooks are removed and the fish has calmed down in the pen, it’s easy to place your thumb underneath the strong jaw bone – point thumb towards the head of the fish – then carefully slip four remaining fingers up under the gill plate taking care not to damage any of the vital organs.

Author holding a nice Dryberry muskie the RIGHT way.

ALWAYS SUPPORT YOUR FISH UNDERNEATH THE BELLY with your other hand when removing it from the water. A strong grip on the jaw bone should immobilize your catch and will give you a better leverage grip just in case, but cradling the belly lends support and will further freeze your subject for the photo. Take a couple of quick snaps of the shutter and then get that Esox back in the water.

A good alternative grip would be to grab the tail and then slip your other hand under the belly. This works well with smaller fish, but if you have substantial weight and length to control, a slippery fat tail isn’t the best place to grab. One thrash and you have an angry toothy beast at the bottom of your boat.

A MEASURE OF TIME

By now plenty of stress has been placed upon the fish and it should be top priority to set it free. Dropping, or tossing, an Esox overboard is not the right way to treat a creature that has just given you the thrill of a lifetime and then was gracious enough to stick around and pose for photographs. I have seen anglers do this with my own eyes and it’s all I can do to not board their vessel and release them the same way.

Carefully return your fish to the water by keeping your grip and supporting the belly all the time. Once the fish is in the water upright she will let you know if further attention is necessary. If she kicks and swims away, then it’s good for you. Many times the trauma of the fight leaves excess air in the swim bladder. She may turn on her side or flip upside down. You can hold her upright and “burp” her by gently rubbing her belly from the rear fin forward.

Author gripping tail to revive a muskie before release.

Once she is upright in the water, hold a firm grip on her tail while slowly rocking her side-to-side in a swimming motion. Gently push her forward (never backwards) to get water flowing over her gills. This often gets the fins moving and the gills flaring again. Keep rocking and you’ll feel the tail muscles tighten and try to kick. A gentle push usually does the trick from there and she’ll be off for the weeds to rest. Stick close to the area for a while just in case she surfaces – you may have to recapture and repeat this process a number of times.

Measurements are often taken during this revival time and a floating tape measure will serve well obtaining length and girth. Weight can be determined by formula and it is unnecessary to place the fish under additional stress using a scale, as Esox hunters brag by inches (not pounds) anyway.

If you really want to get a ballpark on the weight use this formula:

(girth x girth x length)/800



Example:


LENGTH = 45.0”


GIRTH = 21.5”


21.5X21.5X45.0/800 = 26 POUNDS

ALWAYS BE PREPARED

Your partner screaming, “Fish On!” isn’t the time to wonder if you remembered the bolt cutters… the camera… where you stuck the net. If you grab the net and thirty-seven lures are tangled in it and the soft cooler with today’s lunch is at the bottom of the bag – well, then you’ve got problems. Not the least of which will be a very angry partner if the fish gets away while you’re trying to undo the damage.

There are Esox hunters who have got their act together – tools in one pre-determined compartment, camera in dry storage, and lures away except for maybe a half-dozen in use and well away from the net. The net will be situated for quick release and easy one-step assembly.

Then there are those Esox hunters who leave for a day on the water with more tackle boxes full of lures and unnecessary gear than five people could use in a month. By lunch they have a treble hook nightmare as far as the eye can see – hooks in the net, stuck in the deck carpet, and hanging from the sides of the boat. They have rain gear and gloves and coolers stacked on top of things they might need – like the net, or the dry store hatch.

Where’s the camera again?

Be a boy scout (or a girl scout, as the case may be).

Always be prepared. Never take what you don’t need. If you have been Esox hunting for any length of time, you own enough gear to sink the Titanic. You don’t have to bring it all along every time you go fishing. Try to stick to the eighty pound weight limit that many fly in camps require for a week-long stay. It’ll lighten your load and leave behind gear you probably won’t use anyway.

Keep it simple.

Okay! One last pose, then it's bye, bye.

The sure way to make everyone think you are “in the know” is to be organized and keep a tidy deck out on the water. If you don’t have it narrowed to a three lure attack by day five, you are having a bad week anyway.

A FINAL WORD

Remember that the second best part of Esox hunting is the release – running a very close second to the strike. Esox hunters owe it to the species that occupies so much of their lives to make a conscious effort to carry the proper tools, equipment, and knowledge necessary for the preservation of our sport.

Learn how to handle these fish with care. They are big, nasty, and the true top predators of fresh water. Esox greatest ally is also ironically their greatest potential enemy. It is up to Esox hunters everywhere to catch and release, if we are to continue to grow the sport.

With every new generation of Esox hunters to come, let us live for the fight and treat ‘em right.

Always Catch & Release!

(Reporting for ESOXHUNT Magazine. April 2012.)

Confessions of a Closet Pike Hunter

Author Bob Chochola with a nice Canadian pike. Write him at esoxhunter@bobzilla.tv.

A few years ago, on the road to the promised land of Esox, destination way north of the Canadian border, kicking-off another typical hype-heavy muskie hunt somewhere in Ontario, a pit stop was made in a little town called Virginia, for gas, food, beverages, and, well, certain other necessities of life.

Don’t know about you, but I like to read when I’m – indisposed. So there I was, without a good book, opting to peruse some quips on the walls of this roadside oasis’ bathroom, thoughtfully left behind by traveling angler-prophets-past, in order to accommodate said desire. Scribbled in assorted marker colors just high enough and just coherent enough so that they could be enjoyed without straining too much, I found myself indulging in some rest stop prose whilst I took care of business.

One very clever author seemed a little troubled and took a condescending jab at the quality of fishery that one might experience in the region, while in the same breath fIred a snarky remark aimed at the state’s fishing motto:

“Minnesota… Land of 10-thousand lakes… 10-million boats… 10-billion fishermen… 10-trillion mosquitos… and only ONE walleye!”

Pat Elza with a huge Canadian pike.

Ouch! That had to hurt?

You know, had I been a Minnesotan, which I am not, and had I more time at the time, which I did not, and maybe even if I’d have had a marker color of my own, I may have defended her honor – Minnesota I mean. But my crew was in a hurry, so I had to leave it by the side of the road – as it were. We were on a muskie hunt, and had no time to even think about those “other” species.

This brings up another good point and great motto:

“Muskie – the fish of ten-thousand casts.”

I have no way to confirm it statistically, but the folks who write these mottos have all got to be math teachers, accountants, statisticians, or something along those lines of work. How else do you explain all the numbers and counting and stuff like that? It just makes sense.

Nice one, Spanky Joe!

I have done extensive research on the subject of how many casts it actually does take to catch a muskie and it is quite clear that these data collectors may have over-estimated the figure a bit. On one trip I calculated number of casts per minute, times minutes on the water, times four guys in two boats, and it came out to about six-thousand casts before we boated our first muskie. Of course, that number went down quite a bit when we boated four more muskies in the next few hours. But I will leave the braggin’ alone – for now.

Either way, let’s just agree that it takes “a lot” of casts to bag a muskie. Okay?

What’s any of this got to do with northern pike?

Well, I’m about to tell you a little secret – my little secret – and it may not bode too well with some folks in the elite northern pike in-crowd.

You see, there are more than a few “out there” who will try to convince you that catching a northern pike is as difficult, maybe even more difficult, than catching an elusive muskie, or a stubborn old walleye. I read an online article a few days ago that claimed northern pike to be “one of the most difficult species on Earth“ to catch. Really?

I don’t think so!

Daddio gets in on the action.

And here’s why I don’t think so…

If you were to ask, “What’s the best time of year to fish for northern pike?” I would tell you that spring, summer, fall, and winter are all “best times” to fish for them.

If you then asked, “What water temperature is most conducive to pike eating activity?” I would respond to let you know that you can catch a northern pike through a hole drilled in a foot of ice. And you can catch a northern pike when the water is so warm even the fish are sweating. And you can catch them at every temperature in between. It’s all good!

Ask me about bait. Go ahead! “What bait would you use?”

I have caught northern pike on live bait: minnows, golden roaches, blue gills, suckers, night crawlers, red worms, wax worms, leeches, and crawfish. I have used most of these in a post-mortem condition and it didn’t seem to matter too much. I have used bait like spawn and salmon eggs. A buddy of mine caught a 40-inch northern pike on corn (while fishing for carp). Go figure!

Wait! There’s more…

Always catch & release.

Artificial lures are a no-brainier where pike are concerned. You got spoons in the box, use them. You got X-raps, go forth and fish. You got beetle spins, spinners, tube jigs, top water, rattle baits, crank baits – you name it. Just size your lures to the pike in the lake and remember, they will try to eat a meal up to half their own size.

I have boated 34-36 inch pike on 14-inch crank baits. I had a 40-inch pike swallow a one-pound plastic bait that was about 16-inches long counting the big flutter tail. Gone! I mean completely down its throat wire leader and all, bitten-off and swallowed. (We actually retrieved that bait from deep inside the pike’s mouth, when a guy in the next boat caught the same fish a few dozen casts later and noticed the swivel end of a wire leader and a couple of inches of line dangling out from between its teeth.)

What about color choice? Are you kidding me?

I have not found a color yet that a northern pike won’t eat. I personally stick with pink if I am targeting pike, but you just try to keep them off your black and gold spinner bait, or that natural shad jerk bait. I have had to pull those away to keep from releasing pike number twenty-five, while searching for a single interested muskie.

Yeah! Color makes a difference – to you. The pike don’t care what color you use.

So, why don’t northern pike have a slogan? They are fun to catch. They fight like there’s no tomorrow. I can honestly say that I have been fooled many times, by big pike that I thought were big muskies, until I got them to the boat, or they jumped to reveal my mistake.

Way to go, Bob!

Well, excuse me! I thought you were a…

And don’t even go there if you are one of those sassy walleye fishermen laughing at me for thinking my pike was a muskie. That time you were drifting the deep channel with a leech, hooked-up with a nice chubby walleye, then got bit-off. What do you think did that? It wasn’t Nessie, because you weren’t fishing in Scotland. It was a toothy critter – probably a pike.

I have a friend who brings his dad north from time-to-time. Daddio really gets into the whole muskie versus walleye rivalry thing.

Although what all the fuss is about I certainly cannot say for sure. Everyone knows that…

“MUSKIE: other fish are just BAIT!”

(Pause for applause and boo’s.)

Anyway, my friend’s dad has also picked up on the fact that northern pike don’t exactly get the respect they deserve. He joins in the chorus every chance he gets – calls them “Slimers!” and accompanies the less than flattering term with a nasty screech voice that you might imagine would go with such a term.

“Slimers!” Hmmm?

I am from the school that enjoys a good battle, even if it comes at the hands (or shall I say “fins”) of a fish that I wasn’t expecting – that I wasn’t specifically targeting. Hey, I was carp fishing long before carp fishing was cool. So, there you go! Slimer, or not, I dig the fight and northern pike certainly bring it when the time comes.

That’s why you’ll not see me pack for a trip north without including some sort of pike rig. I do use lighter tackle to increase the challenge, but that’s because I know I can count on this toothy critter, when the other toothy critters come down with a case of lock-jaw, or play hide and go seek for four days.

I’m all for coming up with a catchy pike slogan though. In fact, send me your suggestions. I will share with you down the road, if I get any worth bragging about, that is.

Until then, sharpen all your hooks, because we’re gonna dive deeper into some of the specifics of the Esox Hunt. Yeah… Yeah… I know. I said it was easy, right? No, I said you can count on a pike when all other species fail you. But there’s still much to learn. There are still “preferred” strategies that will turn a good trip into an “Oh, my God! I can’t believe we…” kind of trip.

I’ll leave you with this story about my great-grandfather.

My mom’s side of the family is from Estonia. Now most folks don’t even know where Estonia is, but I will say that it borders Russia and is a port to the Baltic Sea.

Among the many stories my grandmother told me about life in the “old country” were tales about her father going fishing and bringing home these huge 4-5 foot long fish that were “very scary looking” because they had big teeth “just like an alligator” and big black eyes.

Yup! Sounds like northern pike to me too. In fact, they were pike. Big pike. Big European pike. And my ancestors depended upon this species for survival during many years in war-torn Europe.

So, while they may be “Slimers!” to some, they are a part of family history to me. And I am very proud to be a part of ESOXHUNT for just that reason.

Fish On!

(Reporting for ESOXHUNT Magazine. January 2012.)

Happy New Year!

“Of all tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron’s cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience.”

C.S. Lewis

Where Were You?

(Published in the National Examiner, September of 2006 and http://www.BOBZILLA.tv.)

On the morning of September 11th, 2001 my alarm clock beeped at 6:30amCDST and I got up for work like I had done every day since I moved to Texas in 1996. I put on a pot of coffee and grabbed the leash, because I knew the first drill of the day would be to walk my dog.

Fifteen minutes later our walk was complete and I poured a hot cup, played with the pooch for a while, and then slowly headed to the shower – still unaware that my life, that all of our lives, would be changed forever that day.

At just after 7:45amCDST I was dry, dressed, and ready for cup number two and a peek at the TV for some news. This was a habit I had been in since college – I worked in TV news and it was never a good idea to walk into a buzzing news room without knowing what the “story of the day” happened to be.

I punched up CNN at about 7:50amCDST and there in the middle of my TV screen was the World Trade Center with a huge gaping hole in it. The hole had black smoke billowing out of it and I was in shock. Through my utter disbelief I could barely hear what the anchor was saying and I only picked-up bits and pieces of the sketchy dialogue: “plane… hit tower… 8:46 eastern time… don’t know what kind of plane… possible terror attack… maybe just a horrible accident…”

I could tell right away by the size of the hole in the building and the black smoke from burning jet fuel that this was no Sunday pilot in a Cessna who strayed too far and lost control. I also knew that this – most likely a large jet –  was no accident either. Commercial pilots don’t make errors like that – they just don’t.

I picked up my telephone and called my Mother who was living in Miami, Florida at the time:

“Turn on your TV, I gotta go!” I said in a hurried voice.

“What’s up?” She said.

“I don’t have time – have to get to work. Turn your TV on.” I said, rushed.

“What channel?” She asked.

“Any channel!” I replied and hung-up the telephone. I figured that even the cartoon network would have interrupted regularly scheduled programming for that picture.

I made it to the TV station at light speed – by 8:07amCDST – early for my normal 9amCDST start time. As I entered the doorway and looked at the wall of TV monitors in the newsroom – there normally to keep track of all of the competition – I saw the World Trade Center on every screen, except now I could see that both towers had been hit and there were two holes spewing thick black smoke into the heavens.

I asked the news desk manager what had happened and heard just three words: “A second plane.” This time it was clearly a commercial airliner that had hit the other tower at 9:03am Eastern time and everyone on Earth now knew exactly what was going on. This was a terrorist attack!

I grabbed a pen, a pad of paper, some blank tapes to roll on the live feed and to take notes for later. I entered the control room and saw our New York bureau reporter (on all 75 monitor screens with volume full up) standing in the lobby of the second tower that had just been hit a few minutes before I arrived at work. I guess they figured they were safe in there because the other tower was the building on fire when they got to the scene. The crew was trying to set a shot in spite of the chaos, but the audio kept getting disrupted by bone-chilling “bangs” overhead. It’s the only way I know how to describe the sounds – bang, then bang, then another loud bang.

My most vivid memory of that awful day was not the horrible pictures we all saw unfold, but the realization our crew and everyone else in our control room came to nearly simultaneously: that those “bangs” we were hearing were the sounds of death. People who were trapped by flames and thick smoke from burning jet fuel, chose to jump from windows high above street level, some one-hundred stories or higher, in order to escape the heat and fire. They were slamming down onto the roof right over our camera crew’s heads. It was a sound picked-up by our live microphones that I will never forget as long as I live.

In twelve years working in TV News leading up to 9-11 I had the opportunity to speak with news people across the country. One question I heard many times over again was, “What’s the biggest story you have ever worked on?” I have not heard that question asked since the attacks of 9-11. Everyone knows the answer. We were all on the job that fateful day and no other story can top it. Not yet anyway.

Take time right now to remember where you were on September 11th, 2001.

Remember the nearly 3000 lives lost in the towers. Remember the heroes who sacrificed to help others – many who gave their lives – like fire fighters, police, Port Authority personnel, and ordinary citizens who risked their lives to save others. Remember the citizen heroes who died aboard Flight 93 preventing further destruction and loss of life in Washington DC. Remember the soldiers who have served and especially those who have been killed or wounded fighting the War on Terror on battle fields around the world. Remember the victims of further terror attacks and homicide bombings around the world after 9-11. Remember that free people everywhere right now are still fighting that war and will be for years to come.

Never Forget.

Happy 4th of July and SEMPER FIDELIS

(Original post July 3rd, 2011)

The 4th of July is truly an All American holiday. It’s all about lounging around the backyard with family and friends. It’s all about hot dogs and hamburgers. It’s all about watching the kids play with sparklers. It’s all about fireworks, apple pie, baseball, and ice-cold watermelon.

Summertime fun… That’s what it’s all about! Have it. Make it. Breathe it into your soul. Enjoy life on this 4th of July and make the most out of your time with your fellow Americans.

There’s one thing I want to ask you to do this week before the 4th of July, 2012. But first, I want to remind everyone that Wednesday is actually called Independence Day. Why is this so important? Let me tell you…

It is my belief that everyone living in this country, a free United States of America, owes a HUGE debt. I’m not talkin’ about the national debt. I’m not talkin’ about the debt we owe because of DC bureaucrats. That’s all argument for another day.

I am talkin’ bout the debt we owe the American Soldier.

I’ve lived fifty-two years. In that time I have come to the conclusion that not a single one of our precious rights as Americans – call them freedoms – has come to us by the actions of a peace activist. Not one!

All of the rights we share, without exception, were given to us by the heroism of the American Soldier. Heroism! True heroism.

I’m not a “war monger” by any stretch, but some would surely accuse me of that. I am a “reality monger” who likes to remind folks that while “peace bro” is a sweet yet vague popular sentiment, our peace here at home is solely due to the grit of those who have sacrificed in war. Like it, or not, this is reality. And no amount of tie-dye peace sign t-shirts will ever deny that fact.

So, on this holiday, July 4th, 2012, I want all of you to take a moment to reflect upon those who have paid the price and those who continue to sacrifice in far away lands, for your freedom to relax and have fun. Make it about them this year.

(Here’s the part where I ask you to do something.)

To help you reflect, I am posting a link to a speech transcript that tells a story of true heroism. And if you are like me, you understand the word “hero” today means nothing more than celebrity in our shallow modern media culture – celebrity that rarely lives up to the status of hero and so often disappoints us with human dysfunction and failure in the end.

I aim to change that.

Heroes abound. But you won’t find any of them in the NBA, living in Hollywood, at the Grammy’s, on the golf course, on TV, in a newsroom, surfing the net, at the app store, with your smart phone, sitting in a fast food joint, or on your morning jog.

You will find heroes on the battle fields around the world, still doing the job you don’t have to do, so you can live free – like you often expect to do.

I’ve sent this speech out before, but believe it’s worthy of a re-visit once in a while – like on the 4th of July. General John Kelly, USMC, tells us of the bravery of two American Marines he recommended for the Navy Cross (posthumous). The Last Six Seconds is a story that will forever go down in history as a true act of heroism:

http://bobzilla.tv/supportourtroops/thelastsixseconds.html

 
Don’t take freedom for granted. As Ronald Reagan so correctly put it, “Freedom is never more than one generation away from being lost forever.”

Are we getting close to that point yet?

 

Happy 4th of July and SEMPER FIDELIS