" Rebellion
Against Time."
By
Estel
Hopper Jr.
8221 Clifton
Ave.
Springfield
Ohio
At any time of the day or night, Spring, Autumn, Fall, or Winter, if you were to travel along the waterways of these United States of America, you would find someone, somewhere, fishing, and you sort of sit back and wonder why all this enthusiasm over trying to catch a few fish when you have learned in conversations with other fishermen that some don't even eat the fish they catch.
We know there are any number of kinds of anglers; Some travel hundreds of miles to do their fishing, and some less than one.
Upon reaching their destination, they sit for hours and hours in the middle of a lake in a boat, or on the bank of a stream, get sunburned, or bitten by mosquitoes, or chop holes in ice, in freezing temperatures, just to engage in that all important sport we call fishing.
Why do men, women, and children, endure all these things, for even a short period of time and maybe not have so much as one little bite? It doesn't matter if they come home with a full stringer of fish, or a story about the one that got away they come back with a contented, relaxed, satisfied, expression on their faces.
Now, 1 am one of these people that come home, most of the time with the threat of getting them next time, and it was my good fortune to stumble across an individual, that gave me what might be the answer to this question.
Three years ago in early September, while on one of my weekly fishing trips to Geist Reservoir, near a small town in Indiana; ( I am not an energetic angler, in fact 1 couldn't distinguish one fly fishing lure from another, and very few casting plugs. I fish mostly for Catfish and Crappie.)
I was moving around the lake trying first one spot and then another, my luck hadn't been very good; I'd had only a couple of bites and on both occasions had tried to set the hook too soon or too late any rate up until‑ now my score was a big fat zero.
1 worked my way around the shoreline and came to another of my favorite spots and started to climb down the embankment to a little sandy strip of beach about fifteen feet below, when I noticed that someone had already taken the spot.
He was, I would judge, a fellow. about 45 years of age, slightly under 6 feet, and maybe 180 to 190 pounds. He seemed to me, to be about the most laziest human being, I had ever seen, sprawled out on the sand with his head resting on his tackle box, covered with an old slouch hat, and an old pipe stuck in the side of his mouth.
I, at first thought he was asleep, but as I made my way down the embankment, he spoke. "Hi there," without even so much as looking up. "Hello," I answered and sat down beside him, "How are they biting?" and lit a cigarette.
"Well, I don't really know how they're biting. I haven't paid too much attention."
"Oh!" I said, "Haven't been here long?" "I reckon I've been here at least a couple of hours." just then I noticed his line jerking and told him so, and without moving his hat or pipe, he said. "Well if he wants the hook that bad, he'll hook himself."
Now I have fished in several states and a thousand different places but never, no never, have I ever come across a man like this, so I said. "You'd better hurry or you'll lose him," and I noticed his line straighten out and slack off again. "It looks like a Carp or a Catfish bite to me." I said getting all excited.
"You can go ahead and pull him in, if you want to." he mumbled sort of sleepy like. "I don't care."
I jumped up, seeing had no intentions of trying to catch the fish, and grabbed his pole. Suddenly the fish decided that he'd better take the hook and go, so I let him run with it and then set the hook.
He didn't want to stop just then and as there was very little I could do about it I lot him go. Oh! what a battle I had. He would first take off to the left toward some old stumps then to the right, and then he would swim like a blue streak out towards the middle of the lake again. Never in my life had I ever snagged into a fish with so much fight. Whenever it looked like I was getting the better of him, he would take off with another spurt and strip off fifty to seventy five feet of line again, before I could get him turned. When finally, I wore him out enough to start reeling him in, I was almost as tired as he was. He made one last bid for freedom and then gave up. He was a real beauty. A channel Catfish weighing between seven and eight pounds.
I looked around for my hosts stringer but didn't see one so I asked him where it was. I was going to string his fish for him, and he politely told me that he didn't have one, I reached into my box and got my stringer, put the fish on it, and placed it back in the water so it would stay alive. "Where's your bait?" I asked, intending to re‑bait his hook and through his line out again. "No bait." he said,
What manner of man is this, that travels maybe miles to find the ideal fishing spot, will let a total stranger have all the enjoyment of landing a whopping big fish, and to top it all off NO BAIT
My curiosity, once aroused, had to be satisfied. "You mean to say you have no bait?" I asked. "Nope." he said. "Tell me something, will you?" I asked. "Sure, if I can." he answered.
"You have been here for about two hours, you don't know how they're biting, you get a bite and you let a total stranger reel in a really nice catch, and to top it all off NO BAIT; Tell me, just what kind of a fisherman are you?"
He reached up, removed his pipe, shoved his hat back off his eyes and said. "Well friend , it began when I started to school. I had to get up at a certain time, leave at a certain time, change classes at a certain time; after I graduated and went to work, it was the same old story, be there on time, do a given number of pieces in a certain length of time, and get off at a certain time. Then came the war; A time to get up, a time to eat, and a time to go to bed, and after you finished your training, there were only two times; A time to fight and a time to die. I was lucky and after the peace came and I got home, I decided that when I'm out here there will be no time; only two sunrises and sunsets until 1 have to enter the rat race again, does that answer your question son?" I looked at him sort of bewildered and said. "I guess so."
I gathered up my equipment and made way back up the embankment and as I looked around I saw that he was once again stretched out on the sand, with his head resting on his box, his old hat over his eyes and little wisps of smoke curling up from his pipe.
He seemed to be very much at peace with the world.
Somehow this mans philosophy got under my skin and I just wonder, could I be able to be like that? and for that matter…
COULD YOU?????????
THE END