Fishing for Philosophy
Bass fishing in Georgia this winter has been glorious. Fish-catching, on the other hand, has been lackluster. I was warned. The YouTube videos, the magazine articles, and the Internet searches emphasized that bass are lazy, slow, and noncommittal when the water is cold. But come on, the average water temperature in Georgia this time of year is 60 degrees! Trout water in Wyoming and Idaho rarely reaches 50 degrees in the summer and yet trout have no trouble getting out of bed. What’s wrong with these primadonna Georgia bass?
Perhaps I sound frustrated. I’m not . . . well maybe a little. Still, I know that the real purpose of fishing, after all, is not catching fish. The true reason for fishing is philosophy. Many fishermen are confused about this, especially those who tend to catch more fish than the rest of us. From the very beginning, cave-dwelling hunter-gatherers found their way to the shore with bone hooks and vine nets not to catch fish but to think about life. There is something about water in a natural setting that gives one perspective and promotes constructive thought. And when the fish aren’t biting, what else are you going to do?
This is what I’m talking about when I say Georgia fishing has been glorious. I have found some of the most philosophy-inducing fishing I have ever experienced on Georgia waters this winter. These waters have been simply wonderful. No, it’s not the crystalline beauty of Rocky Mountain streams and glacial lakes. Those are places to inspire John Denver songs. That’s not fishing in Georgia. The beauty of Georgia’s rivers and lakes produces contentment. It’s like old comfortable boots or like relaxing in a friend’s home over coffee. Water in Georgia just moseys along taking its time getting where it’s going, and when the sun comes out it always blows you a kiss as it passes by.
During my time here in Georgia I’ve visited six different state parks. A couple of those I’ve been to multiple times. I had the good sense to purchase a Georgia state park pass for twenty-five bucks, half price with my senior discount. Not everything sucks when getting old. At five dollars a shot for daily entrance fees, I’ve more than gotten my value out of that pass. That by itself is philosophically satisfying in a fiscal sort of way. Beyond that Georgia state parks have far exceeded my expectations for philosophical inspiration. They are beautifully designed and maintained. All I visited had lakes for fishing, boat ramps, and lovely scenery. It has been such a blessing that I feel ashamed to even think about the emptiness of my creel. But I’m a fisherman after all.
I do want to mention that Hard Labor Creek State Park was kind enough to yield one bass to my efforts. For that, I am deeply grateful. I can now take up the age-old fisherman’s mantra, “at least I didn’t get skunked.” There is deep solace in that confession as hope springs eternal from the knowledge that bass actually do swim under the shining surface of Georgian lakes.
After several weeks of purely philosophically filled fishing, I decided to take matters into my own hands and charter a fishing guide. After all, the philosophical tradition has a long history of students sitting at the feet of a sage. I contacted my brother to help me split the cost for the outing. Besides, since he was the most successful fisher-catcher of us kids growing up, I figured his luck would rub off on our outing. Well, it might have worked that way, but I failed to consider how advanced my abilities in the philosophical aspects of fishing had become. I should have realized that it was my role as the fishing philosopher to teach him a thing or two.
The morning of the great fish-catching adventure dawned brightly as we sped up the seaward end of the Savannah River in a beautiful 20-foot bass boat. Our hopes for the day soared as our guide explained how the coveted Georgia Redfish liked to hunker down in the rocks that lined the levy. As we were carefully instructed how to put the live shrimp on our hooks, I had the odd sensation of dealing with fish bait that I actually wanted to eat. It was truly disorienting.
My brother’s first cast produced an instant strike. Our guide groaned and then drawled, “That ain’t good folks. A fast strike like that is an ill omen.”
I’m still trying to puzzle out the logic behind that statement. But the crafty fellow, with more than seven decades of fishing philosophy under his belt, knew what he was talking about. My brother managed to hook another fish that he fought for the better part of three minutes before it broke his line. Since it was his only action for the day, I was able to help him see how this gave him the opportunity for a story of a perpetually growing fish that got away. It was a philosophical masterpiece that I hope he appreciates.
As the day progressed without a boat filling catch, our guide started casting lures that he thought might capture the attention of trout. Sure enough, he hooked something right away. In an act of amazing generosity, he handed me the pole to bring the fish in. The pressure was on. Fortunately, I did all the right things and a nice little striped bass ended up in the boat. I was just deciding what size frying pan I needed when our guide announced that striped bass can’t be kept when caught out of the Savannah River. It was another poignant philosophical moment. I had to content myself with a quick snapshot on my phone.
As disappointing as it was to see that lovely little bass splash back into the silty Savannah water, I quickly calculated that I had just doubled my total number of bass caught in Georgia. It was an interesting point, but it still needs a significant spin to achieve anything like bragging rights. Nevertheless, we had a wonderful day on the water with a consummate philosopher that guided us through a thought-provoking study of life. I have to admit that even with the empty live-well, the day was worth every penny, and it won’t soon be forgotten.
With that climax to this year’s bass fishing in Georgia, all my gear is packed for the next leg of our nomadic journey. We are now traveling back to the frozen Midwest. Who knows? I might even get in a little ice fishing. Add frigid temperatures and Midwest wind to fruitless fish-catching and you have the recipe for turbo-charged philosophy!