Skip to main content

Very Superstitious



Bass anglers are a peculiar lot. They set the alarm extra early, grab a coffee or energy drink, and pile a trove of expensive gear into a boat or pickup, shirking all domestic responsibilities to head to the nearest water in an attempt to catch a few fish they will ultimately throw back. Anglers take time off work and spend wads of cash on equipment and lures to outsmart a fish that are known to hit beer tops and cigarette butts.

But like all tribes of people, bass anglers have their own philosophy, and are steeped in fishing lore handed down from ancient times. Passed on as well are the many superstitions held by fishermen and women for generations. It is believed that applying this esoteric knowledge will almost guarantee success on the water, if you hold your mouth right (whatever the hell that means).

Never Whistle

In this Cancel Culture we are living in, with the Me Too! movement and all, it is no longer acceptable to make rude remarks or cat-calls to women or to bass, apparently. If whistling at a pretty girl doesn't land you a date, what  makes you think it will help you land a fish? Creepers whistle, especially when they're about to do something shady. Bass don't appreciate shady.

Mentioning the word pig or rabbit

Boat talk can take you down many different avenues, including, but not limited to, farm animals. But the experienced angler knows where the line is, and never crosses it. It's OK to speak of a chicken or a cow. Musings about horses or anecdotes about sheep are acceptable, but never talk about the pig. Or rabbit. Say: curly tail porker. Say: floppy ear fuzzy.

No redheads

The old cliche' blondes have more fun may have some merit in the world of bass fishing. Same with brunettes. When my uncle Joe said redheads were bad luck, I had no idea he was talking about fishing. There are plenty of red-haired bass fishers out there, so I'm not buying this one. 

Bananas on board

I flash hot or cold on bananas. Often they are mushy and mealy, but still edible. Sometimes, it's the perfect food to get me through the day. Chocked full of potassium and easy to digest, bananas are a great addition to any lunchbox or daypack. Just don't bring one of those damn things on my boat.

No water in the livewell before the first fish is caught

How about instead of that, don't forget to put the plug in the hull. I'd much rather have water sloshing around in the livewell, devoid of life, than a boat filling with water faster than I can pump it out. Bad luck to me is doing a headstand in the water, hanging off the back of the boat, while my fishing partner is standing on the throttle to get enough lake water drained out to put the plug in, or to make it back to the marina, whichever comes first.

Throwing back the first fish

I did this one time, at the start of a bass tournament. The fish was twelve inches, a legal fish to weigh in, but only weighed about two pounds. The rest of the day, my partner and I caught hundreds of eleven and a half inch fish. We went to the weigh-in as spectators. A two-pound fish won the tournament.

Lucky fishing hat

An avid kayak angler, Ed Morgan was fishing the overgrown edges of a farm pond when he forgot to take a standing rod out of its holder before he paddled under a low-hanging tree. Trying to untangle the mess, his wide-brimmed, "lucky" fishing hat got twisted in the limbs, choking him with the cord around his neck. In the struggle, Ed dumped the boat, broke his rod, and lost most of his gear in the muck. The hat is still in that tree to this day.

These are just a few bits of wisdom to keep in mind on your next bass fishing trip. Remember to spit on your worm and check to see if the cows are standing up or laying down.

Good luck and tight lines!
-Josh






Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Kindred Spirit

That morning, I paddled the cove, searching around fallen timber and boat docks for bass. The first one I hung into pulled my kayak around like a bathtub toy, even though he was no more than two pounds. I took a good look at the fish, then flipped him back into the tangled mass of brush that I'd pulled him out of. When I paddled back out away from the bank, I saw a man in a red kayak, working the shoreline toward me, although his only fishing rod was upright in the rod holder, and his hands were prodding the rocks, as if he was searching for something. I just watched him, wondering what he was looking for, and then when he pulled up a wad of mono with a Carolina rig attached to it, I knew he was a treasure hunter. He looked to be around 70-- slender and tall with a white goatee and ponytail, earrings and tattoos, a stubby pipe puffing smoke as he paddled on around the bend to find another jewel. When he looked up, I threw up my hand. He took the pipe from his teeth and said, &quo

Book Review: The Promise: A Fly Angler's Long Journey Home By Paul A. Cañada

My favorite stories are the ones that give the author depth and serve as a window of insight into a writer's mind. Within the first few pages, it is important for me to develop a connection with the author, less I will quickly lose interest. I don't mean to sound like some type of literary elitist by any stretch– it's just me being honest.  Reading the first chapter in Paul Cañada's new book, The Promise , I felt that connection immediately. Paul tells of his childhood growing up in a military family, having a father in the Air Force, and the moves and re-adjustments that had to be made each time his father received new orders to relocate. I did not grow up in a military family, nor did my family move from place to place, but the relationship between Paul and his dad gripped me from the beginning. For me, this laid the groundwork for what was to come.  As his bio states, Paul Cañada is an award-winning writer and photographer with bylines in dozens of magazi

A Point Through Time

Occasionally, the Earth will give up some of her secrets. If one should be so lucky as to stumble across one of those secrets, it can have a lasting impact on how that individual sees himself, and the world around him. History is not just the past, but our past. On my way to a hunting stand one morning, my headlamp caught a glint of white, protruding from the red clay on the bank that I was crossing. I laid my recurve bow on the ground and took great care digging the point out of the mud, then wiped it off on my shirt tail. The serrated edge was as sharp as the day it was made, long before Europeans set foot in North America. Over the years, I have found several points, each unique, bearing the mark of the one who made it. The smaller ones being bird-points, or true arrowheads, the larger were no doubt spear points, used with an atlatl, a device used to hurl the spear at game, or enemy in time of war. They turn up in field edges after heavy rains, or on old logging roads. Sometimes