I got around to cleaning out the garage that holds my fishing gear one rainy day recently and made some great discoveries, sort of an archaelogical trip through my progression as an angler over the past thirty years.
My grandfather was a big striper fisherman, and a lot of his old eel-skin rigs and hand drails and 11 foot surf sticks are still lying around. I found two five-foot boat rods a few years ago, cleaned them up, mounted a pair of Penn Jigmasters on them, and have the perfect trolling set up. The old Fiberglas has a really soft action, and these old rods have given at least forty years of good service to assorted Churbucks. The great find was a jig made out of bone!
As I dug through the drawers where I store my spare lines, leads, flies, tools, snaps, swivels, gaff heads, Zap-a-Gap, and ....
I smelled urine. Not a little urine but a couple gallons worth. Like a beer-drinking convention took place in the garage.
Funky. So I dig a little deeper and aha! about a gazillion mice, chipmunks, moles, voles, and other rodents have made beds in the back of my tackle collection, shredding up old Penn reel warranties and Massachusetts fishing licenses to make little nests for themselves and their offspring. The presence of thirty pounds of sunflower seed husks makes me understand that I've been feeding more than just the bluejays this last winter.
I expect to disturb some sleeping beauties, and vow that if I find one piece of pilfered tackle, I'm going to head to the hardware store and buy some traps. But they've left the good stuff alone and the only damage appears to be a persuasive smell of wee-wee. (Some faithful Reel-Timers may be aware of my obsession with urine following my run-in with a wealthy waterfront owner who took offense at my pre-dawn efforts to relieve myself while dredging up some holdover schoolies in front of his picture windows one April morning).
Everything smells.
(How many words do you know that have to do with urination? Next time one your buddies decides to relieve himself over the stern (not the bow), you can hit him with my current favorite word: "retromingent": Re`tro*min"gent, a. [Pref. retro- + L. mingens, p. pr. of mingere to urinate.] Organized so as to discharge the urine backward. -- n. (Zo["o]l.) An animal that discharges its urine backward.)
So, I am now convinced that every fish in the sea is going to swim up to one of Dave's flies, smell squirrel pee, and run away. Do I wash it all? Will it wash off on its own? Or could it be a blessing in disguise and turn out to be the best fish attractant on the planet? There might be a business opportunity here! People relieveing themselves on bucktails and then bagging them up for sale.
I've heard of people spraying baits with WD-40. I know hunters smear eau-de-deer-in-heat on themselves to attract amorous bucks. Everyone knows it is best to have your friend pump the gas so his hands will stink and not yours. But pee? Should we all start letting fly on our Deceivers?
I take some formerly white squid flies which are now a pale shade of yellow and note that they are attracting flies and decide to see if they will also attract bass. Out I go to Nantucket Sound. Result? They still catch fish.
But my fishing garage smells like the men's room at the Port Authority bus terminal. It's going to worse when it gets warm.
If you see a retromingent angler this summer, don't hold your nose and run away, I assure you, he'll be the guy attracting all the fish.
Reel-Time News:
In the "ask-and-ye-shall-receive" department: one faithful reader wrote last week to ask for a printable version of this report. Well, Mark Cahill, webmaster and managing editor without peer, enabled such a feature in a mere 30 minutes.
Mark Sedotti -- he who can cast flies the size of raccoons about a mile -- is conducting our annual fly casting clinic later this month. $120 bucks for beginners or experts and you too will be able to chuck the big stuff. Mark is the man. Anyone who saw him cast at any of the winter fly shows will attest that Mark knows his stuff and will add some serious mileage to your tossings. Sign up!
Monomoy Conclave: A week from Saturday a major crew of Reel-Timers will invade Chatham to stalk the wiley striper on the flats of Monomoy. Big things are planned, see the thread and be prepared to have a very good time. Me? I have to be in fricking Switzerland on business, so think of landlocked-me as your heart stops beating when you see a bass the size of a U-boat crusing along the edges of the sandbars.
And I warned you, I won't shut up until everyone who reads these words is wearing at least one article of clothing that says Reel-Time on it. You know what to do and you know where to do it: in the Reel-Time store of course!
Until then, keep the reports coming. I'll be filing this from Zurich next week, so if the topic of the column is Appenzeller versus Gruyere, you'll know why. Auf wiedersehen.