BURNING DAYLIGHT!
(Reflections of a semi-grown up, water-logged kid)
by Al Pugh

"Get up, son, we're burning daylight!!" The first time I heard that, it occurred to me that maybe I could work that deal in the fireplace in the kitchen and burn coal I hadn't carried in yet. After all, my father was talking about burning daylight that wasn't there yet.

Still, something in a 4 year old's brain said this was different, exciting, important. We were going fishing! More significantly, we were going fishing on a day when Vacation Bible School was in session, and Mom had OK'd the deal. I didn't need a degree in rocket science to figure this one out. The earlier we got on the water, the more fishing we got done before we had to come in for me to get to Bible School on time.

Of course, I had never been fishing before, but I knew it was something wonderful, magical, mystical, reserved for grown men and those who aspired to their level of what ever it was that made them so magic. It was the domain of those who could leave civilization behind and not only survive, but enjoy it and bring back mesmerizing stories.

It was my initiation in a brotherhood that occasionally contained sisters, but always contained people who cared more about the other person's chance than their own, and placed the well being of the woods and waters above a day's temporary "success" in them. Would that I could adequately thank them!! My best attempt is to pass on what they gave me. I suspect they felt as I do now, and resorted to the same remedy.

We arrived on Turkey Creek just as the sun was thinking about beginning to paint the sky colors the artist can only dream of, fading the darkness into thousands of shades of deepest blue before applying the orange brush of morning. If the corresponding point in the evening is "the witching hour" by it's magical fishing properties, this was "the angels' triumph", darkness that invigorated me to the point that I couldn't stand still, as though a 4 year-old ever can.

We were on high business that day, my father and I. We were emissaries of those who need to fit in with the part of the world not destroyed by progress, and we were on holy ground. Turkey creek the choir as it tumbled from it's headwaters back toward the main mountain ridge, an old gobbler the preacher and the hens his "amen section" as they glided to the ground to begin their day. I stood in awe. How big it all was, and how small I was.

I was shown how to bait my hook for the umpteenth time (hey, I had been practicing) and how to pull enough line off the old Pfleuger level wind and lay it on the ground so it would not tangle when I spun the bait around and slung it into the pool. I felt like a Waltonian David taking on the watery Goliath.

I caught 4 trout and 3 redeyes that day, and learned that folks in other places call them goggleyes or rock bass instead of redeyes. I learned that the edge of the current is where you better be ready, or you may lose a "fishin' pole." I learned that this was indeed something magic, so much so that when I was 16, and my father had grown stupid and irrelevant, a "fishin' pole" was a magic wand that would stop the yelling when we both waved one in the air.

By 10, I was on my own at the river. Not Turkey Creek, to be sure, and no trout, but it had even more magic inhabitants called "Bass." Not Smallmouth, though they were smallmouth in fact. Not bronzers, or bronzebacks, or brown bass, or river bass, just "Bass", as though they were the only members of the family to deserve the sole title, relegating the others to justify their inclusion in the family by descriptive names, like Largemouth, Striper, and White Bass.

Oh, those beloved Bass, and their cousins, the redeyes. If a small boy did everything just right, he might get a contest with a Bass, and if he were not too far from just right, a redeye would provide a consolation prize. Many a time I was not skunked because of those obliging redeyes. They gave me one of my early nicknames, because I could always catch at least one of them. Even with that, neither they nor the easy bluegill in my buddy's farm pond could ever replace the Bass in my estimation.

Pursuing these game adversaries is therapy at its finest. I know of no other activity that derives such relaxation from such concentration. Nothing else delivers such satisfaction from what the uninitiated would call failure. The pursuit itself is what is so therapeutic, not the results of the pursuit.

Pretty esoteric for an overgrown 10 year old, eh? Maybe, but when respect for the adversary and his world is the fundament of all one is taught and shown, followed closely by respect for others who pursue in the same way, the world gets pretty simple, and we all can relate to the value of that, regardless of our sophistication factor.

By the way, I recently returned to that pool on Turkey Creek. The huge distance away my father went while I was fishing turned out to be only a few feet. The original memories of being on my own were replaced by the accuracies of my father helping me do nearly everything I did. My recollection of being fussed at for getting close enough to fish was corrected by the realization that he was keeping me from falling in the creek. The "new" facts didn't diminish anything, they enhanced everything.

I hope that no one who has taken the time to read this feels their time was wasted. If you do feel that way, and its because of the written stumblings of an old fisherman, I apologize. On the other hand, if you feel that the subject wasted your time, I feel for you. Perhaps you should reconsider certain relevant areas and perhaps one of those is a quote one professional fisherman I know is fond of relating. He tells of a judge that once told him, "I have never had a young person before me about to waste their life with a fishing license in their pocket." Pretty strong recommendation, isn't it? I'm very thankful to say it's absolutely true about the two young fellows my wife and I raised. I'm also very glad to say that my father was alive long enough for me to understand how stupid and irrelevant he wasn't when I was16.

Speaking of those two young fellows, they are 20 and 24 at this writing, and both as hard to get up as I used to be, so, I have to go.

Come on Son, we're burnin' daylight. Let's go fishin' Oh, that got your attention, did it? Let's get a move on, the Bass aren't going to wait forever...........