Dude, for sure! I don't think its possible. How much line would you let out? How would I explain to my wife why i'm in the bathroom with my rod and reel and im fishing in the toilet!
Lol!!In the sewers, underneath us, as we sleep! What creatures lurk? What fish live!?
- Thread starter Redearsunfish
- Start date
Dude, for sure! I don't think its possible. How much line would you let out? How would I explain to my wife why i'm in the bathroom with my rod and reel and im fishing in the toilet!
Lol!!You all have some vivid imaginations. LOL! Between the chlorinated water and all the household chemicals and soaps that are flushed down the toilet and sinks, no fish would be able to live in that water.
rofl... as usuall your threads are great reads.. i have fished storm drains and ponds... we had a retention pond behind our house growing up large enough we " naturfied" it.. we went to the forest preserve as kids and brought back buckets of frogs and baby natives.. sunfish,bluelgill,bullheads, largemouth bass, and one point introduced a musky and norther... it was connected to another large pond.... by the time we grew up... both ponds where healthily stocked... to this day our old neighbors pull giant lmb from them.
not something i reccomend now a days... granted they where all natives... but inhave alot of great memories with my brother and cousins and those retention ponds, and drain pipes.. wede sit atip teh grate and fish all summer. my mom always wondered why we went threw dozens of hotdogs... lol
not something i reccomend now a days... granted they where all natives... but inhave alot of great memories with my brother and cousins and those retention ponds, and drain pipes.. wede sit atip teh grate and fish all summer. my mom always wondered why we went threw dozens of hotdogs... lol
MonsterMinis - you've reminded me of something I wrote about my youth a few years ago...
From the River
At the tender age of eight I would visit the River almost every day. It twisted its way from a beginning I had never seen, and I figured it eventually emptied into the big lake somewhere. There, on the edge of city, I pictured a titanic mouth spewing its spent waters. I visited the River to escape into a world of snakes, toads, pheasants and supposed pet cemeteries. A world where kids ruled the day and adults seldom tread, save to call us late for diner or bed. The River sat in a valley directly behind my best friend’s house. I remember very well the hill leading down to the water being colossal, and overgrown in thick jungle-like vegetation. In reality it was a gentle bush covered slope, dropping all of 15 feet, at the very most. But through child’s eyes it was mountainous and grand. In the summer, we would build a various ramps of earth at its base, so that in the winter we could rocket our green plastic sleds – the ones with the useless black plastic hand breaks - down the slope, off the jumps, stopping just short of the sometimes semi-frozen, but always treacherous waterway.
The Riverbank was lined with big rocks, some perfect for sitting – others perfect for resting rusty bait cans containing luncheon meat, worms or crickets on.
At the time, the water was relatively clean and I can remember catching sunfish and rock bass with a red fiberglass pole. Later on, in the pollution filled 80s, I’d catch only suckers with white horns on their heads. My line was mostly thick and dark blue, and it sprang off a squeaky reel in noodle-like coils.
I would always use a large bobber - red and white or sometimes orange and yellow. I’d find them in my garage, mixed in with my father’s tools in a rectangular wooden tool box that sat in an overhang above the brown Cutlass Supreme. I never did question how they got there, I only knew that whenever I needed one, a bobber would be there - waiting. I just assumed that the tool box was a fantastical bottomless pit, and at times when I would scurry up the ladder to dig around in it, I would purposely try to reach its bottom – sending screw drivers, corks and bottle caps crashing to the floor. But I never once found the bottom. It’s still there in my father’s garage, but I don’t dare go near it now - some things need to remain mysterious, even if it’s just a lingering memory of youth.
From the River
At the tender age of eight I would visit the River almost every day. It twisted its way from a beginning I had never seen, and I figured it eventually emptied into the big lake somewhere. There, on the edge of city, I pictured a titanic mouth spewing its spent waters. I visited the River to escape into a world of snakes, toads, pheasants and supposed pet cemeteries. A world where kids ruled the day and adults seldom tread, save to call us late for diner or bed. The River sat in a valley directly behind my best friend’s house. I remember very well the hill leading down to the water being colossal, and overgrown in thick jungle-like vegetation. In reality it was a gentle bush covered slope, dropping all of 15 feet, at the very most. But through child’s eyes it was mountainous and grand. In the summer, we would build a various ramps of earth at its base, so that in the winter we could rocket our green plastic sleds – the ones with the useless black plastic hand breaks - down the slope, off the jumps, stopping just short of the sometimes semi-frozen, but always treacherous waterway.
The Riverbank was lined with big rocks, some perfect for sitting – others perfect for resting rusty bait cans containing luncheon meat, worms or crickets on.
At the time, the water was relatively clean and I can remember catching sunfish and rock bass with a red fiberglass pole. Later on, in the pollution filled 80s, I’d catch only suckers with white horns on their heads. My line was mostly thick and dark blue, and it sprang off a squeaky reel in noodle-like coils.
I would always use a large bobber - red and white or sometimes orange and yellow. I’d find them in my garage, mixed in with my father’s tools in a rectangular wooden tool box that sat in an overhang above the brown Cutlass Supreme. I never did question how they got there, I only knew that whenever I needed one, a bobber would be there - waiting. I just assumed that the tool box was a fantastical bottomless pit, and at times when I would scurry up the ladder to dig around in it, I would purposely try to reach its bottom – sending screw drivers, corks and bottle caps crashing to the floor. But I never once found the bottom. It’s still there in my father’s garage, but I don’t dare go near it now - some things need to remain mysterious, even if it’s just a lingering memory of youth.
After finding a suitable rock to sit on, usually in the bright sun and close to the center of the bend in the river, I’d begin impaling a worm I had dug out of my dad’s vegetable garden on a heavy gauge double-barbed hook. My best friend would do the same. My favorite sitting and fishing spot was a big flat rock with a set of smaller rocks behind it. We’d always race for it, but would rarely argue or tussle over the stone - fisherman’s code and all that. However, the one who missed out would always quietly envy the other – at least I did – and would hop at the opportunity to jump claim if the original owner moved, even for a moment.
When our lines were finally ready, few words were shared between us, and for good reason - the first to string a worm was the first to cast, and the first to cast meant the first chance at the biggest fish, or with some luck, perhaps a crayfish or even a turtle. Yes, there was always a second fish, and even a third fish waiting on this particular bend in the River, but second and third didn’t win the race. In any case, words held little value here, as the sound of rushing water, birds singing, crickets chirping and cicadas humming lulled a boy of eight into a silent stupor.
When our lines were finally ready, few words were shared between us, and for good reason - the first to string a worm was the first to cast, and the first to cast meant the first chance at the biggest fish, or with some luck, perhaps a crayfish or even a turtle. Yes, there was always a second fish, and even a third fish waiting on this particular bend in the River, but second and third didn’t win the race. In any case, words held little value here, as the sound of rushing water, birds singing, crickets chirping and cicadas humming lulled a boy of eight into a silent stupor.
The River ran deep in spots, at least as best as we could tell as no one would dare jump in it where we fished it. Of course, a few of us slipped in accidentally now and again, but we were damn sure to exit the green water quicker than we fell into it. Standing ankle-deep collecting lampreys and minnows in the nearby rapids, eddies and small inlets was one thing, but deeper water held things we couldn’t see - big things, snapping things, or so we guessed by the stories we were told by older kids, of large shadows moving just beneath the surface. Besides that, a couple of children would drown each year in the River - as our mothers would constantly remind us - so we were relatively careful even during our most reckless and ambitious fishing excursions.
As a hot summer afternoon would progress, snakes would sometimes visit you as you fished. They came for a drink or for a passage to the other side, and our bobbers made excellent aerial bombs to impede their way. Boys can be just terrible to reptiles without proper counsel, and unfortunately because of this, frogs and toads would sometimes fall victim to strategically placed cherry bombs. I regret the torture we subjected them to. I didn’t know what I was doing was implicitly wrong at the time, but I can remember it still felt wrong and never took pleasure in this pursuit. Though I rarely voiced any concern for their fate, in order to be spared the label of sissy, I tried not to be the munitions man, when it could be avoided. Bravery and strength of character is typically in short supply in an eight-year-old body, so I’ve forgiven myself over time.
As a hot summer afternoon would progress, snakes would sometimes visit you as you fished. They came for a drink or for a passage to the other side, and our bobbers made excellent aerial bombs to impede their way. Boys can be just terrible to reptiles without proper counsel, and unfortunately because of this, frogs and toads would sometimes fall victim to strategically placed cherry bombs. I regret the torture we subjected them to. I didn’t know what I was doing was implicitly wrong at the time, but I can remember it still felt wrong and never took pleasure in this pursuit. Though I rarely voiced any concern for their fate, in order to be spared the label of sissy, I tried not to be the munitions man, when it could be avoided. Bravery and strength of character is typically in short supply in an eight-year-old body, so I’ve forgiven myself over time.
In any event, the experiences I had and the lessons I learned during my early days fishing - my formative years as it were, have stuck with me to this day, and I find there is little difference, at least at heart, between that young boy running to the river and the father of two, rushing from work to his favorite lake.
As children, when the bobbers were in the water, we’d watch them intently, waiting for the telltale vibrations of biting fish. Though I employ much more “highbrow” fishing techniques these days, bobber fishing still fascinates me when I do it with my children. I’d hazard a guess that bobber fishing still fascinates most fisherman, no matter their age or skill level. It think it’s the duality of the thing that gets us; half the bobber being under the water, on their side, and half the bobber being above the water, on our side.
I wonder what fish swim in that river behind the house I grew up in, or perhaps grew older in is a more appropriate term..
As children, when the bobbers were in the water, we’d watch them intently, waiting for the telltale vibrations of biting fish. Though I employ much more “highbrow” fishing techniques these days, bobber fishing still fascinates me when I do it with my children. I’d hazard a guess that bobber fishing still fascinates most fisherman, no matter their age or skill level. It think it’s the duality of the thing that gets us; half the bobber being under the water, on their side, and half the bobber being above the water, on our side.
I wonder what fish swim in that river behind the house I grew up in, or perhaps grew older in is a more appropriate term..
