Original Article: http://dartreview.com/archives/2001/05/28/spring_is_in_the_air.php
Monday, May 28, 2001
Spring is in the air once again, and you know what that means.
Springtime romances? Not a chance, what with all those other warm-weather activities: hunting, fishing, swimming, shooting, and so on.
And New Hampshire is the place to be, the land of plenty. Specifically in this state's vast wilderness are plenty of wild turkeys, deer, moose, and other game. Plenty of perch, pike, trout, and other sporting fish.
Thus, in this issue of The Dartmouth Review we are proud inaugurate a new column, to be written by Ryan Gorsche, on the joys and frustrations of the outdoor sportsman's life.
I joined Mr. Gorsche on the two expeditions he recounts on page six, first fly-fishing and then spinning. I can speak for his expertise. In the course of twelve or so hours, Mr. Gorsche convinced me: if he's not a master hunter, he's a hell of a story-teller. In other words, he is well-qualified to write this column, and I expect that his future outings will be more successful than our two.
Fishing, as I have come to remember in two short days, is a fabulous, miserable business. Begin with anticipation. The gathering of gear, the stocking of the cooler, and hushed conversations with the locals. The 'where're they biting' call and response is a psalm, spoken with the utmost solemnity. The quietest answers are the best, those secrets that so seldom stray from the insiders. Too much locutionary force is suspicious: 'Am I being led astray?,' one wonders, 'or is this gentleman as lost as I?' And good leads are seldom found in the field; if an angler knew the area well, why would he be anywhere near where I'm not catching anything?
Still, once the appropriate licenses have been obtained, the bait bought, a spot found, and the equipment assembled, a certain excitement can't be withstood. It's not just being there, but the sense that the ostensible goal of all of one's efforts lies so near, only feet away, beneath the water's skin. The first casts come quickly in succession; the line is reeled in too quickly. The angler sees things in vectors: fish there, there, and there under the surface—his bait need only trawl within their vicinity. They have no choice but to hit, an unnatural determinism.
The immediate thrill of the hunt wears off quickly, though, say after the third beer. At this point camraderie rules, often to the detriment of sport. 'So,' said Mr. Gorsche, spinning out of thin air, 'we were reeling in the first of the hammerheads when...'
I interrupted him. 'That—what was that?'
'What?'
'On your line.'
'Huh?' Only then did Mr. Gorsche notice his bright orange bobber disappearing into the water. He jerked his rod and reeled franticly, but to no avail. The fish was long gone and, with it, his bait.
This is the type of fishing story that rarely gets told.
Another: Review Managing Editor Larry Scholer joined us on Lake Fairlee. Mr. Scholer, though not an avid fisher, brings to all his work an enthusiasm unsurpassed by the rest of us blasé beings. For all his enthusiasm, though, Mr. Scholer is somehow unable to cast, to put bait or lure into water farther than five feet from where he stands. I watched Mr. Scholer entangle his hand in line right out of the spinner. I saw him hook dandelions on the shore behind him. I saw him hook Mr. Gorsche, who stood a great distance behind him. I saw Mr. Scholer attempt all manner of cast, overhand and side-arm and others which defy categorization (one caused his line to improbably tie itself into a bowline knot around one of the pole's eyes). To be fair to Mr. Scholer, he did improve as the evening wore on, but his casting is still going to need a lot of work before he is no longer a danger to himself and those in his vicinity.
And to be fair to Mr. Scholer, I should admit my own faux pas. On one side-cast, my spinner locked into ratchet mid-fling, sending leader, weights, hook, and bait in an arc about me, connecting firmly with my backside. Mr. Scholer's assistance was needed to remove the assembly.
The final member of our party on Lake Fairlee was campus notable Nilanjan Banerjee (all on campus agree that he's notable; few know, specifically, for what, which suits Mr. Banerjee just fine). Nilly (pictured on the cover) is the consummate sportsman, and he illustrates an important admonition that bears repetition:
For God's sake, leave the camera at home!
So, enjoy chasing after whatever's in season, and if you know any choice spots, send a note our way. We'll keep it quiet.