ELY, Minn. — People who suffer from obsessive compulsive fishing could soon get help in Ely.
A new ad campaign for the northeastern Minnesota town is set to kick off this spring. It includes a toll-free number with information about obsessive compulsive fishing and ways to remedy it in Ely.
Linda Fryer is administrative director of the Ely Chamber of Commerce, and says the "off-the-wall advertising'' has been successful in the past.
A recent campaign featured people -- some in bear suits -- navigating the streets of Chicago in canoes, trying to find their way back to Ely.
People who call the obsessive compulsive fishing number will be able to hear fishing stories and learn about symptoms for the disorder -- such as "Do you have more fishing rods than neck ties?''
Fishing as friends is enough
James Robinson
Staff Writer/Pagosa Sun
My father and I have a bizarre relationship. Seemingly important dates such as Father's Day or his birthday often pass without a card or phone call. Most of the time I can't remember the dates those days fall on but this doesn't seem to harm our relationship. For some, this oversight might do damage, but there are many, far more important details of my father's life that I know well.
I know my father religiously fishes a double taper, super slick, 5-weight line, Orvis fly line. I know he doesn't normally get caught up in brand names, but he says this line is magic in his hands. I know my father is a one-fly fisherman. In fact, he'll only fish a dry-dropper or two-nymph rig if I can convince him it's the only way, under the conditions, to catch trout. Even then, he does so reluctantly, and when I turn my back, he's back to one.
I know he rarely fishes with one eye keen for a hatch. You won't find him turning over stones, looking at willows or scanning the skies. Don't expect him to explain the life cycle of the mayfly. He picks flies from his box according to what looks right, what he will be able to see on the water and, sometimes, simply by what looks nice. He fishes with his gut.
He rarely fishes with a tapered leader and doesn't walk around with rolls of tippet dangling from his vest. He uses six-pound test monofilament, ties it on in one long strand and hopes for the best. The habits of an old spin caster die hard.
There are details of my father life that many might think I ought to know and remember - birthdays, Father's Day and all that. But I remember the things that are important - how he fishes, what he fishes with and we chronicle the passage of time not by arbitrary dates, but on time spent fishing together. These are the dates that stick in my mind, and one stands out in particular - our first trip together.
I was probably six, perhaps seven at the most, and it was a typical cloudy, Pacific Northwest day. A fine, misty drizzle lingered through the morning like the smell of wet Labrador on your fingers and there was subterfuge in the air.
The salmon were running, and they were making their annual journey from the Pacific Ocean into the Puget Sound and points beyond. They would pass through a narrow channel, under a bridge, into the waters of Capital Lake and then to mountain streams to spawn. The prospect of fishing for running salmon is hard for a fisherman, even one who is six, to resist.
I remember something said to my mother about going grocery shopping and doing other errands, and I remember my father's quick dash to the garage for a tackle box and a fishing rod, then a duck and run to the car to stash the goods. We pulled out of the driveway smug in our deception and headed downtown.
The prime fishing location for the run was under the bridge that crossed over a channel connecting Capital Lake to the sound and the ocean beyond. The bridge traversed the channel next to a Kentucky Fried Chicken and stood like giant sculpted slabs of pate de campagne- - grey and marbled, arched and textured with large white agate stones.
We parked at the restaurant and walked the familiar route to the water down through the barnacle covered boulders along the shoreline.
We crept down below the bridge, lined up, and my father hurled a cast into the middle of the channel. A slow, jerky retrieve followed, although without a strike, and he began the process again. Some kids would get bored watching their father fish, but I was an attack dog, net in hand, watching intently for a strike.
A few casts later, my father let out a yell and I turned to watch the rod bend and listened to the most beautiful music a fisherman could ever hope to hear - reel music. The reel howled with delight as the salmon ran for deeper water. The fish slashed and cut, trying to spit the hook, but it held fast and my father patiently worked the fish to shore. I ran back and forth along the boulders, trying not to slip on seaweed, all the while watching the great game being played between my father and the fish.
My father was winning and soon he had the fish near netting distance and that's where my job came in. Yet, as the fish neared the shore, we realized this was no ordinary salmon and therefore no ordinary netting task.
The fish was at least 36 inches long and seemed as tall as me. I knew netting the monster would be a challenge, and as my father worked him closer to shore, my resolve weakened and I knew I had only one choice. I tackled the salmon.
The impact plowed us both into the gravel and sand of the beach. We grappled in the surfline and I wrestled the fish onto the beach and clobbered it again. We both hit the ground with a thud, the fish writhing beneath my weight. I grabbed it in a bear hug, hanging on to one of it's lateral fins determined not to let go. We rolled around among the boulders and I became coated with fine black sand, my father laughing so hard, he nearly forgot to help.
Between the two of us, we soon subdued the fish and I remember a faded photograph taken at the event, my father holding a salmon by the jaw and me standing next to fish that equalled my height and girth.
Much has happened since that first fishing trip, our lives have changed and at some point we became less like father and son and more like friends. We forget dates that others remember, we miss phone calls, and don't always communicate, but under the circumstances these transgressions are acceptable, because we keep track of the important things, like making time to fish. And it's often these times that we remember most.
My father and I recently spent a month together, fly fishing for trout in Pagosa Country, and some may find this sort of relationship strange, but it seems we decided long ago to fish together as friends, and for us, that is enough.
I highly recommend that if you enjoy the works of James Robinson, go to:
My wife's grandfather recently gave us a small bass boat that he has owned
for a few years. Keep in mind that we were not really looking for a bass boat. We live in Colorado, not exactly a mecca for bass fishing,
and don't really have the "slush fund" money that owning a boat like this requires.
Please let me take you on a tour of our 1968 Seasprite.
Let's start with the trailer. It is a 1964 Elgin, purchased from Sears and Roebuck. Apparently it was sold as a maintenance free unit
as it has the original bunks, rollers and paint (the bunk carpet was replaced with some orange shag in about ‘74). The lights are
thoughtfully mounted on the top of the guideposts. A keen eye will notice a “master fabricator” machined the mounting brackets for
the lights and license plate (formed from an aluminum sash plate!). Loading the boat is a breeze…as long as I line the boat up just
right I don't leave a scratch 3 feet long in the paint. God forbid I scratch the paint; it would take hours to match the roller and
brush strokes that are on there now. But I digress. The trailer has those cute little 8" x 4" tires on it. These have many advantages
over the 14-15" tires modern trailers have. For instance, buying 3 new tires only cost $27.54. I saved more money by mounting them
myself. Ok...so I had to mount them myself because nobody in town still has machines to mount 8" wheels. Another benefit those tires
offer is the ability to cook on them when my destination is reached. They get hot enough to fry an egg...although bearing and grease
life is a bit shorter than I would like it to be. The spare fits conveniently just about anywhere I want it to.
Now, on to the boat
itself. It is a 1968 SeaSprite with a Mercury 500 (50hp). This boat has been kept in a covered facility since it was new (covered
by nothing but an oak tree…on the front lawn). This did have the effect of allowing most of the components to rot at an even rate.
The “rocking chair” effect is not a standard feature…it is actually the seat backs tearing out of the seat bottoms and the pillars
pulling out of the dry rotted floor (careful where you step). It does make setting the hook that much more exciting. The hinges for
the hatches are no longer attached to the floor, which makes it much easier to load them! Shoes are mandatory in the SeaSprite, unless
you want carpet, plywood, staples, acorns, red wire remnants, and finishing nails in your feet. I mentioned the paint…it is varying
shades of green over what I think was white at one time. It was applied with a roller and brush, with some spray can touchups. Careful
leaning against it or you will look like you have been slimed!
Probably the most admired feature of our boat is the wiring. The fellow
that re-wired it must have had about 250 feet of red wire. That’s right…EVERY wire in that boat is red…switches (some work), lights
(not working), ignition, horn (not working either) trolling motor…all of it. It does reduce the time it takes me to find replacement
wire to make a repair. One spool is all it takes! However, that time is more than offset by the amount of time to trace the bad wire,
or even “fix” the wrong wire.
Gauges would be a nice luxury. For now I use the following to keep tabs on the status of things:
Speed:
My hat flies off head in the forward position @ 18 mph,
bow spray in chest @ 22 mph Bow spray in face @ 24 mph. I have not gone faster
than that, as I cannot see at that point. Speeds are approximate.
Ammeter: When the big motor won’t crank the battery does not have
enough amps.
Fuel gauge: Open the rear hatch and see if there is fuel in the tank. There is a reserve in the 15 feet of fuel line.
As for my trolling motor, the shaft is just short enough so any wave action produces a very nice cooling spray. It is a nice feature
in the heat. It ran backwards when I got it, so I just switched the red wires and it works great! In one of the storage compartments
I found a small bilge pump that attaches to the battery with alligator clips, and you guessed it, red wires. Our first trip out I
found out why it was there, and that it should be permanently mounted, and MUCH larger.
While it may sound like I am complaining about our boat, nothing could be further from the truth. It is such a treat to get on the lake with my wife and the dog, whether we catch any fish or not. I can’t help but smile when I realize how much fun her grandpa must have had in this boat. I am honored that he passed the SeaSprite on to us, and cannot wait to make our own memories in it! Now, has anybody seen my electrical tape???