We were always looking for new and better ways to enjoy the out of doors. On our way back from the West Virginia Spam eating contest, Hobbs and I configured a forma table carp bow fishing rig. Our new plan delighted us both. We would use a cross bow and attach the bolts to a fly rod. You know what they say, "huntin' and fishin'." We were so high on sodium at that point that the legality of our gear never came to mind. Being young and invincible, of course, does not hurt.
That winter, we made our own bolts. We made a few and tested them by hooking it all up and shooting the bolts and fly line into a snow drift. After many prototypes and failures, we had it. By increasing the spin of the bolt, the line would come off the reel and rod easier. We had to build our own fletching tool to make it work. We used duct tape and empty Span cans. It was a beautiful thing and it worked like a dream.
Our secret laboratory was the garage at my folks' house. Back in the day, it was the bank for the town of Pierce. There was a coal stove in the corner that heated our lab. Back in the day, it might have heated the bank. Perhaps everything was better then, or the building more functional. No matter how red hot we burned that stove, it was freezing in there. It did not help that the work bench was on the other side of the building. Within a four foot halo of the stove, it was lemonade and sunscreen, but beyond that, Backbone Mountain winters demand more than a leaky old brick building. There was talk of moving the the bench, but we remembered setting fire to it two winters before, when the bench was near the stove. The bench stayed. We worked, hugged the stove a while and went back to perfecting our 7-weight harpoon.
The dust had to be shoveled off our rig by summer. Lessons learned shooting at the snow bank had been forgotten. Firing this thing was a two man operation. One shot the weapon and the other had to stand behind and point the rod in the same direction to assure ease of line delivery, thus accuracy. Looking back, I think we might have needed one of those man-made Olympic Whitewater runs in the old bank. What Hobbs didn't plan for was operating out of a canoe. A bolt shot into the air can almost spool an old Medalist reel, including backing. Soon enough, either one of us could hit water AND fish. With a good hook up, it was some red hot "fishin'". Some of the fish were strong enough to pull Hobbs, Chelsea and I through some slow currents. A new sport was born.
We would float the shallows for carp whenever we got the chance that summer. Some evenings, when everything was right, the numbers of carp we would see would be horrifying. One particular afternoon, as sad as it sounds, every element on earth seemed carp. Both of us shot or landed some big carp. We had figured out that what we were doing was only legal in seas where whaling was still practiced, but it was too darned fun to stop. The we saw the big boy...
This carp was as long as my leg. It went swimming by while we were refitting for our next run. The best we could do was watch and calculate his path. It was just a goldfish, but we both wanted it. So we hunted that fish. We hunted like bonefishers on the flats. When the opportunity came, the hardened carpers would not fail. Best we could figure, while carefully trying not to be outsmarted by a goldfish, it would come up the riffle, drop down the other side and circle back upstream. So we waited where we were. Like any water, it was very pretty. The smooth clear flow had a bit of a clip to it, but the gentle water, as it will, took a hold of our entire selves. Sun down flashed orange, yellow, black and platinum around the peaceful bubbles. Staying cool in the bottom of the canoe Chelsea had fallen asleep long ago. It wasn't long before everyone else fell into a light, water rippling slumber.
It must be funny to watch people wake up and realize, at the moment of consciousness, that they were supposed to be doing something like hunting like bonefishers. There was a momentary shuffle in the canoe. Wide eyes turned to steel slits piercing the water like... well, bonefishers. About ten minutes passed by and the point man spotted the fish.
"Here he comes! I mean, thar she blows!" Hobbs had him just like he thought. Broadside he came. "If you miss this..."
"Shaddupp."
I let the bolt fly and stuck the carp in the thick of the back. That old Medalist screamed and Hobbs did too. "Get us off the rocks! Let him work the boat! OOOEEEE!!! It's big!!!"
We were off the rocks in good measure. With the rod and line on a beautiful curl, the carp pulled us up and across the river and down the other side. It took twenty minutes, but the fish did it. On the other bank, Hobbs decided to put the fish on the reel.
"Bring me back to shore."
The fish was downstream using current and bulk. Mr. Smith was having the time of his life trying to hog a hog. Backing into some shallows, I eased the canoe under some trees. You could heard one of Elkfisher's #32's drop when Hobbs' head bumped a hornets nest. It wasn't very big. About the size of Hobbs' head. Intent on the action, neither of us saw it. In an instant, Hobbs' was slapping with one hand. A split second later, he jumped overboard, rod held high, looking as if the carp had snatched him from the canoe and intended to drag him around for a while. With no other target, the hornets came after me. I soon found deep water. Chelsea, asleep along side the cooler, missed the hornets.
When I came out of the water, I saw Hobbs waist-deep downstream, still working. Without our big asses, the canoe had started downstream. Heading for shore was out of the question. The area around the nest looked like a G-spot tornado. After the canoe I went aswim. The canoe was slipping around the bend and Chelsea was two paws deep in the cooler. I never saw the carp landed. Hobbs swears it was forty inches long. No reason to doubt him. We all paid for that fish. This time I go off easy. I just had to get the canoe. Chelsea ate our Gino's Italian subs and got sick. Hobbs' head looked like a pineapple. What a great day!
Oh, the West Virginia Spam eating contest? I think I was doing mighty fine until I saw Hobbs, in the waining seconds, stuff a whole 12 ounce can in his mouth. I laughed so hard, I threw up and was disqualified. Hobbs came in third.
That winter, we made our own bolts. We made a few and tested them by hooking it all up and shooting the bolts and fly line into a snow drift. After many prototypes and failures, we had it. By increasing the spin of the bolt, the line would come off the reel and rod easier. We had to build our own fletching tool to make it work. We used duct tape and empty Span cans. It was a beautiful thing and it worked like a dream.
Our secret laboratory was the garage at my folks' house. Back in the day, it was the bank for the town of Pierce. There was a coal stove in the corner that heated our lab. Back in the day, it might have heated the bank. Perhaps everything was better then, or the building more functional. No matter how red hot we burned that stove, it was freezing in there. It did not help that the work bench was on the other side of the building. Within a four foot halo of the stove, it was lemonade and sunscreen, but beyond that, Backbone Mountain winters demand more than a leaky old brick building. There was talk of moving the the bench, but we remembered setting fire to it two winters before, when the bench was near the stove. The bench stayed. We worked, hugged the stove a while and went back to perfecting our 7-weight harpoon.
The dust had to be shoveled off our rig by summer. Lessons learned shooting at the snow bank had been forgotten. Firing this thing was a two man operation. One shot the weapon and the other had to stand behind and point the rod in the same direction to assure ease of line delivery, thus accuracy. Looking back, I think we might have needed one of those man-made Olympic Whitewater runs in the old bank. What Hobbs didn't plan for was operating out of a canoe. A bolt shot into the air can almost spool an old Medalist reel, including backing. Soon enough, either one of us could hit water AND fish. With a good hook up, it was some red hot "fishin'". Some of the fish were strong enough to pull Hobbs, Chelsea and I through some slow currents. A new sport was born.
We would float the shallows for carp whenever we got the chance that summer. Some evenings, when everything was right, the numbers of carp we would see would be horrifying. One particular afternoon, as sad as it sounds, every element on earth seemed carp. Both of us shot or landed some big carp. We had figured out that what we were doing was only legal in seas where whaling was still practiced, but it was too darned fun to stop. The we saw the big boy...
This carp was as long as my leg. It went swimming by while we were refitting for our next run. The best we could do was watch and calculate his path. It was just a goldfish, but we both wanted it. So we hunted that fish. We hunted like bonefishers on the flats. When the opportunity came, the hardened carpers would not fail. Best we could figure, while carefully trying not to be outsmarted by a goldfish, it would come up the riffle, drop down the other side and circle back upstream. So we waited where we were. Like any water, it was very pretty. The smooth clear flow had a bit of a clip to it, but the gentle water, as it will, took a hold of our entire selves. Sun down flashed orange, yellow, black and platinum around the peaceful bubbles. Staying cool in the bottom of the canoe Chelsea had fallen asleep long ago. It wasn't long before everyone else fell into a light, water rippling slumber.
It must be funny to watch people wake up and realize, at the moment of consciousness, that they were supposed to be doing something like hunting like bonefishers. There was a momentary shuffle in the canoe. Wide eyes turned to steel slits piercing the water like... well, bonefishers. About ten minutes passed by and the point man spotted the fish.
"Here he comes! I mean, thar she blows!" Hobbs had him just like he thought. Broadside he came. "If you miss this..."
"Shaddupp."
I let the bolt fly and stuck the carp in the thick of the back. That old Medalist screamed and Hobbs did too. "Get us off the rocks! Let him work the boat! OOOEEEE!!! It's big!!!"
We were off the rocks in good measure. With the rod and line on a beautiful curl, the carp pulled us up and across the river and down the other side. It took twenty minutes, but the fish did it. On the other bank, Hobbs decided to put the fish on the reel.
"Bring me back to shore."
The fish was downstream using current and bulk. Mr. Smith was having the time of his life trying to hog a hog. Backing into some shallows, I eased the canoe under some trees. You could heard one of Elkfisher's #32's drop when Hobbs' head bumped a hornets nest. It wasn't very big. About the size of Hobbs' head. Intent on the action, neither of us saw it. In an instant, Hobbs' was slapping with one hand. A split second later, he jumped overboard, rod held high, looking as if the carp had snatched him from the canoe and intended to drag him around for a while. With no other target, the hornets came after me. I soon found deep water. Chelsea, asleep along side the cooler, missed the hornets.
When I came out of the water, I saw Hobbs waist-deep downstream, still working. Without our big asses, the canoe had started downstream. Heading for shore was out of the question. The area around the nest looked like a G-spot tornado. After the canoe I went aswim. The canoe was slipping around the bend and Chelsea was two paws deep in the cooler. I never saw the carp landed. Hobbs swears it was forty inches long. No reason to doubt him. We all paid for that fish. This time I go off easy. I just had to get the canoe. Chelsea ate our Gino's Italian subs and got sick. Hobbs' head looked like a pineapple. What a great day!
Oh, the West Virginia Spam eating contest? I think I was doing mighty fine until I saw Hobbs, in the waining seconds, stuff a whole 12 ounce can in his mouth. I laughed so hard, I threw up and was disqualified. Hobbs came in third.
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