Fishing stories will continue in Alaska

My switch to Alaska resident is complete.

I have an Alaska voting card. I’m paying Alaska property taxes. My vehicle has an Alaska brown bear license plate where Indiana vanity plate Moby Van once resided.

But most importantly, I qualified with Alaska Department of Natural Resources (at my advanced age) for a fishing, hunting and trapping license. I’ll be on the lakes near Chena Hot Springs as soon as the ice thaws. I already have rented two cabins for fishing from the State of Alaska.

With my mind on fishing, I wanted to relate a tale about a big one I caught.

The year was 1983. The place was the Chattooga River in northeastern Georgia in scenery you might have admired in the movie “Deliverance.”

My companions were a Clemson instructor named Ron Rash and my son Chris.

Ron was having a good day taking trout, several under a cutbank in shallower water.

I had struck out until — whoa — my line went rigid and the rod practically flew out of my hands.

My shout of joy mildly raised the interest of Ron and Chris. I went into the water nearly to my belt as I tried to land what had to be a monster trout.

About that time, my quarry rose like the shark in “Jaws,” and I saw its big clacking jaws.

I might have thrown down the rod; I’m not sure.

But I’m sure all that giant snapping turtle saw was my feet and butt as I churned the water to get back to shore.

If you think my fishing companions offered commiseration you’d be badly mistaken. Chris was on the bank holding his stomach laughing, and Ron was a close second in the bemused category.

I might just finally forgive them one day.

Nah, nah. Ain’t gonna happen.

Another bad but true fishing story was the time I took my son trout fishing in the remote Humboldt Forest region of eastern Nevada. 

Knowing that we’d be far from anything resembling a sporting goods store, I instructed my son to bring two of everything in the way of fishing gear. 

It was a clear case of do as Dad says, not as Dad does.

On my very first cast, my line zipped over a deep bend in the river, and I buried the lure in a tree limb.

No problem, I thought, as I cut the lines.

Which was when I found that I hadn’t brought fishing line, and there wasn’t enough line left on my reel to catch a fish in a barrel. 

I couldn’t deprive my son of a fishing outfit, so I spent the day organizing my tackle box. I had enough time to arrange it about 79 times.

I loved fishing in Indiana on the White River. As often as not, a great blue heron alighted nearby and owls would provide a concert, although I rarely caught sight of them. There’s no more satisfying sight than rounding a river bend and seeing a doe and fawn alight for a moment.

The downside was that too many folks like to think the White River is their own private landfill. I once surprised a mother and two boys dumping a bunch of trash bags near a bank. They glared at me with impudence and drove off when I asked them to pick it up. I ended up carting two smelly bags home to put in my trash container.

Once while canoeing I saw a white Chevy hood blocking a shallow part of the river one dry season.

“What we need is an otter,” the owner of the canoe rental operation told me.

“Why’s that?”

“He ‘otter’ eat up all this trash,” he joked. 

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Nuwer is a Franklin College emeritus professor and elected member of Ball State University’s Journalism Hall of Fame. Now living far from Union City in Alaska, Hank’s email address is [email protected].