NewsPixels™ Door County

A Fishing Story FISHING: One of the Joys Coming Soon to a Summer Near You By Cathy Luethge - Cathy is a amateur who dreaming of being published. Contact us to see how you might! I grew up fishing. My dad fished Riley's Bay in Door County as long as I can remember. We didn't live on the water, but we could walk across the street and be fishing from the stony shoreline or launching ourselves in my dad's ca- noe. We didn't need a lot of equipment, just a tackle box, a milk carton filled with night crawlers and a few fishing poles. Our favorite pole was what we called "the old bamboo." This was simply an extremely long wooden pole with a line, a bobber, and a hook. We didn't use anything fancy for bait, just some fat night crawlers from our back- yard compost pile (before it was hip to have one). Back in those days we could sit on a dock or in a canoe and see the fish trying to nibble our bait. Sometimes our bobber would jiggle ever so slightly, and we'd have to pay close at- tention in order to catch a fish. But many times the bobber would quickly dive below the surface as a fat perch raced away with the bait, and we'd have to scramble to reach our pole in time. My dad was serious about fishing; he liked the quiet time spent with the sparkling water and warm sunshine. Un- fortunately he had two daughters who liked to talk while fishing. My sister would sing "Fishey, fishey in the brook, come and bite my little hook" to attract the fish, and we would laugh when one of us would actually catch some- thing after this song. There was always the inevitable tangling of the fishing lines as she and I would cast our lines over each other. My dad would utter a barely intelligible swear word as he tried to untangle the mess, but he would eventually have to cut the line with his always ready pocket knife. My sister and I would follow the fish. If Dad was getting a bite on the left side of the boat, we would cast our lines on that side. Fish biting on the right side? Yup! We'd move to that side too! Mr. Fish could not escape us! Once, coming into the dock after another fishing trip, as we all hurried to get out of the boat, it tipped to the side and sunk with my dad still standing in it! Looking back, we laugh about it, but I can still remember how long it took him to bail out the water as we looked on helplessly. As kids, we would catch our limit – maybe seventy-five perch in two hours – and we would head back home to the old newspaper-covered picnic table to clean them. Dad popped a can of Pabst, while scales flew everywhere as my sister and I worked on scaling our plethora of perch. Dad would do the filleting, and we would check out the stom- ach of the fish to see whether they had eaten a crawfish or a worm so we would know the best bait for next time. Nothing tasted better than those fish, dipped in flour with some paprika, salt, and pepper and fried to a golden brown by our mom. We dipped them in "Sandwich Spread" and ate them with fresh rye bread and homemade coleslaw. No fish fry at a restau- rant will ever top those perch – they live on in infamy! My dad passed away in 1999, but I still remember our fishing days with fondness. I like to think about him fishing in the boat he bought a few years before he died, catching his limit and en- joying a beer while cleaning his fish. Hopefully he's enjoying the heavenly sunshine and sparkling water, and using that bamboo pole…. L i v e T h e C h e r r y L i f e ! Amateurs & Pro's Help us Kickstart issues two and three. Become a co-publisher by helping us With $1, $35, $400 to $2500 See page12 for details. Deals, Open Houses, Events & more Pick & Choose click to see Options to match your interest.

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