The Sportsman's Corner
By Bob Cox, Mountain Valley News staff
I know a man, who a few years back, became a professional fisherman. While that may seem to be the job dreams are made of, I never thought so. Why would anyone turn a great pastime into a job?
There are those who will think I am a little bit hypocritical. I can a confidently say, I am not. Fishing and hunting is not part of my job, but it certainly makes my job easier, and it always has.
Long before I began writing stories about my outdoor activities, I actively used those very activities to reduce stress. For a long time I just didn’t put a name on it.
I am not sure that I could enjoy fishing if someone actually paid me to do it and required that I get up early every day to go fishing. On the other hand, last week I adjusted several commitments so I could leave home on Friday, then drive for four hours to spend the night alone in a strange bed so I could get up before daylight to go fishing.
For the past few years going to the March Madness Fishing Tournament at Eleven Mile Reservoir has been something I look forward to. I never have placed, and probably never will, but just having the freedom to go means more to me than many people will ever understand.
The March Madness Tournament is obviously an ice-fishing tournament. It is held exclusively in the North Shore area of the lake, and typically has more than 70 two-man teams. It is held without regard to the weather, which can at times be brutal.
Last year the weather caused a friend and I to abandon the ice and head for a warm café for coffee and pancakes. I vowed then to become better equipped and purchase a small shelter. I picked a “pop-up” shelter that had a lot more “pop” than “up.” When I complained to the manufacturer, they kindly, not only replaced my shelter, but also upgraded me to a better model. I figured I was obligated to test it at Eleven Mile. So, shortly after daylight last Saturday, there I was trying to set up an ice shelter I had never seen before without benefit of instructions. I still have not found the instruction page.
The weather was nice, but nice weather is a relative term when one is talking about the cold, windblown expanses of Colorado’s South Park. I know people there that refer to a 40 mph wind as a “breeze.” I must have looked pretty pathetic wrestling with an inanimate pile of nylon and fiberglass rods, because another fisherman finally offered to assist me, and got the job done in a few minutes. He then nodded at my ice auger and offered to lend me his gasoline-powered version. I declined.
By the time I drilled two holes in the 39-inch ice, and got all my other equipment arranged and my hooks baited, it was time for the first weigh-in. Needless to say, the fish I caught up to then weighed exactly 0 pounds and 0 ounces, but I got some good upper-body exercise, and I could get in out of the wind.
I got to meet some great people. I talked about past fishing and hunting trips. I even spent the night in the hospital where I was born in Cripple Creek. It has since been converted to a hotel. And again, I find myself being thankful for being able to do what I do. Complain about not even placing in the tournament? Never. I have learned over the years to accept things for what they are, and what I have is not so bad. In a much nicer way than its original form, I will always remember both my dad and an uncle of mine admonishing me about complaining when fishing: “Quit (complaining) you’re fishing.”
