It happened one early June day in the summer of 1976. My company, in order to harangue its already overly-harangued agents into selling more, often planned summer sales conferences in exotic places. That summer the location was Purgatory (no pun intended). Snow was still on all the peaks, but ski season was over, and the prices very reasonable for the many unoccupied, fashionable suites.
The word was, that during the three day meeting, one afternoon was to be free for the agents to hike, sight-see, bird-watch, fish, or whatever. So four of us decided ahead of time we would fish and took our tackle with us. I, being somewhat versed in fishing equipment, took my 7 foot state-of-the-art, incredibly strong and flexible Ferralite fishing rod. This rod, with the joints not made of steel, but of rod material, would bend like you wouldn't believe. It seemed like you could cast a mile--out to where the BIG ONES LAY-- and with even a little six inch fish on the line, the action felt like you had a whale; well, almost.
When the appointed free afternoon came, the four of us, in a van, drove back south to Lake Haviland
We then turned off the highway several miles to beautiful Haviland Lake
After eating, we carried our gear down to water's edge where quite a few folks were already fishing. There was some guy there by the water's edge showing newly arrived fishermen how to rig their fishing lines. He spoke with great authority advocating the use of bubles and hooks.
So there he was, THE FISHING EXPERT, showing each one how to put these bubbles on his line, X inches apart, and interspersed between them, snelled hooks containing salmon eggs or what-all, blah, blah. (I was not a "bubble guy," considered myself a good fisherman in my own right, and "had other fish to fry," so to speak.) So I put a gold Panther Martin lure on my line, and began to work around the lake toward deeper water and fewer people.
Can you visualize this peaceful bucolic scene? People sitting all along the shore, some dozing, others watching their bubbles. The air is kind of cool, even in June, in mid-afternoon in the Rockies . But the sun is warm, the lake is lap-lapping ever so slightly; friendly thunderheads are all around, but not threatening. A rogue mallard flies by at fifteen feet over the lake; was his wing sore--did he beg off the northern duck flight? In the clear mountain air, the casting and reeling and its repetitiveness had me half mesmerized. WHEN...
WHAM!!!! The Ferralite rod felt as if a truck had hit it. It literally nearly jumped out of my hands. And simultaneously, out there about forty yards away, the BIGGEST RAINBOW TROUT I HAD EVER SEEN came straight up out of the water, and seemed to hang there about four feet high for the longest time!! Was HE on MY POLE??? Na-a-a-aw!! It couldn't be...but IT WAS!! He would lunge--then run toward me--then run the other way, hit the end of the line--and JUMP out of the water over and over. He was one mad trout. Friends, I can't tell you how much I wished for a bigger than 10 LB. test line. But I loved the rod; it was giving me my money's worth.
Maybe I yelled, who knows? Maybe, I being the only one moving around on that lazy lake, attracted attention (particularly with my bent-double rod); at any rate it seemed like suddenly there were a couple of dozen people around me...yes, stifling for us “pro fishermen”.
Since after 36 years it is hard to remember the small details, I will use some "writer embellishment." I played that fish like the expert fisherman I was. He was a worthy opponent. We tried to outfox each other. Sweat was dripping off me; my shirt was wet. I followed him up and down the shore, I pulled and I let up. If the drag was set, I don't remember. He jumped and we fought until at last I saw him in the shallows and I quit reeling and just ran backwards, pulling him in. It was the biggest, most beautiful trout I had ever seen.
People from all around were applauding the great fisherman, and admiring his fish. A strange thing then happened. Everyone, really everyone, started saying "What bait were you using?" They began to rummage around in their tackle boxes for Panther Martins, or anything that closely resembled my lure. I could have sold, I believe, two dozen of those on the spot, had I had the foresight to stock them. And suddenly our Bubble Guy became "fisherman non grata," and I became "FISHERMAN DU JOUR."
You ask, dear reader, "But Mil, did you 'catch and release' ?" No, I am sorry to say. But can you understand: I would rather have jumped into the water...myself!!
That night, at the Purgatory suite, everyone came in to see my frozen trout. He was a full 23 inches long, nearly as long as my arm. Having no scales, I don't know his weight. I kept him frozen and brought him home...the biggest, most beautiful fish I ever caught: A REAL DOOZY!
So ends the story of another boring sales meeting...but the MOST EXCITING FISH STORY OF MY LIFE!!!!
Lake Haviland
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By Mil, 2-3-12
Sent from my iPad
You always make it seem like the reader is actually there! Did you mount the fish or just eat it?
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