Dave H
Well-Known Member
Searching one's mind for the date of an event often leads to confusion and uncertainty, particularly as one ages. I've tried everything reasonable in my attempts to identify the year they first appeared, and when I came to hate them. I've failed, although I can remember the first one I caught very clearly, I just can't remember the date. It was in the 1950's though, of that I am sure, and I caught it in Como Lake, and was horrified.
It was a sunny summer morning, which was good enough reason to ride my bike to the lake, rod in hand. Larry Jacobsen came along with me. We were fishing pals, although Larry was more sophisticated than I. He had a spinning reel. I had an old level-wind that had seen better days. At the lake Larry could cast his float and worm with but a flick of his wrist.
I, on the other hand, pulled off line, flaked it out neatly at my feet, whirled the float, sinker and worm-baited hook around my head and let fly. Any remaining line was reeled in, rods were propped in forked sticks and fishing began.
The floats sat motionless for aeons, it seemed. Larry and I goofed around like all ten year olds do, but seldom was an eye not on our floats. Larry noticed the nibbles first. He always did.
"You've got a bite!" he cried, pointing at my float.
Sure enough, little rings were circling it, even as I reached for my rod. Tap....tap....tap....tap. The float bounced again as I readied for the strike. I knew enough to be patient, to let the trout take the worm fully. This was no catch and release fishery. This was breakfast.
When my float darted sideways I struck.
"Got him," I exulted, reeling like a madman.
It took but a moment to realise something was amiss. This trout didn't pull very hard, didn't jump, didn’t do anything. It was coming in without any fight at all, yet I knew I had a fish on. My bewilderment was solved when I yanked the fish onto shore. It wasn't a trout. It was something I had never caught before, although I recognised it instantly, because it had "whiskers". It was obviously a catfish, a horrible little brown thing, and I knew it didn't belong in this lake.
"What the heck is that?" Larry asked. "God it's ugly."
"Be careful," I warned, "These things have spikes that can kill you."
I was being a bit dramatic, perhaps, but it was seldom that Larry was caught unaware by any fishing related event and I sensed the momentary superiority available to me through my book- learned knowledge of catfish"". My main problem was that I had never seen one in the flesh before and had no idea how to safely handle it. I knew we would be safer if the creature was dead, so I stabbed it through the head with my knife. It twisted violently as I pinned it to the ground.
I didn't care.
I hated it.
We will never know who first polluted Como Lake with them, but it put an end to fishing as we had known it. They multiplied quickly and became a major nuisance to trout anglers. They eagerly took bait fished on the bottom, and they would rise to the level required to take a worm below a float too. We killed all we caught.
We couldn't kill them fast enough though and it was barely two years later when I found the first ones in the creek. I declared war on them and retired to the basement to make my weapon, a spear.
I used an old broomstick for the shaft. It was carved down at one end and carefully split. A large nail had its head removed via hack-sawing and was inserted into the broomstick. A tight wrapping of mechanic's wire held the nail in place. I sharpened it carefully and cut three barbs just back from the point, using a three- cornered file. I plotted the demise of the entire catfish population of the creek. I hated them with a passion.
I spent hours stalking them up and down the tiny flow. Most of them seemed to hang in an area where there was good cover and enough depth to keep them safe from my lethal weapon, but when the creek was low I would find them in shallow water. I would poke at them with great malice but rarely killed one outright. They always seemed to move just enough or my aim was somewhat off. I wasn't aware of the vagaries of light refraction and the bending of rays and all that stuff. All I wanted to do was rid my creek of vermin.
Again unsure of the year, but most assuredly still in the 50's, the government became aware of the problem of catfish in Como Lake. There was only one solution, rotenone and re-stocking.
The stocked trout were rainbows, from a hatchery somewhere. The native trout, killed by the poisoning, were cutthroat. The catfish in the lake were gone, but so were the original trout, kind of a lousy trade-off I thought at the time.
The rotenone didn't penetrate down the creek far enough to kill all it's fish, however, so some native creek cutthroat still survived there. I fished for them for a few more years until I outgrew the small creek era of my life. I discovered that some catfish had survived as well, and I killed everyone I caught, but I never managed to eradicate them all.
That little creek I fished as a kid runs from Como Lake down the hill until it becomes what was called Millside Creek when I was young. Up where I lived it had no official name that I’m aware of, but we called it Bull’s Creek, after a family that lived above it on the south side of Austin Rd. and the eastside of the creek. I see it’s called Como Creek now. If you travel east on Austin a short way past Babcock’s shop you’ll dip down a bit as you reach Gatensbury. The creek runs down that ravine. My Dad fished it when he was a kid, some 85 years ago, and I fished it when I was a kid, some 60 years ago. I don’t know if there are fish in it still, but I doubt it. Dad says that all the fish he caught in it were cutthroat, and I recall things the same way. Before the freeway was built the creek meandered out into the flats and ultimately into the Fraser somewhere. That’s all gone now, buried under pavement, concrete and crap. Nothing but memories of it remains, and in not too many years they’ll be gone too.
Nobody lives forever.
PS:
As a kid we called those Brown Bullheads “catfish” as we didn’t know any better.
As to Como Lake having its Bullhead population eradicated, well that’s been tried before as I mentioned in my story above.
Take care.
It was a sunny summer morning, which was good enough reason to ride my bike to the lake, rod in hand. Larry Jacobsen came along with me. We were fishing pals, although Larry was more sophisticated than I. He had a spinning reel. I had an old level-wind that had seen better days. At the lake Larry could cast his float and worm with but a flick of his wrist.
I, on the other hand, pulled off line, flaked it out neatly at my feet, whirled the float, sinker and worm-baited hook around my head and let fly. Any remaining line was reeled in, rods were propped in forked sticks and fishing began.
The floats sat motionless for aeons, it seemed. Larry and I goofed around like all ten year olds do, but seldom was an eye not on our floats. Larry noticed the nibbles first. He always did.
"You've got a bite!" he cried, pointing at my float.
Sure enough, little rings were circling it, even as I reached for my rod. Tap....tap....tap....tap. The float bounced again as I readied for the strike. I knew enough to be patient, to let the trout take the worm fully. This was no catch and release fishery. This was breakfast.
When my float darted sideways I struck.
"Got him," I exulted, reeling like a madman.
It took but a moment to realise something was amiss. This trout didn't pull very hard, didn't jump, didn’t do anything. It was coming in without any fight at all, yet I knew I had a fish on. My bewilderment was solved when I yanked the fish onto shore. It wasn't a trout. It was something I had never caught before, although I recognised it instantly, because it had "whiskers". It was obviously a catfish, a horrible little brown thing, and I knew it didn't belong in this lake.
"What the heck is that?" Larry asked. "God it's ugly."
"Be careful," I warned, "These things have spikes that can kill you."
I was being a bit dramatic, perhaps, but it was seldom that Larry was caught unaware by any fishing related event and I sensed the momentary superiority available to me through my book- learned knowledge of catfish"". My main problem was that I had never seen one in the flesh before and had no idea how to safely handle it. I knew we would be safer if the creature was dead, so I stabbed it through the head with my knife. It twisted violently as I pinned it to the ground.
I didn't care.
I hated it.
We will never know who first polluted Como Lake with them, but it put an end to fishing as we had known it. They multiplied quickly and became a major nuisance to trout anglers. They eagerly took bait fished on the bottom, and they would rise to the level required to take a worm below a float too. We killed all we caught.
We couldn't kill them fast enough though and it was barely two years later when I found the first ones in the creek. I declared war on them and retired to the basement to make my weapon, a spear.
I used an old broomstick for the shaft. It was carved down at one end and carefully split. A large nail had its head removed via hack-sawing and was inserted into the broomstick. A tight wrapping of mechanic's wire held the nail in place. I sharpened it carefully and cut three barbs just back from the point, using a three- cornered file. I plotted the demise of the entire catfish population of the creek. I hated them with a passion.
I spent hours stalking them up and down the tiny flow. Most of them seemed to hang in an area where there was good cover and enough depth to keep them safe from my lethal weapon, but when the creek was low I would find them in shallow water. I would poke at them with great malice but rarely killed one outright. They always seemed to move just enough or my aim was somewhat off. I wasn't aware of the vagaries of light refraction and the bending of rays and all that stuff. All I wanted to do was rid my creek of vermin.
Again unsure of the year, but most assuredly still in the 50's, the government became aware of the problem of catfish in Como Lake. There was only one solution, rotenone and re-stocking.
The stocked trout were rainbows, from a hatchery somewhere. The native trout, killed by the poisoning, were cutthroat. The catfish in the lake were gone, but so were the original trout, kind of a lousy trade-off I thought at the time.
The rotenone didn't penetrate down the creek far enough to kill all it's fish, however, so some native creek cutthroat still survived there. I fished for them for a few more years until I outgrew the small creek era of my life. I discovered that some catfish had survived as well, and I killed everyone I caught, but I never managed to eradicate them all.
That little creek I fished as a kid runs from Como Lake down the hill until it becomes what was called Millside Creek when I was young. Up where I lived it had no official name that I’m aware of, but we called it Bull’s Creek, after a family that lived above it on the south side of Austin Rd. and the eastside of the creek. I see it’s called Como Creek now. If you travel east on Austin a short way past Babcock’s shop you’ll dip down a bit as you reach Gatensbury. The creek runs down that ravine. My Dad fished it when he was a kid, some 85 years ago, and I fished it when I was a kid, some 60 years ago. I don’t know if there are fish in it still, but I doubt it. Dad says that all the fish he caught in it were cutthroat, and I recall things the same way. Before the freeway was built the creek meandered out into the flats and ultimately into the Fraser somewhere. That’s all gone now, buried under pavement, concrete and crap. Nothing but memories of it remains, and in not too many years they’ll be gone too.
Nobody lives forever.
PS:
As a kid we called those Brown Bullheads “catfish” as we didn’t know any better.
As to Como Lake having its Bullhead population eradicated, well that’s been tried before as I mentioned in my story above.
Take care.
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