One . . . two . . . three fish. Three casts.
Nothing to it. Now it's your turn, Dick Gasaway said, not realizing just what he was dealing with.Four things outdoor writers don't like to hear are:
1. No comment.
2. It's your turn.
3. You should have been here yesterday.
4. We're not paying you for this.
Translated: Things aren't going so well and don't expect them to get any better. And, don't expect the guy who invited you to offer a rain check.
Obviously, Dick had never heard of the "media jinx."
It was my first trip to Lake Powell to fish for striped bass. It was my first time in one of those high-powered bass boats with elevated seats, electric motor and fish finders front and rear. It was also my first trip with a professional guide. Things were good.
Dick lived to fish and fished for a living. And he was good. With the boat up on a plane and the wind pulling his cheeks back to his ears, he could look over at a rock wall and, as certain as he knew his name, say: "There's a rock ledge 10 feet under the surface. Drop a motor-oil grub with chartreuse tail on a quarter-ounce lead-headed jig 20 feet and to the left of that dark spot on the wall, just off the ledge, and there should be a largemouth bass there."
Then he'd spin the boat around, head for the dark spot, drop the motor-oil grub, hook his bass, release it and be off.
First time you passed it off as luck. Same with the fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth time. After a dozen times, though, you began to ask: "How big and will it run to the right or the left when it hit?" After he answered that correctly a couple of times, you simply nodded and opened the door to the live well.
This trip we were after stripers. Big ones. Eight to 10 pounders, he said. I thought of pinning him down to the ounces when he said it, but then thought better. I had no doubt he could tell me.
Toward the back of Iceberg Canyon, he rigged up and - bang, bang, bang - hooked three fish before I had time to uncap the pen and find a clean sheet of paper in my notepad. As I asked questions and took pictures, he kept on catching fish. When he was tired of this spot, he moved to Rincon and caught more. All totaled, I would guess he caught 10 stripers all over eight pounds and five or six more just under eight.
After I'd filled the notepad and shot all the film, I capped the pen and took a sip on the cola.
That's when he uttered the bewitching words: "It's your turn."
I couldn't fail, not in this natural fish hatchery.
I reached over to pick up my outfit, the one I'd rigged with a smoke-sparkle grub - same as Dick's - on a half-ounce jig head - same as Dick's. Just then, a black cloud peeked over the rock wall to my right and a gust of cold wind shot up the canyon and put big ripples in what was seconds before calm water.
I'm sure I don't need to finish the story, but I will. I didn't catch a fish. The only thing that made the rod tip wiggle was the gusty winds.
Gasaway, the guide that he was, said it was the drop in the barometer that did it. The barometer gets more blame for bad fishing than any other single device.
He was too much of a pro to blame the media jinx . . . but I will.
It's happened too many times.
I recall an ice fishing trip a few years back to Fish Lake with Byron Gunderson of Fish Tech Outfitters. The day after he'd hooked into a couple of dozen good-size splake, he challenged the hex. And he suffered through a morning of the slowest fishing he could ever recall. The only fish caught was by his wife, DeEtte, by far the best angler in the party.
Then he said it: Gee, you should have been here yesterday.
About 3 p.m. that afternoon, I reeled in the line, closed the tackle box, shot the last picture and walked to the car.
Next day Byron called to give me a fishing report.
"As I watched your car crest the hill, I got a hit. We did real well after you left, real well," he reported. "Say, next time we happen to be at the same lake, could you hide the camera and notepad? Not that I'm superstitious or anything."
He may not be, but I am. You won't see signs of a notepad or camera until that last second, when it's too late for the fish to get away.
Now, if I don't catch fish, it's always the fault of the barometer.