Retrieving the Retriever

He hit the topwater buzzbait with gusto. The water exploded around him in a wild spray and for a second, my heart literally stopped.

He was a monster by any description and I immediately knew that we (my light/medium-action spinning rod and reel and me) were woefully outmatched.  My rod was strung with six-pound text monofilament line, but the beast that had struck my lure easily tipped the scales at 90 pounds.

A garden variety buzzbait

In an instant, he went on a searing run upstream and began peeling line off my reel, but I didn't dare set the hook. In fact, I did just the opposite - I flipped open the bail on the  reel and gave him all the line he wanted.

And he wanted a lot.

That is, until I screamed, "come here, boy, c'mon!"

That's when the golden retriever on the other end of my line did an about face and began swimming right back toward me with my buzzbait - complete with a trailer hook - in his mouth.

Now, the animal rights activists among you might be wondering just why in the heck I was fishing for golden retrievers. Please allow me to assure you that I was not intentionally fishing for retrievers, or dogs of any sort, really. It just happened. Just like the stories we hear every year about the kid fishing for bluegill and landing a record bass, I was fishing for bass and hooked a golden retriever. Go figure.

The year was 1992, and I was a still-green-behind-the-ears newspaper reporter, just two years removed from college and a recent Kokomo transplant. I didn't know many people in town, so I started fishing by myself in the evenings.

On this particular day, I had been catching a variety of decent-sized smallmouth bass on an orange buzzbait, which for you non-anglers is one of those lures that looks more like a fish frightener than a fish catcher. It has a long wire arm, a metal or plastic blade, a large hook and a grassy skirt. Fishing a buzzbait is easy:

1. Rocket cast it to where you want to fish (they're easy to cast long distances because some of them are as heavy as a key chain full of keys).
2. As soon as the lure hits the water, start your retrieve.
3. Reel in quickly until the buzzer comes to the surface and then gurgles along, making all kinds of fish-attracting racket.
4. Don't stop reeling or the lure will sink and very likely get hung up in weeds, rocks or on a tree limb (tree limbs are always found where you least want them).

While I was walking along the bank and fishing, a large, wet golden retriever came bounding across the park in my general direction. My mother had a golden retriever named Alex and I knew he was harmless (we always joked that if an intruder broke in, Alex would hold the flashlight for them) but I was wary of this dog because he was a stranger and for all I knew, I might look like a giant chew toy to him.

My initial caution quickly turned to panic when the big dog leapt onto me and drove me to the ground. I am sure I screamed like a little girl, until I realized that the dog was playing with me and not trying to eat me. So, we spent some time in the grass - mostly with me trying to get to my feet and the large wet golden retriever standing on me and licking my face.

A garden variety golden retriever

After I managed to get to my feet, Mr. Retriever decided that he was adopting me. Because I name everything, I decided to call him "Tim." Tim dutifully followed me back to a picnic table where I had left a cooler bag with my dinner. We shared my ham sandwich and chips. After the food was gone - much of it right into his belly - I decided it was time to get back to fishing.

I walked back down to the water's edge, drew my rod arm back and fired the buzzbait toward the other side of the creek near some logs that had already given up a couple of decent bass earlier that evening. The moment my buzzbait took flight, so did Tim. By the time the buzzbait hit the water, Tim was already one-third of the way across the creek and paddling madly toward the spot my buzzbait had landed.

Now, you might be thinking that the wisest course of action on my part would've been to just let my bait sink to the bottom where Tim couldn't find it. You'd be right about that except that I knew the area into which I was casting was full of logs, limbs and all matter of other underwater lure stealers. And it was the only buzzbait I had at the time and it was the only lure I had that was catching fish that day.

So, I decided that I could retrieve the lure faster than Tim (the retriever) could swim. Bad idea.

I managed to cover about 20 feet of water, maybe a little more, before Tim snatched the lure right off the surface and began swimming away from me.

Now, you might be able to imagine the feeling of panic that came across me. As a dog lover, I was envisioning the two giant 1/0 hooks (pronounced, "one-ought," these hooks are about one inch in length) shoved through his lips, tongue or snout.

So, there I was, rod in hand, a look of horror on my face, and Tim swimming away with my lure. I opened the bail and let him have all the line he wanted while I trotted along the edge of the creek, trying not to wet myself while I considered our predicament.

After I had run for at least 100 or so yards along the edge of the creek, I had the bright idea to call out to him. Even though I had named him "Tim," I figured he didn't know his name was "Tim," so I said, "c'mere, boy...c'mon!"

Tim immediately stopped - and I mean with military exactness - did an about face, and began swimming back to me. Unfortunately for me, I didn't think to start reeling in the slack line as he swam back toward me (this becomes important later). As he neared me, I could see that he was cradling my buzzbait horizontally in his mouth, with the buzzer blade hanging out one side of his mouth and the two hooks hanging out the other side of his mouth. The only part of the lure actually in his mouth was the lure body, head and skirt. Unbelievably, he did not appear to be actually hooked.

The overwhelming sense of relief I enjoyed as he bounded up onto the bank was short-lived as he immediately started shaking as wet dogs do, flinging water everywhere. I was certain he was going to hook himself then, but I didn't hear any yelping, and once he was done shaking, he just stood there looking at me expectantly.

I approached him, hand out, hoping that I could snatch the lure out of his mouth without either of us getting hooked. That's when he took off running along the creek bank. Remember all of that slack line I mentioned? Well, that meant he had all kinds of spare line available to run and I didn't dare flip the bail closed for fear that he would be immediately hooked.

So, there I am running behind this wet golden retriever as he zigzagged through trees, bushes, and several picnic tables. Then, I realized that nearly all of the line had been taken off my reel and I knew when the last coil of line came off and he pulled against the knot holding the line to the reel, he was very likely to be hooked.

So I did the only thing I could think of and yelled, "SIT!"

Tim immediately, and I mean immediately, sat down. Because he had wound the fishing line around so many trees and so forth, I literally had to step over and duck under fishing line that was strung all over creation. When I got to him, I held out my hand, placed it under his chin and commanded, "drop it!"

Without a delay, Tim immediately dropped the spit-covered lure into my hand and waited obediently for another command. As I petted his head, I was busy examining his lips for any sign of damage and I couldn't see that he'd suffered a scratch.

I spent the next 20 minutes using a knife to cut and gather up all of the line so that I could dispose of it properly. The whole time, Tim sat and watched, wagging his tail wildly.

I had another rod and reel with me and I really wanted to fish, but as soon as I picked it up, Tim immediately rushed to the water's edge, ready to spring. Unless I wanted a repeat performance, I figured I'd be better off calling it a day. As I was packing things back into my car, Tim suddenly perked up, obviously listening to something, and then bolted off in the direction from whence he originally came. I had to assume that his owner was calling to him and my ears just weren't good enough to hear.

As I was leaving, another angler pulled in and asked me how I'd done. I told him that I just landed "a big'un." He asked if I kept it, and I for a moment, I thought about telling my story. Then I decided that I just wanted to go home and drink.

So, instead, I said, "nah, I practice catch and release."

The Spider and the (Open) Fly

I like to think of myself as being sufficiently manly.

Me fishing the Wildcat Creek in central Indiana

I say "sufficiently" because I tend to eschew the trappings of machismo that come with the whole "manly-man" thing. I figure that while I do indeed have the requisite equipment, I needn't wag it in anyone's face, you know? And while I am no daredevil, I am no shrinking violet either. I enjoy pushing myself physically and mentally, and am purely frightened by relatively few things.

I draw the line, however, at spiders. 
In fact, when I asked for Charlotte's hand in marriage, I told her that I would defend her from any foe - foreign or domestic - save for spiders. Insofar as spiders are concerned, it's everyone for him/herself at our house. Case in point: I once considered burning down my house and moving when I failed to kill a rather nasty-looking spider that I found squatting in my bathroom.
 

About 10 years ago,  while wading a remote stretch of the Wildcat Creek near the bustling metropolis of Sedalia, IN, I had an epic encounter with a man-eating spider. Anyone who's ever waded an Indiana creek or river knows that it's not for the faint of heart. Just getting down to the water can be a challenge - and downright dangerous (I have a hip surgery to prove that).

The water can range from just a few inches deep to well over your head and goes from swift to slack, rocky to muddy and everything in between. It's tiring and you are subject to interacting with all sorts of wildlife, including dogs, coyotes, snakes, rabid farmers and all matter of insects. You're also alone in the middle of nowhere and if you get hurt, well, you're going to be there alone in the middle of nowhere for a long time.

None of those things bother me in the slightest. In fact, I dare say the adventure of it all is a huge draw. There's something strangely alluring about being out in the wild away from *any* sign of modern day man (save for yourself). When on these long trips, my fishing vest is loaded with the necessary tackle, along with a variety of survival related gear (flashlight, matches, first aid kit, knife and a variety of other things).

I also learned one day when I ran into a very angry Rottweiler that carrying a sidearm wasn't a half-bad idea. Because I was able to talk fast, the pooch and I both lived to tell the tale, but from that day forward, I started carrying a small, Walther PPK .380-caliber handgun tucked away in my vest where I could get to it easily.

In addition to the aforementioned equipment, my wading vest also has a camelback water bladder in it so that I can carry a couple liters of water with me on longer trips. While keeping you hydrated on hot summer days, it also means you have to answer the call of nature from time to time.

On this particular day when nature rang my bell, I was in a stretch of creek where the banks are both steep and very muddy - and I was about a mile from where I had parked at an old, one-lane bridge. The only way you can even get to where I was at that moment was to have climbed into the creek at a bridge. Otherwise, the bank is so steep, muddy and thick with vegetation, you'd have little or no chance of climbing down it without ending up in a free-fall. The overhang of the trees pretty much blocks out most of the sun and creates a tunnel-like effect that is both cool and just ever-so-slightly creepy.

So, when you're in a spot like this and nature calls, getting into a position in which you can answer that call is tricky. It usually involves wading as close to the creek's edge as you can - though with low, overhanging branches, it's often not as close as you'd like. Hopefully, once you are as close to the water's edge as possible, the necessary parts of your anatomy are no longer below the waterline.

Once you've achieved this precarious position, you then have to hold your fishing rod in your teeth, wriggle out of your fishing vest and hang onto it - remember, there's nowhere to put anything down - get the shoulder straps from your waders down off your shoulders and then push the chest section of your waders down below, well, you know, without letting them fall into the water either.

Now, you're almost home. You just have to unbutton and unzip your pants, and free the beast (sorry, had to).

Once nature has been properly satiated, you reverse the process and hope that you're able to restore everything to it's squared away position.

Well, on this particular day, I had managed to extricate, well, you know, and was in the middle of relieving myself when I felt something crawling down the back of my neck. And I don't mean something small, like a house fly. I mean, large, like a squirrel.

Instinctively, I swatted at the back of my head with my "free" hand, though my "free" hand was holding my vest, which weighs a great deal, the waistband of my pants and the top of my waders. I was also holding my fishing rod between my teeth. As you might imagine, a number of things happened at that very moment:

1. When I swung my left hand at my head, I clocked myself upside my head with my heavy fishing vest. Of course, the part of the vest that made contact with my head was the inner left breast pocket where I had my handgun. I can tell you first hand that being pistol whipped hurts every bit as much as it appears to in the movies.
2. After striking my head with my vest and seeing stars, I dropped said vest into the creek, soaking everything in it that wasn't in a zipper bag.
3. Remember, I was holding the waistband of my jeans, underwear and waders - all of which were just pushed down to mid-thigh. So, when one makes a sudden sweeping move like I did, it sweeps a guy right off his feet. Somehow, I landed on my knees instead of my back or side. Regardless of how I landed, it was still deep enough to allow a lot of water to flow immediately into my waders.
4. When I swung at my head with my left hand, which was holding my vest, my pants and my waders, I first connected with my fishing rod that I was holding precariously in my teeth against the advice of my dentist. That made the fishing rod boomerang out of my mouth and nearly do a 360-degree arc around my head before landing in the water several feet away.
5. Because I was mid-stream, if you know what I mean, when I fell to my knees,  I also ended up with some "nature" flowing into the inside of my waders.
6. I succeeded in violently ejecting the intruder on my head - right down the front of my button-up fishing shirt.

I find it funny that human nature - at least this human - is to place more importance upon the critter that has fallen down his shirt than he places on the throbbing head wound he's just suffered, the complete soaking of his fishing gear and sidearm, the possible loss of his fishing rod and reel, and the very real likelihood that he just finished relieving himself inside his waders.

But, that's exactly what I did.

Frantically, I began tearing at my shirt, trying to free whatever it was that was crawling down my chest. I swear it was large enough that I could hear it crawling it on me. When I eventually located it, I discovered that it was the largest, hairiest spider I had ever seen in the wild. And it was pissed. (At least I ascribed that emotion to it after it bit me with some gusto near my left nipple.)

Of course, you know what comes next, right? Yes, I started smacking the daylights out of my chest and midsection with my right hand, trying to squash the hairy intruder. I even thought about trying to fish my pistol out of my waders so as to have an upper hand, but I figured the chances of it firing after being submerged in the creek were slim.

After landing multiple blows and getting bitten twice more, I succeeded in squishing my arachnid foe just before he managed to get south of the border where this story really could've gotten ugly.

Upon confirming that the spider was indeed dead, I immediately looked around wildly to make sure that no one had just witnessed all of this. I find it funny that after all of that, my first concern was to determine if anyone had caught this on camera. Thankfully, it appears that I was blessedly alone.

I managed to find my beloved fishing rod and reel, undamaged save for a few nicks. I managed to secure my trousers, climb up high enough onto the steep bank where I could get my waders off and empty them (and yes, I rinsed them well).

I used a small towel that I keep in a zipper bag to dry off the things that were most likely to be damaged, disassembled and dried my gun, smoked a dozen or so cigarettes (this was back before I gave them up - and they were in a zipper bag along with my lighter) and then did what any self-respecting angler would do - went right back to fishing.

And as not concerned as I typically am with my masculinity, I have to tell you that this is the first time I've shared this entire story. Thankfully, when it happened, I was still a single man so no one else but me saw the welts from the spider bites, the knot on the side of my head or my wounded pride.

And while you might think I went to bed with my head hung low, I actually went to bed with the barbaric yawp of victory echoing in my head after having vanquished my most feared foe.

My waders smelled a little funky for awhile, but that's an entirely different story...