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Getting out of a snag
Years ago, when our daughter Betsy was venturing out on her first teen solo drives, I was guilty of sharing a little advice.
Like many dads, I said more times than she probably cared to hear, “Remember, you don’t have to look for trouble. Trouble can easily enough find you.”
It’s true. I learned that for the umpteenth time last weekend.
Trouble found me at Shenango Reservoir on a sunny, pleasant morning. I was ready with the perfect lure when ahead appeared a classic piece of bass-holding cover – a laydown tree trunk, the end of which disappeared into deeper water 20 feet or so offshore.
I cast my crankbait to the shaded side of the wood and began a retrieve that pulled the bait precisely down the tree’s length before it disappeared from view.
As often happens while cranking shallow logs, the bait stopped. Snagged. It happens. I’ve unsnagged my hooks a thousand times, so this seemed like just another fixable situation.
The water was shallow enough that I figured I could reel down to the hard-body lure and poke it free with my rod tip. When I did that, however, I discovered the hook wasn’t stuck in the wood, but rather in a piece of braided nylon rope.
OK, I calculated, that’s also a fixable situation. Just grab the rope and pull it to the surface where I could work the treble hook from the braid. Or I could simply break the line. But the lure cost me $8, so I wasn’t willing to sacrifice it.
I knelt on the front deck and reached into the water to tug the rope. It was stuck firmly on both ends. After a few moments of tugging, I finally worked enough slack to bring the snagged crankbait into clear view.
It would have been best if my line had broken at the beginning of this effort. Instead, I could see victory within my grasp. With my left hand straining to hold the rope and the right reaching with the pliers toward the snagged lure, I finally was ready to jerk the bait free.
But the pliers slipped and my hand raked up the side of the lure and stopped abruptly. The front treble hook was now snagged on the first knuckle of my right index finger. The hook was completely through my skin. I could see the barb plainly.
Yep. Trouble had found me. I was snagged to the bottom of Shenango Reservoir. I was in a boat by myself. I looked around the lake. Nobody was in sight. I cursed my luck in having the lake pretty much to myself.
Thoughts raced through my head. “So this is how it turns out.” My brain jumped back five decades to an old TV series. It was as though I was Timmy and the calamity of the day was inching closer. “Lassie, get help!” But there was no collie in sight and no help in view.
I tried to pull my hand free, knowing it would hurt, but at least I’d no longer be snagged to the lake bottom in a boat that was bobbing with the breeze. The skin didn’t tear.
I began to tire. I was hanging over the starboard gunwale and holding the rope in my left hand to relieve the pull on my hooked right hand. I had to resist panicking and get this problem solved, so I mustered up another attempt.
With the pliers in my grasp, I released the rope and gripped the shank of the hook where it was snagged in the rope. I jerked. It freed. My hand was out of the water and back in my lap, albeit with a big plastic plug dangling from the back of my index finger knuckle.
I scrambled to my feet, gripped the barb with the pliers and mashed it flat. The hook slid out with ease.
Trouble had found me. But I beat it in the end. I swabbed the wound with an alcohol wipe, applied a bandage to keep the holes clean and resumed fishing.
What else would you expect me to do?