The Yellow Popper
I’m not going to lie to you, I’ve had better weeks than this. Yes, we are supposed to count our blessings each day, dwelling on the good things in life, which in turn lifts our spirits out of the gloom. But for some reason nothing seemed to pick me up this week. Until this evening.
Monday was a Monday on steroids. Nothing clicked at work. I spent the day walking around in an incoherent stupor. Tuesday, tropical storm Cristobal hit Nebraska and surrounding states with a ridiculous wind that rendered the day useless. Wednesday, we finally finished our income taxes, reminding us what a disastrous year we had in 2019. Thursday and Friday were fair to middling at work, just trying to grind out the remainder of the week. Through all this we were also trying to cope in a world that is wound up tighter than a golf ball.
Then, on this Friday evening I listened to my heart and loaded the dog and a fly rod in the truck. We drove ten blocks to our city pond where Kirby, our miniature schnauzer went into a frenzied bliss when he smelled the water. He LOVES to fish.
A light southerly breeze rippled the lake’s surface on all but the face of the dam, where the water was like glass. I crawled out of the truck and tethered Kirby to my belt with a leash, then assembled my four-piece fly rod.
Kirby lunged down to the water displaying the might of an Alaskan sled dog, with me in tow. Then he stood impatiently by my side, waiting for that first fish to take.
My fly of choice during the hot summer months is a tiny yellow popper. This bit of cork and feather floats on top, creating tiny rings on the surface. Fish strike the popper with amazing force, often flying clean out of the water.
Bluegills are spawning now, which is one of the most interesting acts of nature I’ve ever witnessed. The males dig bowls in the lake bottom in community fashion, creating a giant underwater egg crate. The big females move in and lay their eggs, then they all hang around to ward off predators from their fry. During this time a fisherman can enjoy a great deal of action, and best of all, can gently release the wrestled fish back to their duties.
Kirby and I made our way clockwise around the pond, stopping to make a few casts every few yards. We only managed to get a couple timid bites on our circuit.
Then just before we made it back to the truck, I got a vicious hit. When I felt resistance, I set the hook and the fight was on. Kirby saw the bend in my rod and jumped to attention. When the fish broke water the dog couldn’t take it any longer; he jumped in and dog paddled back in forth in pursuit of the wildly fighting fish. In a minute I had the big orange bellied bluegill in hand. I unhooked the beautiful nine incher and released it back in the water, where Kirby went to work trying to find it again.
The next twenty minutes were magical. As soon as the popper hit the water on a long cast, a big orange belly would smack it and the fight was on again. I found the hallowed spawning grounds. Nary a cast went without a bite.
Somewhere in the fishing melee, I was suddenly nine years old again. The setting was Pibel Lake on a warm July evening. I was in the early stages of learning the art of fishing which I took very seriously. I had graduated from a cane pole and now sported a hand-me-down Zebco 202. I could cast a bobber and worm, but was having trouble hitting the holes in the moss where the bluegills were.
I sat on my favorite log and watched in awe of a man casting a fly rod. He could lay a popper in the open holes and hook into the big orange bellies with ease. My feeble efforts with a bobber and worm produced nothing but a few tater chips (tiny gills). Oh how I longed to catch one of those big orange bellies!
The next morning, I was tripping along a fishing trail next to the lake and spotted something yellow half buried in the sand. I reached down and picked it up. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a yellow popper! The next hours were spent feverishly figuring out how to cast the tiny, weightless lure into the open holes in the moss. My old Zebco did well to cast a heavy weight just a few yards. I had to engineer a way to get this popper out there.
While the grown ups were eating dinner under the giant cottonwoods, I was still trying to cast the popper. I decided to use a bobber for a weight. I clamped the big red and white float on a couple feet above the lure and heaved the crazy contraption with all my might out toward the hole. Time after time, I reeled in strings of moss as my cast would either fall short or to the side.
Then, it happened. Cast number ninety-seven landed perfectly in the center of the opening. I let it sit for a minute to let the splash settle, then gave it a little tug. In a flash a fish inhaled the popper and I could feel the pull of something big. Then I did what any excited young fisherman would do. I put the pole over my shoulder and ran up the bank as fast as I could. This fish wasn’t going to get away! I stopped running when I could see the fish sliding through the brome grass half way up the bank. When I found the fish flopping in the grass I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a big orange bellied bluegill! Never was there a prouder kid than the one parading that bluegill around the picnic tables where the adults ate dinner.
That was forty-nine years ago and I can remember it like it was yesterday. I still have that old popper (see photo above). Of course I don’t fish with it any more. But I will always keep it for a memento. I dug it out tonight when I got home from fishing and just sat and wondered how such a small thing could mean so much. It took this tiny piece of cork and a feather to drag me out of the pit. Maybe humble, little things have a special place. It was Jesus who said, “Whoever humbles himself as this child, he is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. In fact, unless you become like children you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.” These are strong words and I must remind myself of them. Let’s see… little yellow popper — little humble pauper.
