Mike Jackson’s daydreaming again

Jimmy Woodson, an escapee to northern Wisconsin, e-mailed me and wanted to know how I was doing? He also queried me as to what was I doing to pass the time.

In short, I replied that I was tying flies, stripping mono off reels, adding a dab or two to those same reels, removing crud from the multitude of rods while also spending a lot of time daydreaming.

Minutes after my electronic reply was sent, Jimmy called on the telephone.

“You ever use the new reels I know you bought last year?” he asked.

I told him I used two of them on three different outings and really enjoyed how they performed.

“And how about those old Zebco Cardinals you always raved about when you were on your smallmouth bass rampage?” he bellowed.

I explained I’ve retired two of the old green Cardinals because parts are difficult to procure. I have a black version of the Cardinal that I still use when wading small streams for bass.

But I admit the new reels offer a fresh approach, so to speak, to the “knock-about” with the stream-jumping I so dearly love.

Jimmy loves to tease me about holding on to older gear. After putting up with years of his finger pointing I finally stepped in to the ring and threw a couple barbs of my own.

I told Woodson that even though I am very tough on rods and reels I do my best to make sure I don’t totally destroy the gear. I also instructed him that much of the older stuff comes with memories from those times when I couldn’t afford new tackle and depended on my father to keep me supplied.

The new spinning reels are Pfluegers, and even though they’re produced in some third-world country by workers paid a wage a gnat couldn’t live on, they are excellent for how I use a reel.

Jimmy helps keep the economy moving in the right direction. He will often report that he’s spent hundreds of dollars on new gear every year. He alone could be a cover story of some business magazine.

In my case it’s a little different. My lovely wife Viper chides me every week for holding on to what she describes as “junk”. She complains I hold on to far too many old relics that have outlived their usefulness. I stopped trying to convince her otherwise.

After I hung up with Jimmy, I went to the rod racks and started examining those treasured pieces of history. In the midst of the group sat a fiberglass casting rod. It was the one I used to catch my second muskie on a Hayward, Wis. lake. And that’s when the day dreaming started.

I sat there holding the rod in my hands, remembering how my father and I were fishing top water plugs for bass when a monstrous denizen of the deep came up and grabbed the bait. It was a Field and Stream moment after I beached the beast and had a dozen back slaps from Irv.

I also daydreamed about my many trips to the Sylvania Wilderness Area to fish for trophy smallmouth bass. I recalled the first trip there in 1969, and how I portaged to Deer Island Lake. It was there I caught my first 5-pound smallie, and it was there I forged friendships with a local guide that lasted for two decades.

And now I sit at the computer daydreaming about an early spring and catching those first soft-water fish from the Fox River. Too bad Irv’s not here to dream a little dream with me.