Protean Fishes

Protean Fishes

Recall that Proteus was a minor sea god in Greek mythology; and furthermore, that he was able to change shapes or form at will.   You’ll then understand the following encounters I’ve had with protean creatures from the depths.

Mortal depiction of Proteus - from the web

My first hint in fishing of the surprisingly changeable nature of my quarry occurred early in my career at The Pond.  I was floating bread balls for goldfish, and my bobber went down with a rush; I was quickly tight to a determined fish.  My targeted goldfish were large, but lethargic; while my experience with bass at the time indicated spirited, but small.  This particular fish seemed both large and spirited.  All I could imagine in my feeble experience was a larger bass; I was shocked when something else emerged from the muddy water.  All whiskers and mouth, my first big bass had morphed into a sizeable horned pout (bullhead) as I pulled it onto shore.  I was proud enough of this catch to keep it in a bucket, alive, for the rest of the day to show off to my Dad; and this was memorable enough for me to recollect more than 40 years later. 

Horned Pout - from the web

I learned a few immediate and ongoing lessons from this modest catfish.  First, there was more to this fishing than just waiting and then winding hooked fish in!  I had felt this fish wildly struggle with all its might for freedom; I was excited by that frenzy.  To me, this frenzy still symbolizes the wildness of the fish I pursue, and I actually suspect that it is the encounter with wildness, and not the fish itself, that I am seeking.  That frenzy had also challenged my equipment and abilities to land the fish.  For the first time, the outcome of one of my fishy encounters was not predetermined.  There was some technique to this sport, and I’m still exploring the limits of both myself and my tackle.  Finally, I had been utterly surprised at what my comfortable, familiar little Pond had coughed up.  This fish expanded my sense of mystery; both of the possible fishes available, but later, also of how these systems operate.  I became obsessed with both of these mysteries, and formal and informal studies of fish and ecology have since dominated my reading and time.

Proteus just doesn’t pick on me.  Just last month a Maine Guide told a recent story about a local who made the mistake of “thumbing” a bluefish.  The victim had landed a striper (or so he thought); but when he inserted his hand into that bass’ convenient thumb-grip jaw, our Greek Friend struck; and that Yellow-eyed Devil went to town.  Apparently fishing was done for the day, and the next stop was the Emergency Room.

Not all of Proteus’ high-jinx are so dangerous.  Most of us on Lake Michigan are quick to identify our leaping quarry as the coveted steelhead.  Some are even so confident as to label them as “Skamania” steelhead, even at a range of 100 yards or more.  Steelhead are jumpers, and Skamanias are famous among steel for their leaping.  Yet a remarkable percentage of our steelies  (whether Skamanias or not) convert themselves into King Salmon by the time they reach the net. 

Lake Michigan Steel!  All the way to the boat!

One Labor Day weekend long ago I was killing some time walleye fishing in the lower Kalamazoo River.  Walleyes weren’t showing much interest in my jig, and the first fish to slam my lure certainly wasn’t an ‘eye.  This fish challenged my light spinning gear to the max, and I was convinced it must have been an early spawning run salmon.  Even the bronzy flash I occasionally glimpsed through the stained water was consistent with the identification.  But in the last moments of the fight that walleye-turned-salmon actually turned into a fine channel catfish, the Catch of the Day!  

Michigan is blessed with many clear, weedy lakes that are great for bass fishing.  The water clarity adds to the excitement when one can sight fish for specific fish, or even when the drama of the fish’s pursuit and strike are revealed.  I was once deflated by the sight of a record-sized bass swipe at, but miss, my bulging spinnerbait.   Working the same weed bed a few casts later, my bait was slammed by a large game fish, and it leapt out of the water.  In perfect profile, I could see my record bass!  With excitement I fought the fish to the side of the boat.  A trophy bowfin (aka dogfish, grinnel, ling), not a bass, was within my grasp!  I’ve written elsewhere about the drum being a better walleye; and while I can’t quite claim that bowfins are a better bass, they are quite under-rated and under-appreciated.  And so while I was disappointed in the moment at the loss of my bass, I should have thanked Proteus for having supplied my trophy.  And since then, many dogfish have provided a trophy bass experience, and all have been welcome.  With the exception of their tendency to destroy my lures, they provide every bit of enjoyment (and then some!) that I expect from my targeted bass.

Bowfin - from the web

Proteus’ presence in strong in Muskegon Lake and West Michigan’s similar, drowned rivermouth lakes.  The falling water temperatures of fall mean low-light fishing for walleyes on Muskegon Lake.  Vertical jigging precise spots can be very productive.  Heavy weight on the line can mean a trophy walleye.   These are fairly uncommon, but they’re present, to almost unimaginable size.  Most convert to pike, or Proteus’ local specialty, the flathead catfish.  I could target flatheads for a lifetime and possibly not encounter the specimens I catch while fishing for walleyes. Proteus is a smart guy, because I’ll release a 15+ pound catfish to live and fight again, but I’ll have to think about it long and hard before I release a walleye that large.

Vertically jigged walleyes

Proteus as a flathead catfish - released to fight again!

I’ve had a couple of outings where I never knew what the next fish might turn out to be.  An entire summer of vertical jigging on Muskegon Lake yielded nothing but large, hard-pulling fish.  Pike, smallies, gar, carp, channel cats and drum all came aboard.  In addition to bent rods and slipping drags, these  outings provided the mystery and anticipated surprise of the next fish.  Similarly, an evening spent in the canoe with Amy in a Florida panhandle salt pond provided a virtual parade of new fish species.  Bass, redfish, snappers, sculpins, groupers and runners found our shrimp and kept us entertained for a beautiful, calm evening.  What these fish lacked in size and sport, they more than made up with their unique features and beauty.

Proteus is active under the ice, too.  Looking to ice my limit of walleyes, I swung and missed on what I expected to be my last hit of the night.  The jigging rap settled back into position and “tink”, my walleye had returned.  Halfway to the hole, the fish realized it was hooked, and took off like no other fish I’ve caught through Muskegon Lake’s ice.  After quite a tussle, during which my partner identified the fish (underwater and in the dark) as variously being a pike, lake trout or salmon, a beautifully marked, stout brown trout came through the hole.   Proteus gacked up a tremendous pile of smelt that perfectly resembled my lure, and which probably explained the evening’s good fishing.  That pile of smelt led my buddy directly to the spot the following morning, when he took a trophy ‘eye through this same hole.

Not all creatures under Proteus’ influence are fish.  I’ve hooked fish that have turned out to be turtles, mud puppies, squid, carnivorous rocks and gators by the time they came to hand.  I was most amazed by the voracious appetite and fighting ability of the carnivorous rock, but Proteus outdid himself during my Florida bass fishing trip.  During a lull in the action, the guide and I got to talking about fish other than bass.  Dogfish and alligator gar (‘gators) dominated his by-catch.  Shortly thereafter my shiner got walloped and I came tight.  Twenty-five pound line melted off the casting reel in a continuous, fast, pulsing run.  With a swirl on top, the guide announced “Gator!” and I was ostensibly fighting my first alligator gar.  These are the second largest freshwater fish in North America, and here was my chance.  This was a time-consuming fight, and the guide offered to cut my line so we could get back to bass fishing.  “No thanks, I’m content to finish off this ‘gator.”  He noted that it wasn’t the right season, so he couldn’t shoot it, and we couldn’t keep it.  “No prob, I just want to see it.”  He announced that it was NOT coming into his boat.  OK; I understood; it’s a beautiful boat, and I just wanted to see my opponent.  Finally, he came alongside and surfaced from the depths; for the first time, I could see my catch.  I was expecting smooth, ganoid scales and fins.  I was confronted with rough, knobby algae-covered leather.  “What the hell is that?”  I surprisingly exclaimed.   “It’s a gator,” my guide replied.  (“You f***ing moron,” he did not say.)  It’s important to realize that sometimes  a “‘gator” is a “gator”.  I’d just caught an alligator, the last thing on my mind, despite the fact that the guide had been talking me through the experience the entire time.

This carnivorous rock was fair hooked by a steelhead spinner and fought a wobbly fight all the way to the boat.  Note the other hook, previously broken off in the corner of its mouth!

“Hail, Proteus!”  He adds to the catching.  I’ll take some trout on top of my bass.  Drum, dogfish, catfish, they are all welcome additions.  Unless I’m down to my last bait or it’s a tournament with time winding down, any big, hard-pulling fish is welcome aboard Numenon at any time.  (OK, maybe not an alligator gar.)

“Hail, Proteus!”  He adds to the fun.  The same bluefish that plagues the southern New England fisherman is a cause for celebration when caught in Maine.  At the very least, new fish represent pleasant surprises, and pleasant surprises are fun.  Personal bests, new species, the unexpected appearance of old friends; these are all good things!   Enjoy them for what they are.

Finally, Proteus seems to be at work on larger scales, too, and it seems like there are lots of opportunities for his antics to continue.  The near-shore, late summer/fall fishery in southern New England is high-lighted (and maybe dominated) by locally called “Funny Fish,” that is, the false albacore and bonito.  As I’ve said before, my head may have been elsewhere at the time, but I don’t have a single recollection of these fish or their local pursuit when I was growing up.  Where have these guys come from?  And who’s gone?  Meanwhile, this summer has seen Tautog in Boston Harbor; Cobia off Montauk and Martha’s Vineyard; and a giant Redfish off Cape Cod.  These are southern fish, surprisingly showing up in Yankee catches.  Will I be around, and will I be prepared for, the first epic mahi bite off the coast of Maine?  Will they challenge my mackerel gear, or will I overpower them with my tuna stuff?