There was more than fishing on this trip ~ October 11, 2006

David Heiller

We hadn’t been on the water more than five minutes when Tom pointed out the flock of geese. They were on the Minnesota side of the river, and heading south in a hurry. Then another flock, and another.

Tom remarked on what a great sight that was, how lucky we were to see it.

Tom Roster, my brother-in-law, teaches about shooting and ballistics, particularly non-toxic shot. He’s famous, in fact. He makes his living with ducks and geese.

Tom Roster and the sheepshead.

Yet there he was on the Mississippi River last week, getting excited seeing all those geese heading to the deep south of Illinois and Indi­ana. We can thank global warming for their shorter and shorter migrations. Tom made that point, and I agreed.

It didn’t take much longer until we had settled over a wing dam. Tom found it with a depth finder. He said a fisherman is blind without one, but I had the feeling Tom could have found it with his eyes closed and in his sleep. He discovered it about 50 years ago when he was growing up in La Crosse.

And then he started catching fish, one after another. We both had jigs on, and minnows, and we both moved and twitched our rods just so. But Tom caught the fish.

He finally asked how heavy my jig was. I should have known that information had it on the tip of my tongue even. But I never have been good at telling an eighth ounce jig from a quarter ounce one. I showed it to him.

It was a 1/4 ounce, and he had on 5/8ths. We were in deep water; I needed more weight. And try to keep your jig straight up. Otherwise the minnow is lying on the bottom and the fish can’t get it in its mouth.

I took Tom’s advice, put on my heaviest jig, and kept the line straight down. Then I started catching fish.

It didn’t really matter though, catching fish that gorgeous Thursday. I told Tom that, a point he took in without a reply. But I meant it. I needed that sunny day on the river, with fall colors sprayed up and down the banks, and blue sky overhead, and not a computer in sight. Fish or no fish, that was heaven.

We moved to another wing dam, another Tom favorite. Not all wing dams are the same, he said as he cut the motor. Some silt over, some still have lots of rock structure, plankton, minnows, fish. This was a good one, he said.

It was one of those prophetic statements that fishermen and baseball announcers sometimes make, because within 15 seconds his rod doubled over. A good sized one, and a fighter. Tom finally brought it up and gently lifted it into the boat. A sheepshead, 7-pounder at least. A female, full of eggs, Tom noted.

That would be a disappointment to many fisherman. I’m one of four people in Houston County that likes to catch freshwater drum.

But that fish could have been a 60 pound salmon, something that Tom catches every summer in the Kenai River in Alaska. He was almost giddy with that sheeper.

“Why do you like sheepshead?” I asked, no doubt my voice showing some surprise.

They’re great fish, Tom answered, good fighters and they taste good. What’s not to like about them? I couldn’t agree more. That prompted a story from Tom about the time he mixed in sheepshead fillets with walleyes and gave them to Mom, and how she couldn’t tell the difference. That’s definitely a Tom thing to do.

We moved to yet another wing dam, and that’s when the big one hit my jig. I had it on for about five seconds, just long enough for me to say the word “Holy” Then my line snapped. That prompted an ending to that expression and then some. Tom cut to the chase and examined my broken line. He wanted to make sure that the knot hadn’t come untied. He might have thrown me overboard with that. He announced that it had broken, something I already knew, then asked what pound test it was.

“Eight pound.”

That was too light, Tom informed me, and I knew he was right once again.

We drifted over a few more wing dams. We talked and laughed, and sat in silence too. All good things. Tom called his dad, checked in on him to see how he was doing. “Dad says to remember to set your hook,” Tom told me with a laugh. That’s where Tom got his foundation. Good advice, the kind you listen to. And lots of river lore, too much to mention here.

Tom didn’t keep any of his fish. He seemed to take as much pleasure in letting them go as he did in catching them. I only took home a rock bass and two stripers. But like I said, the day was about more than fishing, as such trips usually are. I learned a lot about fishing and the river, but more importantly, I got to spend time with an old friend. That was the best thing of all.