April 1 held a true fish tale, really

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Traditionally, I approach Opening Day of fishing season the same way I approach opening day of the major league baseball season.

I hope for the best … and prepare for the worst.

(See also: Bucky Dent. Bill Buckner. Aaron Boone).

Opening day is that magical time when everything seems possible. At least, when it comes to fishing’s season-opener, that’s the case. (The emotional wounds Boone reopened last fall still haven’t scabbed over yet, so I’m not ready to discuss the Sox quite yet).

But on fishing’s Opening Day, everything you discovered about yourself over months of cold-weather contemplation is open to debate.

On Opening Day, I expect to be able to hurl 70 feet of ice-crusted fly line across a river to a fish only I know exists. Forget the fact that I may not have that kind of range on the best of days … with the wind … with a greased fly line. Forget the fact that I may not know how to read a river as well as most, and may be guessing when it comes to assessing the housing demands of the average salmon.

Forget all that. I still expect it.

It’s Opening Day, after all.

For the record, I also expect 70-degree temperatures, a monstrous (but calorie-free) lunch, and to return home refreshed and chipper, even if I hopped out of bed at 4 a.m. in order to get to the fishing grounds at the proper time.

And I expect to catch fish. Several … big … fat … (and obviously incredibly wily) fish.

Of course, when it comes to Opening Day, what we expect and what comes to pass are often quite dissimilar.

We temper those expectations to catch fish with the (often suppressed) realization that ultimately, no matter what we do, no matter how much we know, no matter how long we’ve been at this fishing game, it’s still up to the fish.

An important fact to consider: State officials have decided that in most locales, opening day takes place on April Fool’s Day. Those of us who choose to ignore that fact (and exactly who the fools in question are) need only consider the typical water temperature … the lengths we take to fish that sacred day … and our traditional success rate on April 1.

April Fool? I confess. I’m him … usually.

But not this year.

This year, I rose at 4 a.m. I picked up a friend. And we headed for one of the state’s traditional Opening Day destinations.

Grand Lake Stream.

The mere words evoke emotion among fly fishermen. Those who’ve never been there talk about going. Those who’ve been plan to return.

And those who go … and go … and go (even though they’ve never actually caught a single fish there … like someone I know quite well)? Well, in addition to being April Fools, we’re … I mean, they’re … also tenacious, determined, smart, and … um … good-looking.

At least, that’s what we … they … try to convince ourselves … themselves.

So, to Grand Lake Stream. Cool water. Open water. Beautiful scenery.

And about 25 other anglers, vying for space in a pool that ought to hold far fewer.

The water is full of fly fishermen. The banks are packed with fly-fishermen-in-waiting.

And the dam pool? It’s full of fish … or so we tell each other, and ourselves.

Now, a quick (and somewhat embarrassing) disclosure: Until this year, I had never caught a fish on Opening Day. Not one. Never.

There. I said it.

I fished a lot. Pondered the meaning of life quite a bit. Snapped a rod once. Hooked a few trees. And a rock. And a beer can.

But never caught a fish.

Never even hooked one.

For those family members and friends who seem to recall that I may have told you that I did, in fact, end up losing several fish on short strikes over the years, let me explain.

I was just April fooling … or something like that.

Honestly, though, consider this from my point of view: When you’ve been wading in 36-degree water for two hours, and your fingers are numb, and your ears are missing, and your contacts are freezing to your eyeballs, and your rod is brittle enough to snap at any moment, it’s pretty hard to determine whether that little tug on your line was a fish (as I initially believed and claimed) or just a rock (which I now realize was probably the case).

But I’m coming clean. Now. Finally. And even if you’re expecting a fish story to follow, rest assured that everything else I tell you is entirely true.

This year, somehow, against all odds, I caught a fish.

You can ask any of the 25 other anglers. Or any of the other 25 anglers-in-waiting. Or my fishing buddy. They might even back me up on it.

The fly: A Joe’s Smelt. The water temp: Somewhere between “Wow,” “Yikes,” and “Where are the penguins?”

And the reaction from yours truly? None … at … all.

It was Opening Day, after all. And though I had no track record of success … and though the fish I caught may have been simply trying to avoid one of the 25 other, more precisely placed flies that littered the pool … this was no surprise. Not really. I expected it.

Just like last year. Just like next year. Just like every Opening Day.

Next up: Baseball season. The Red Sox. A championship?

I, for one, will expect nothing less … again. After all, it’s Opening Day.

And if you can’t dream big on Opening Day … when can you?

In the No News Is Good News Department, Greg Burr of the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife checked in with an update on the Green Lake pike situation.

The good news: The “pike” that was caught in that Hancock County lake was not a pike at all. It was a pickerel.

Burr said DIF&W staffers spoke with the parents of the young angler whose photo appeared – with a 4-pound “pike” – in the Ellsworth American recently.

Burr said the caption that identified the fish as a pike was incorrect, and that after talking to the parents, he was satisfied that the fish in question was, in fact, a pickerel.

In recent years there have been illegal introductions of pike in various waters across the state, including Sebago Lake and Pushaw Lake.

Those “bucket stockings” are troublesome to anglers and biologists alike, who point at the voracious pike as a predator that can out-compete other existing fish for the limited forage available.

Illegal pike in Green Lake, which is known for its landlocked salmon and togue fishing, would have been one more fisheries disaster for the state.

Luckily, in this case there is no cause for concern.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.