The worst part about fishing is cleaning the fish. Oh, I’ll do it,
but I really don’t like it. The whole process of fishing is slightly
disturbing, from the moment the fish discovers a sharp pointed object lodged in
its lip to the moment you peel the skin off the meat after it has been
thoroughly cooked. But fresh fish tastes so good! The short time it takes to
consume a recently grilled fish is worth every second of horror involved in
preparing the fish for consumption.
I am always game for a fishing trip. Not because I like pulling
fish out of their comfortable habitats, bashing them on the head, pulling out
their insides, and then eating them (actually, I do like the eating part). I
like fishing because for every ten minutes of reeling and “fish-catching,”
there are sometimes two or three hours of pure relaxation. Unless you’re a
fly-fisher. Fly-fishers are the businessmen and artisans of the fishing realm. Someday
when I’ve got a little more time on my hands, I’d like to learn the finer
points of the sport, but for now I’m content sitting on the shore of a lake
waiting for the next little tug on my fishing line.
A few years ago, my dad, two brothers, some neighbors and I
decided to visit Mirror Lake together and fish. I was excited because there
were five other people who would be shouldering the fish cleaning experience.
Boy, was I wrong. Apparently, my older brother had never really learned how to
properly gut a fish, my younger brother was too squeamish, my dad had done his
share of fish cleaning when he was a teenager, and my neighbors were under the
impression that I was going to take care of all of their gutting needs.
So there I sat for an hour and a half, on the shore of Mirror
Lake, slitting fish open, ripping out vital organs, cutting off heads and
tails, and looking extremely sad so the others would take pity on me. Well,
they didn’t, and after I had cleaned the last fish (there were six of us, and
each of us had caught about three fish) I was hopeful that I could simply enjoy
the afternoon and the beautiful scenery surrounding me. As I looked up, there
it was, in all of its glory: a pink pile of fish guts bathing in the gently
lapping shallows. No amount of sunshine, pine smell, and pristine silence could
cover up the offending view before me. I vowed then and there to never gut
another fish. Oh, I’d go fishing, but someone else would do the cleaning. Or I’d
take up catch-and-release.
It’s amazing what a little campfire, an iron skillet, a pat of butter,
some lemon pepper and freshly-caught fish can do to a person’s resolve. Within
twenty minutes of committing to my impulsive oath, I was telling myself that I’d
gut another fish if it meant I would experience the heavenly taste of cooked
trout again. Fishing for me is a roller coaster of emotions: trouble-free while
waiting for a bite; elation at having caught something (even if it is just a
weed); disappointment if I catch just a weed; sadness for taking the life of an
animal that never did me any harm; disgust while disemboweling, beheading and
de-tailing; and satisfaction while devouring the fish. Like most roller coasters,
the initial fear and trepidation are worth the excitement and fun in the end.
And if you also struggle with the fish cleaning process, just remember, fish
don’t have feelings (this statement is probably not true, but if it helps you
sleep at night, so be it!).
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