Thirty years ago, when my cousin Tom bought a mom-and-pop resort in northern Wisconsin, I helped him run the place during his first two summer seasons. I tended bar, worked as groundskeeper and, as much as my limited skills allowed, served as handyman. The resort came with an extensive set of tools, but they were spread out between Tom’s basement, his two-stall garage, the bed of his pickup truck, and a tool shed on the far end of the property. If a project was small, I sometimes spent as much time looking for tools as I did making the repair.
One of the first improvements Tom made to the resort after he’d settled in was to build a large workshop alongside the garage, and one of the first things he did after the construction of workshop was done was to move all of his tools to a single location. Once the tools were compiled, he discovered that he had six hammers, two dozen screwdrivers, and enough crescent wrenches to supply a small hardware store. Tom pointed out that I had helped to create this overabundance of tools, because during my two summers at the resort, I preferred buying new tools to scouring the resort for the old ones.
Last week I was reminded of Tom’s cache of tools, not because I was organizing my own tools (which I should probably do), but because I was getting a tackle box ready for my annual Canada fishing trip. The wide disbursal of my fishing gear was reminiscent of Tom’s tool collection.
Even when my fishing gear is organized, which it seldom is, it is still spread throughout my garage. There is a big tackle box for my Canada trip and a small tackle box for fishing from the confines of my kayak. There is a sled containing my ice fishing gear. There is an old tackle box with a broken latch that holds any lures not currently in use, and there are two well-stocked tackle boxes from a friend of mine who died a few years ago. Dave’s widow had me take them away not long after he died, but to date I’ve been reluctant to dig into my friend’s gear. It probably is time to add his lures and hooks to mine.
I hauled out all of my gear and spread it out across my front porch. As expected, I had too many of some things, not enough of others. For example, I use weighted alligator clips to measure water depth. These clips often sit next to the cash register at bait shops, so I sometimes grab one as an impulse purchase. I need one for each of my two tackle boxes, but I currently own ten. Between my two tackle boxes, there were a dozen Mepps spinners, and Dave’s two boxes contained an additional twenty. I have enough spoons to get me into the next decade, and Dave left me with a lifetime’s supply of deep divers.
I am possibly short of Rapalas. Rapalas, both floating and diving, are among my favorite lures, but they are delicate. Under the chin of each of the balsa wood minnows is a plastic scoop that makes the lure wriggle like a wounded fish. If the scoop shifts even slightly, the wiggling action ceases and the lure is useless. Unfortunately I cannot tell which ones are damaged just by looking at them. I have to reel them through the water to feel whether they still have the right action. As I sit on my front porch and sort through these lures, I might have more Rapalas than I need or I might have a small pile of useless balsa wood.
Clare wants to replenish my tackle box as a birthday present, but it turns out that I am in pretty good shape. I’d like a few more Rapalas just in case. I could also use a Little Cleo or two, a bottom bouncer, and as many panfish hooks as my daughter cares to buy. If she gets me these things and I put new line on all of my poles, I’ll be set both for my Canada trip and for my upcoming summer on the river.
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