Editor's Log
Oh For The Good Old Days
April 16, 2008
Any time and anywhere fishing geezers happen to gather you’ll hear that same plaintive cry as the old guys bemoan the loss of the quality, or the personal integrity, or whatever, or wait a minute…drum roll, here comes the biggee – the loss of the sense of camaraderie and community that was in such great supply back in the “Good Old Days”.
Well, point in fact, they’re right. Okay, maybe to be more accurate, we’re right. Things have changed. But then things have always changed and God willing, they always will. I’ll readily admit that there did seem to be a higher degree of camaraderie way back in the way back when, but then comparing that to today isn’t really fair either because these days guys like me are decidedly in the minority, age-wise – we’ve mostly outlived our peer group you might say.
But, in fairness I must offer the fact that way back when there was precious little else besides camaraderie to choose from – there was surely no money, or not any to speak of, anyway.
Case in point - I recall one late winter team event (now a defunct association) held on southern Arizona’s San Carlos Reservoir, and the 307 misguided teams that were so loony after a winter’s inactivity that they turned out to launch on a dark, single-lane, muddy ramp in the midst of a sleet storm. My partner got hot during the afternoon (not temperature-wise, mind you), we finished seventh, and the payday barely covered the entry fee. Now, those were the good old days.
I also recall that on the trip south from northern New Mexico for that San Carlos event I had to strap the snow chains on my trusty 4x4 just south of Show Low, Arizona, or I wouldn’t have been able to make it in time for the 3:00 a.m. sign-in deadline at the ramp. What a deal – a chained-up 4x4 towing a Ranger bass boat down steep mountain-like grades in a foot of snow. I don’t mind telling you, back then some of those bass fishing guys were crazy.
Oh yeah, the team that won outing on San Carlos was chunkin’ a pretty cool looking smoke-sparkle thingie that they called a Hula Grub for crying out loud, sheesh! Some 20 years later, in the process of a 2200-mile mid-winter round trip to Mexico’s Lake Baccarac for monster bass I made a startling discovery. Along on that trip were Bob Hall and two others. Bob, one of my marine business buddies from Lake Powell, was the winner in that late 70’s sleet fest at San Carlos…him and those Hula Grubs. I almost pitched him out on the Mexican toll road; man was I chapped. Yep, those were the good old days – we fairly reeked of that camaraderie crap.
It was great, way back when, but few of us had any hope (or even dreams) of making a living in the tournament business. I wanted, okay, I thought I needed the credibility afforded by competitive finishes in what few major events were available out west. It was pretty sparse pickings back then, but I felt that the success of my guide service and high-performance propeller business depended on good finishes.
But when it was all said and done, nothing really mattered back then other than the respect of our buddies and co-competitors…other than the four-dollar plaques, of course.
Good fishin’
Jerry Puckett