Open Writing

As fish go, it wasn’t the biggest fish I had ever seen but it was the biggest Rainbow Trout. In fact, both of them were, although one of them is significantly larger than the other one.

Although I am not a fisherman I did once spend an afternoon with Sam Vugler drowning worms in the stream that ran through the meadow adjacent to the old corn mill where he lived. Had we managed to land, or even hook, a fish then I might claim the designation of fisherman. But we didn’t, and that’s that, and I haven’t been cruel to worms since.

Both these fish – the big ones – are Rainbow Cutthroat Trout. Both are dead and each is mounted and on public display. One is in the Visitor’s Centre at Libby Dam, and the other is displayed somewhere between the stuffed Black Bear and Golden Eagle in unique Libby’s Heritage Museum.

Libby Dam is at the southern end of Lake Koocanusa – having its north end in Canada. Its name is a contraction of Kootenai, Canada, and USA. The countries speak for themselves, and the Kootenai is the name of the river that flows down from Canada, meanders through Montana and Idaho, and wanders back up into Canada as if it had changed its mind. Its course describes a bow, hence its Indian name, Kootenai.

One of the trout is the world record holder and the other isn’t. The world record Rainbow Trout weighs in at thirty-three and a half pounds. That would feed a family of four for four weeks - eight if frugality is observed, and a family of two could make it last half a year if supplemented with fried chipped potato à la Anglais.

Remarkably, the World Record Trout is a bit of a tiddler when compared to the magnificent thirty-nine pound Rainbow Trout that was taken from the Kootenai River just below the Dam spillway.

"Why then," I hear you ask confounded, astonished, dazed, and bewildered, "is the bigger fish not the record holder?"

That is a very good question, and, doubtless, fisherman, netters, anglers, and others who procure piscatorial pleasure from throwing nylon filaments loaded with lead shot and tasty tit-bits into miscellaneous bodies of water, anticipating that the denizens of the deep - and shallows - will seize them in their jaws (thus supplying excuses for men in poor health, who are too sickly to run to the corner shop for their spouses, to stand all night in rain, snow, and fog on bridges, canal banks, river’s edges, lakesides, and the like, even though they have doctor’s notes in their pockets excusing them from gainful employment on account of their being stricken with bronchitis, pneumonia, and other imminently fatal conditions) will sagely nod when the reason for the apparent inconsistency is explained.

To facilitate the passage of salmon heading for their spawning grounds up the four hundred and twenty-two feet lift from the river to the lake, a series of ladder channels have been built. Even with that assistance, some fish that reach the lake are too worn out to continue their pilgrimage, and slip, moribund, to the bottom of the lake.

Helpless, they are then sucked into the hydro-electric turbine channels, minced by the whirring blades, and shot out as sushi into the gaping mouths of fishes smart enough to know that dinner is never long coming, and that if they miss one mouthful, there’ll be another one along in a minute or so.

Work is a blessing, according to the Book of Genesis, but fish who only have to face upstream with their maws agape and let dinner flow in, do no work, expend no effort, and thus grow to jaw-dropping size. This is very probably how our two Rainbows became distinguished.

One was taken from the Lake and the other from the River, but such distinction did not figure in awarding the title of world champion to the lesser of the two fishes. The record is not held by the fish, but by the fisherman who catches the fish using sport-regulated tackle, and whereas the record holder used rod and line, the bigger non-record holder was taken from the river by being lifted by the strong hands of the man who found it wedged between two rocks on the river’s bed.

So, although it is bigger than the champion, it has to take a back seat. There is a moral in this tale for those who do not like work, because both the champ and the should-be champ hied to the spot where the livin’ was easy, so neither takes preference on that score.

So can we learn anything from this fishtale? Perhaps only this, that even though both easy-feeders grew fat without effort, both of them were caught and demised, and even though both of them are feted, albeit in different ways, there is probably no such thing as a happy corpse, whether it be a fish taken before its time, or a human being gone to glory before their work is done.

As Eliza R Snow wrote, ‘The time is far spent," so idling, as attractive as it seems, and easy pickings, as tempting as they may be, provide us with a false sense of security that might well lead to our undoing.

So, if you are ever fortunate enough to get to Libby Montana, take a peek at both trout, marvel at their beauty, be astonished at their sizes, wonder at the circumstances of their captures, but take warning from their fate and how they came to it.

Copyright © 2007 Ronnie Bray

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Other stories at:
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http://www.meridianmagazine.com/voices/011024summer.html