Ditch Fishing
The sun is rising over a mature live oak across the water. Gentle crashing of the stream against the rocks forms the background. Chirping chickadees fill the foreground. A blue heron scans the calm water for an early meal. As I close my eyes and lean into the escape, the sharp buzz of a cyclist builds from my left and quickly exits to my right. The neighbor’s dog barks at the cyclist, which starts a cacophony of yips and woofs, shaking off the morning’s dew. The bayou’s natural life isn’t alone in getting an early start. I unhook my fly from a guide on the rod; it was immobilized on a guide, waiting for the next opportunity to fool an unwilling bass into biting. An egret flies in to join the heron and me while we fish. I make a short cast into a seam where fast and slow water meet, beginning a slow retrieve to mimic a leech in search of a victim. Several casts later, a long-ear sunfish mistakes my fly for a leech—or fry or tadpole or bug or something edible—and it puts on the best fight a five-ounce fish can. I quickly pull it in, take a picture of the first fish of the morning, and release it back into the murky waters. The sun starts warming the water, and the water warms the bass. As the morning matures, my fly connects with more sunfish, a couple of bass, and a catfish.
“There’s actually fish in there?” ask a curious couple. They pause from their morning walk with their dog just behind me as I cast to the far bank toward a bass.
“Of course,” I respond. “There are bass and catfish and a few other fish. It isn’t much different than fishing on a bigger river or lake for bass.”
They give me a smile out of pity and watch as I cast. I could tell they wanted to see me catch a fish; I wanted to show them that I wasn’t just practicing my cast on their walking trail. Their patience wore thin over my next few casts; I was unable to hook a fish to prove to them that there were fish in the water. The fishing slowed in the high heat, and I wrapped up fishing for the day as the temperature rose above 90⁰F.
When I was just beginning to ditch fish, I felt the need to prove to myself that there were fish in the water, in addition to proving to the passers-by of the fish’s presence. That has changed; I know the fish are there. Now, the fish toy with me and chose not to take my fly.
You can try to dress it up by calling it urban fishing or city fishing. If you do, you’re putting lipstick on a pig. It’s ditch fishing. You’re slinging your fly toward some mutant hybrid fish in flood control infrastructure. These hungry fish are slurping down flies in the muddy water while they swim amongst the concrete slabs, rebar, and bike frames. Most of the ditches we fish originated as natural creeks, cutting through the swamps and dividing the areas into microbiomes. A set of meanders and cuts created deep holes for bass and gar to hunt and long flats for the carp to forage. People turned these creeks into spillways to prevent property damage and minimize the impact on our lives in the city. Inadvertently, we enhanced the fishing environment by adding concrete to keep the creeks contained, and thus providing “rocky” cracks and overhangs. We introduced culverts that dump street runoff full of algae and fish food to attract baitfish, and the baitfish attract the urban fisherman’s sportfish like bass and gar. The bridges over the creeks often have broken concrete blocks that sluff into the streams they cross, creating eddies and rapids for fish habitat. The ditches are a balance of natural and manmade elements; shopping carts and hardwood trees alike influence the path of the ditch. The fish, like the environment in which they live, are also a hodge-podge of natural and manmade influences. Florida-strain largemouth bass and tilapia have invaded the waters and pushed many of the natives to the side. However, the gar and catfish have held their niche. The fish have learned to thrive in an environment that has been influenced by us; it’s our turn to adapt our perspective and respect them in their environment. It is the pinnacle of the “rambunctious garden.”
Ditch fishing is not about bringing home dinner or trophy fishing; although, there are more and more tournaments in urban fisheries. These fish have been living in whatever chemicals have run off our neighbors’ ultra-green lawns. They may have an extra fin or two from the Houston wastewater, but they are simply fitting into the new environment we have helped create. Adjacent to the bayous of Houston are many miles of running trails for the city’s visitors and potential shelters for the wanderers. A slight shift in the perspective yields another use: a sportfishing stream with nature all around. Ditch fishing is about adjusting to this environment and appreciating the new natural world we’ve inadvertently helped to develop. It is a foil of the past and an example for the future we are finding ourselves in. We may be living in a city, but we are not far from nature. Our cities have not been sanitized of the natural environment. The natural world has learned to adapt to our most utilitarian environments. We can pay respect to nature’s resolve and return the favor by learning to connect back with the natural world.