The Bowfin Cometh

<p>It’s been a cold spring in Erie, Pennsylvania. Snow continued to fall through April, pushing the season total to a stupefying 198.5 inches.</p> <p>Then May hit. The thermometer rose above 70. I put my long underwear away.</p> <p>Today, a thunderstorm looms, but I can’t resist the siren call of Presque Isle Bay. I don my neoprene armor and sally forth in search of the mythic bowfin, that dragon-toothed, prehistoric predator. I check some likely spots, but find them finless. Is the water too cold? Or are they simply eluding me? The bowfin is not abundant in the bay.</p> <p>I give up and decide to settle for bass. Grab a baitcaster and a pocketful of spinners and head for a swampy, remote corner of Presque Isle. 20 minutes overland, 15 through mucky water, and I’m there. So are the bass. I bring nearly 50 to hand (lotta dinks), plus a couple bonus pike.</p> <p>Then, when I least expect it—fishing a little spinner, down to 2/3 of a treble hook, its bucktail stripped bare—the dragon strikes. Bowfin! Line peels off as she makes for a brush pile. I clamp down and turn her. She goes for the lily pads. The reeds. Back to the pads again. She’s entangled. I keep the pressure on and shake her loose. She bolts and I see that only one tiny barb has lodged in the corner of her mouth, barely piercing the upper lip.</p> <p>I have no net. There is no bank. Only miles of watery reeds. I’ll never land her. As I prepare to shrug it off, something miraculous happens. The storm blows over, a ray of sunlight descends, and the bowfin stays hooked. After numerous attempts, and lots of flashing teeth, I’m able to get a few fingers behind her gill plate and up under her chin.</p> <p>Finally subdued, I lift the beast into my arms and look for somewhere, anywhere, to get a picture. The best I can do is a vacant goose’s nest. Holding the fish with one hand, I set the camera up with the other.</p> <p>The bowfin is surprisingly docile, until I hit the timer. Somehow she knows she can sour my victory by evading the snapshot. She thrashes, slips my grip, and crashes into the water. There’s a narrow gap in the reeds and she’s eyeing it. I set up in her path like a catcher facing a runner at home plate. She charges. I go down in the mud and make a grab.</p> <p><img alt="" src="http://www.roughfish.com/sites/default/files/Bowfin%20Fumble%20Dan%20Morey_0.jpg" style="height:450px; width:600px" /></p> <p>As we’re wrestling—this angry creature and me—I have a thought: I’m not a particularly young man. At what point does this sort of thing become undignified? Conclusion: dignity is overrated. I scoop the fish up, fling her atop the nest, and pin her there while I reset the camera.</p> <p>Photo taken, I return her to the water and step aside. She swims out slowly, with a nonchalant air, as if the whole ordeal was just another Wednesday in the swamp.</p> <p>Ten minutes later, as I’m fishing, she surfaces for air not five feet away from me. Our eyes meet. I like to believe her look is not unfriendly, but she's probably thinking of biting a hole in my waders.</p> <p><img alt="" src="http://www.roughfish.com/sites/default/files/Dan%20Morey%20Erie%20Presque%20Isle%20Bowfin%202_2.jpg" style="height:525px; width:700px" /><img alt="" src="http://roughfish.com/sites/default/files/Dan%20Morey%20Erie%20Presque%20Isle%20Bowfin%202_0.jpg" style="height:525px; width:700px" /></p>