The Snakeheadfishin' Blues.

Copyright 2012 by Jackson Landers.

By now I was casting and twitching the lure and reeling it back in as a perfunctory matter. It was a fact that there were snakeheads in that pond. I'd seen them that very day. Thick, prehistoric bodies colored like copperheads snaking their way through vistas beneath the pond weed. But I had stopped believing that it was really possible to actually hook one.

Oh sure, I knew all of the tricks after almost a year of hunting the bastards. Steel leaders. Weedless frog lures with the legs clipped off. A stiff rod for quick hook sets. I was using a light rod with more whip in it than made sense for this prey but otherwise I knew what I was doing.

I said something about domination of niche habitats to the nice couple that had started chatting with me when they saw someone doing something as batty as fishing for snakeheads in a pond a few yards off of the Potomac River. And the park ranger who was listening politely turned away for a moment when suddenly the damndest thing happened.

A great heavy thing struck my lure and began thrashing about. I tightened up the drag quickly and started pulling it in.

"That's a snakehead!" I announced to my small audience. I said this with the tone of a man who is confident that he is about to bring a substantial fish in to the landing net but I didn't believe it myself.

Oh sure, I believed that it was a snakehead all right. But I didn't believe for a second that I would really land it. Not really. Because I have loved and lost too many times. This hunter's heart has been broken by many a snakehead who was hooked and gone.

The fish thrashed and pulled. I jerked back to set the hook, wishing that I had brought a stiffer, if less accurate, rod. And the fish stayed on. I could see the rough outline of its shape for a moment. Twenty four inches long, no less I would wager. Straining sideways with all of the resistance and surface area of its long, bow-finned body.

And as I reeled it in I thought to myself, 'no, this isn't real. This isn't the fish. This is too simple.'

I was right. Less than 10 feet from shore the fish flopped and moved and shook its self off of the hook. I pulled my lonely, battered lure out of the water.