Spooled: A Fishing Blog

My thirst for stupidity and my need to explore more dangerous and idiotic ways of fueling my obsession took me to Pacific City last Tuesday. Known as being a destination for surfers and tourists, it's also home to a group of suicidal fishermen who launch rickety wooden boats called dories into the frothing surf for a living. Being a member of an equally suicidal group of fisherman who launch even smaller boats into the roaring waves, I decided that the place looked like a great bet for bottomfish. Fellow kayak fishermen from all over the state fish here, as the area is slightly protected from the wrath of the greater Oregon Coast. However, this is little comfort when you find yourself having to paddle through the fury of Neptune every time you want to do some fishing. The waves seem like a virtual pinball machine, complete with a crowd of onlookers who encouragingly laugh every time I get swept from my plastic vessel. Once I had fought my way past the surfers and relentless waves,

Most people would be physically and mentally exhausted after a day of kayak fishing. The backbreaking paddling causes your legs and core to cramp uncontrollably, the jigging tires out your arms and renders them unusable, and the rigid, uncomfortable seat contorts your back into strange, painful positions for hours at a time. Nearly all the kayak fishermen I saw after the tournament could barely talk and were more focused on finding something soft to collapse on. I felt the same, but even intense physical fatigue wasn't enough to keep me from fishing. As soon as I was finished putting away my bottom fishing tackle and kayaking equipment, I immediately began rigging up a surfperch rod and raced off to nearby Agate Beach. One of my favorite things about surf fishing is its availability. To go salmon fishing or bottom fishing off the Oregon Coast, there's usually a lot of planning involved. I can't just head out to the open ocean at any time or in any weather conditions in

Before the last few years started and my fishing crossed the line between a hobby and a maniacal obsession, there were many things I thought I'd never find myself doing. Either through morality, or cowardice, or the sheer impossibility of it, there was a long list of things that I'd never do or have happen to me. Above all, I never thought I'd find myself entering any sort of fishing tournament. Wrong year, but they must have given up with logos after 2010. Also, that isn't a rockfish.  For starters, I HATE fishing tournaments. Given that I already treat fishing like a competition, having it actually become one only raises my constant intensity level and stress. Why can't everyone just fish for the fun of it? Why does it have to be a cutthroat competition where everyone's trying to outdo each other for some monetary prize? I have watched PLENTY of bass fishing tournaments on TV, and that experience alone only intensified my hatred of angling competitions.

To me, the 4th of July is both the best and the worst time to be at the Oregon Coast. On one end of the scale, coming here for the 4th of July is a tradition that my entire family has been undergoing for decades long before I was born. There are certain things I look forward to each year, such as setting off fireworks, having the annual barbecue, or getting skunked while surfperch fishing. It's a fun time to be at the beach for sure. Unfortunately, I am not the only one who thinks this way. Nearly every town on the coast turns into a complete zoo, with thousands and thousands of people flooding into even the most destitute coastal villages. The worst by far, in terms of crowds, is Seaside. Not only is it the largest and closest beach town to Portland, but it has a much wider array of tourist attractions and carnival rides. Although parts of the town are  nice during most of the year, all the patriotism seems to draw people to this place like flies. It once took me an hour to drive

Every now and then, mankind undertakes journies of incredible proportions. Through force, choice, or some unknown reason, people throughout history have exerted themselves to inhuman degrees in their efforts to reach their end goal. I am not one of these people, or at least I thought I was before I tackled the unforgiving Fisherman's Trail. Don't let the scenery beguile you. It's all a trap.   Located along the Portuguese coastline, this miserable and grueling stretch of pain and suffering has somehow become a tourist attraction. Among the ignorant and masochistic, I found myself on a weeklong hiking trip down the trail. With the errant hope that the fisherman's trail might live up to its name, I arrived at the small coastal town of Vila Nova de Milfontes (or something) the night before the beginning of my trip.   The first morning of the voyage, I accidentally woke up at an ungodly hour in the morning. While cursing myself for wasting precious hours of