The Fisherman's Trail

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 rest, I realized that I might as well try some fishing as long as I was up. I threw some tackle in my backpack, grabbed my rod, and headed out the door. I knew a small harbor was nearby, and I thought that I might be able to catch some mullet. 

Mullet are tricky but fun fish to catch, as I've talked about before. They are spooky, finicky, light-biting, and most of the locals didn't think they were worth the effort. Many believed that they were impossible to catch. One fisherman unloading his catch from a boat muttered about how "they wouldn't bite" right before I hooked into a fish. However, mullet fishing in many other places is extremely popular due to the challenge and hard fight these fish have to offer.

 

The smaller mullet are usually easy to catch, but the bigger ones can be ridiculously difficult. They carefully scrutinized each and every bait I presented, refusing nearly all. The only way I could hook such fish was to catch them off guard by casting my offering into the middle of a feeding frenzy. My patience rewarded me with a few larger mullet. 

Eventually, even the boldest mullet caught on to my trickery and sulked under the dock. I tried for other species for awhile before heading back, and caught a small sea bream along the way.

I ate a quick breakfast and headed out to tackle the fisherman's trail. The weather was beautiful, and I honestly thought that I might be able to enjoy myself. I had bought into all that bullshit unsuspecting tourists are fed, and didn't think that the hike would be difficult. Even if it was, there would supposedly be lots of places to fish. I mean, they called it the fisherman's trail for a reason, right?

 

Boy, oh boy. I was in for an extremely rude awakening. The fisherman's trail, despite having been described by one travel website as "beautiful and enlightening," would be better described as a "grueling death march" or a "modern day trail of tears." Nearly the entire trail was uphill and extremely sandy, making every step a painful physical effort. Set on rocky cliffs hundreds of yards above the water, being able to fish wherever I wanted was essentially out of the question. The few spots I tried were fruitless and weedy. 

After a day of this torture, I finally limped into some random coastal town (they all look the same) and collapsed on the bed of a local inn. I could barely move, and the mullet and sea bream of that morning had become a distant memory. After lying motionless for several hours, I finally regained the strength to move and headed down to the local beach to see if there were any fish there.

 

After snagging more times than I should have, I switched over to a plug and started fishing with that. I honestly didn't expect to catch anything on it, as the rattling lure looked like a Christmas decoration and had never hooked anything other than my nose. However, on one of my retrieves, the wiggling of the lure got interrupted by an aggressive strike.
 

 

After setting the hook into what couldn't possibly have been a fish, I reeled it in and hauled it onto the rocks. I couldn't believe my eyes. The silver fish flopping around was none other than a Robalo, the local name for the European Sea Bass. Undoubtedly the most prized fish in Portugal, I had seen dozens of surf anglers trying to catch these things along the trail earlier in the day. As far as I had seen, they had caught nothing. I felt remarkably triumphant despite the fact that the fish was around the same size as the lure I had caught it on. 

 

At that point, the sun was down and I was at risk for getting fined for illegal night fishing (it wouldn't be my first time). I headed back to the inn and prepared myself for another grueling day of hiking. 

I honestly don't get hiking. When it comes down to it, hiking is painful walking. Society's countless infrastructural advancements have been specifically made so we no longer have to run around in the forest like wild animals, yet we do so in our free time anyways.  If I wanted to spend time in the outdoors, I'd do something less situationally ironic than hiking.

 

Although the hiking on the second day of the trail was far more forgiving, the fishing wasn't any better. I lost my plug while fishing in the rocks at a spot so dangerous the locals (probably) called it "the devil's nest." Or maybe they were just talking about my hair. 

That's me waaaay out on the tip of that rock.

 

Eventually,  I arrived at the second place I would be staying at. At first, I was irritated that it was an extra 30 minutes away from town. I had let my guard down mentally, and the extra slog was enough to put me in a difficult mood. This mood was worsened when I saw the inn that I would be spending the night in. It consisted of several small, rundown shacks next to a shallow, filthy pool and a muddy lake.

I walked up to the lake and looked into the water. As I said, it didn't look that special. The water was grungy and the only life I could see was an eel ripping apart a dead bird that had somehow drowned. Not exactly a garden of Eden. However, something caught my eye further into the lake. Although I couldn't tell what it was, I could tell that it was a medium sized fish. Maybe even a catchable one. I couldn't see any signs that prohibited fishing, so I dug out my tackle and rod. I hadn't brought any freshwater stuff, but I had a few MORF (motor oil red flake) grubs and tied one on. I immediately started getting strikes, but kept losing fish. I adjusted the hook and hooked another fish on my next cast. I was able to land this one, and what I saw on the end of my line was not something I had expected to see all the way over here.

Now that's a familiar face.

 

It was none other than a Largemouth Bass, the most popular sportfish in the good ol' United States of America. Seeing one here was a surprise, but it made sense that these gamefish would be stocked across the world. I released the bass and began catching more from the bank.

 

 

What made this particularly interesting was that I had actually never caught a Largemouth Bass before. Although I have been fishing all over the world and caught close to a hundred species along the way, I had somehow never found the time to give Largemouth Bass fishing a serious effort. I figured I'd catch one eventually, as you can find them in nearly all 50 states and apparently across the world. However, I didn't expect for it to be here.



I go my entire life not catching one of these things and finally do it here?

 

Watching tournament bass fishing on TV gave me a pretty low expectation of the fighting abilities of these fish. I was used to seeing the pros crank these fish in on 50 pound test line and giant hooks before flinging them into the boat. In addition, I had also heard that they are inferior fighters to smallmouth and peacock bass, two species I had previously caught. However, I was surprised once I began hooking these fish. They all were great fighters, pulling line from the reel and bending my telescopic rod into alarming angles. This may be obvious to many readers,

but I was very surprised. Nearly every fish I hooked also jumped at least once. Maybe the bass that Bubba McGuire or whoever are catching on TV are more sluggish, but I think it has more to do with the tackle being used. 

While fishing, I heard that the lake had a few boats for the visitors to use. Wanting to be able to fish more water than before, I excitedly rushed over to the dock where I found this beauty waiting for me. 

I didn't know whether to climb in or throw bread crumbs at it. 

I hesitantly clambered aboard the unstable paddle boat and tentatively pushed off. The boat was a two seater, and was balancing precariously on one side. While trying to adjust my weight distribution, a bass grabbed my lure and nearly flipped the swan boat over.

 Now there's an image you won't see on the cover of In-Fisherman magazine. 

 

After landing the bass, I kept fishing the lake from my trusty swan boat. Although it was tippy and difficult to maneuver, its mechanisms reminded me of my fishing kayaks from home. 

With one major difference.

Eventually, I packed my things and prepared to head back to Vila Nova. I waved goodbye to the swan boat and headed on my way back. The return trip seemed much easier than the previous one, probably because I knew that complaining would prolong the suffering. It had been a grueling and miserable march of hell, but I at least tried to think positively of my experience. Whether that worked or not is beyond me.

The sheer agony I had to endure.

I eventually found myself back where I started several days ago I rigged up my mullet rod once more and headed back to the harbor. The mullet were still there, albeit spooky, but I was able to catch a few nonetheless. In some ways this truly completed the trip for me, and I walked away after watching my last fish bolt lightly from my hands back into the water. I didn't really have much of a choice, as the wind blew all of my remaining fishing tackle into the sea.

If you like a relaxing vacation where you don't have to worry about puking, the fisherman's trail is not for you. At least not the section I hiked. I mean, I consider myself to be in pretty decent shape and I found it to be physically draining. It also could have been because I forgot to bring water and sunscreen, and that I had spent most of my preexisting energy clambering over desolate rocks in the hope of a fish. Back to the point I was getting at, the fisherman's trail isn't for everyone. If it was, I probably would have hated it even more (I hate crowds more than I hate fatigue). I might visit the trail again one of these days, but not without a caravan or at least a donkey to lessen the burden. They have donkeys in Portugal, right?

If you want a REAL death march, try walking to any of Portugal's castles.

I'm tired and need to get some sleep.