Whole Life Times: Of Fish and Flesh

May 2005 | BackWords

Of Fish and Flesh

The Bumpy Road to Vegetarianism

by Vanessa Finney

Although I grew up in the mountains, where a lake was the centerpiece of our valley, I didn’t go fishing until I was 20 years old. Many Big Bear locals eschewed such pastimes; when you have to walk through a hundred-yard stretch of forest to get to school, camping is almost redundant. These activities, we thought, were for tourists. Each year, tens of thousands of city folk drove up our hill in new plaid shirts and suede hiking boots from Land’s End to tackle a list of outdoor activities as if they were earning Scouts’ certificates: Build campfire—check! Cook meal over open flame—check!

I didn’t even know how to start a fire, much less toast a s’more over it. At home, I took the chill off by stretching out in front of our wall furnace and ate canned ravioli. So it wasn’t until I was living in North Hollywood years later that I experienced my first camping trip—and my first fishing expedition.

On the day of the journey, I set out with my companions, a married couple I worked with, at 5 a.m. to make the three-hour drive to Kern River. Tom and Tina were dressed in overalls and rubber boots; they let me sleep with my head against the window. It was still early morning when we arrived at our campsite, secluded within a grove of trees. Tom jumped out of the truck to take in the scenery.

“Ahhhhh,” he said, taking a deep breath.“This is what I’m talking about.” Tina stood, hands on her hips, and looked around with satisfaction, as if she were home at last.

After setting up the tent and sleeping bags, we headed out with our fishing gear toward Taylor Creek. We hiked for 30 minutes along an overgrown trail—Tom and Tina sighing deeply with satisfaction all the way—listening to the 40-foot waterfalls in the distance.

At last the low hum of the water became a roar, and our noses told us we were riverside. Tom walked to the edge of the water. “This,” he said, making an expansive gesture, “is our fishing hole.”

Downstream and around a bend in the current, the water plunged mightily into the south fork of the river. Here, the water pooled with just enough flow to keep it from stagnating, running clear enough to make visible the 10-inch catfish and bluegill swimming lazily at the bottom of the bed.

Tina got straight to work putting hooks on lines, handing me a fishing rod with a smile.

“Now you can pick out your worm,” she said, opening the tackle box with a flourish.

I looked inside and asked doubtfully, “You hook ’em when they’re still alive?”

Tina snuck a look at Tom and answered, “Yeah, you do.”

I chose a worm, immediately dropping it with a shudder when it wiggled between my fingers. Tom snickered.

“Shut up, Tom. Try again, Van.”

I picked the little wriggler up again and touched it to the tip of the hook. It recoiled slightly. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I chanted to it, as I slipped the hook through one side and out the other. The worm was still wiggling. I winced and looked up in time to catch Tom and Tina turning their backs, shoulders shaking with amusement.

Tom showed me how to cast the line, and then we each chose a boulder on the shore to sit on. I was the first to get a bite.

“Look,” Tina yelled, pointing at my taut line. She had a broad grin on her face, and I knew she felt we were participating in a Wholesome All-American Moment.

“Pull up!” Tom shouted. I did, and was horrified to see that the resistance on my pole was coming from the roof of an animal’s mouth. My friends stood on either side of me, coaching me like I was in childbirth, only in reverse.

“Pull!”

“Give it some slack!”

“Reel it in!”

“It’s going to be a beaut’!”

Between groans of “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I wound the line closer to me, gave a final heave, and the fish landed in the dirt at my feet. We all crowded around.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

What we did was put it in a basket, and then we piled more on top as they were caught.

The rest of the day’s bounty was Tom and Tina’s doing; I was through with fishing.

Something they don’t tell you as you’re headed happily for the water is that while you’re catching new fish, your first catches are dying a slow death, suffocating second by second to a soundtrack of your whoops of excitement in the background. I couldn’t imagine a worse way to die.

Being served flesh foods in tidy three-inch ovals all my life had somehow disconnected me from the idea that those tasty servings of protein had once been... living creatures. As we headed back down the trail to feast on our catches, I couldn’t take my eyes off those little tails still waving limply back and forth.

Back at camp, when it came time to prepare lunch, I was torn. I was reluctant to inflict more harm, yet I had already killed a fish. Then I remembered a scene from Dances with Wolves showing that what had broken the Native Americans’ hearts was not that white men had killed buffalo, but that they had slaughtered them for sport. I remembered their faces as they took in the wasted bodies strewn across the prairie, carcasses never even mined for food or fur. I pulled the first fish out of the basket, scaled it and gave it to Tina to fry.

The next day, I became a vegetarian.

Vanessa Finney is the news writer for KBHR 93.3FM in Big Bear Lake, where she still avoids fishing.

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