Tim Mead Fishing

Welcome

Welcome to timmeadfishing.com, the cyberhome of Tim Mead, aka The Ancient Angler..   .   Each month there will be a new feature article highlighting some aspect of freshwater (maybe a saltwater article from time-to-time) fishing. Both “how to” and “where to” will be covered. Articles will be archived.   In addition, selected photo galleries will appear.

Who is Tim Mead

Tim Mead is an established outdoor writer and photographer with hundreds of credits in national and regional magazines.   Since beginning his angling career with his dad over 60 years ago, Tim has fished from Alaska to Florida, Texas to Pennsylvania, Montana to Georgia.   Tim has won Excellence in Craft awards from both the Outdoor Writers Association of America and the Southeastern Outdoor Press Association.   He is a Past President of the latter.

Intro to photo galleries

I have been unable to include all photos available.   If you need a particular photo, contact me with a specific request.  The archives may contain just what you need.   All photos are copyright and may not be used without permission and payment.

Talking Trash

The following article is copyright by Tim Mead and may not be duplicated or reproduced without his expressed written permission.

Glenn Burne, long-time buddy, took a look at my hat and exclaimed, “My gosh, Bill.   I should have worn my hat.   Look at the hat Tim has.   I’m disgraced!” Glenn was engaging in one of outdoor sportsfolks favorite pastimes -- talking trash.

Glenn, Bill, Larry and I were getting together to plan a fishing and camping trip.  

My hat was a felt job purchased nearly 40 years ago at a safari outfitter in Johannesburg, South Africa.   Since then it weathered winter fishing for smallmouth bass, walleyes and muskies in central Pennsylvania, pike and walleye fishing in Ontario, trout in Michigan, and the indignities of multiple shots of insect repellent.   It’s a delightful mess!   Lots of folks admire my hat, some in genuine envy, some in mock admiration.

Glenn, to his dismay, was wearing a simple baseball cap with the name of some plastic worm or marina on it.   His hat was clearly outclassed by mine.   Yet, he claimed, he could have worn his New Zeeland Clancy style angler’s hat, Clancy apparently being the generic name for sheepherder.   The hat he had worn in the Arizona and Colorado mountains trout fishing, through rain storms and insect infestations.   But, thinking he needed to make a good impression, he left the cherished hat home.

As a result of the exchange, Larry, Bill, and Glenn had to listen to me relate events associated with my hat.   After all, that’s one of the key functions of “talking trash,” to give someone a short term advantage.   From the distant upper seats of arenas across the country we see the home team and their opponents “talking trash.” Among outdoors folks, talking trash serves the same function.

Many years ago, largemouth bass fishing with Craig, my young son, I caught a nice 2 and a half pound fish.   Craig, however, caught two, albeit smaller, ones.   He insisted we take them home to show his mother.   For several weeks, he regaled all within earshot.   And I heard back, “I hear Craig outfished you 2-to-1 the other evening.” I never got a chance to explain the fish I caught was bigger than Craig’s or that it was my knowledge that put us where the fish were or that I told Craig where to cast.   People I did not know approached me and asked, “Are you the guy whose kid outfished him the other evening?” Craig’s trash talking had given him the edge.

Sometimes Craig’s trash talking has worked to my advantage.   For example, on a family vacation to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina.   On a bright summer day, most anglers up-and-down the beach had given up.   But I located a spot about 70- or 80-feet from shore and there were fish in it.   I had 7 or 8 fish in my bucket, just enough to make a tasty fresh fish dinner.  

As often happens when fishing on the beach, a chap appeared next to me.   He asked, pointing toward Craig playing in the sand, “Is that your son?” When I acknowledged that it was, the chap added, “He just came up to me to tell me that you were the best fisherman on the beach and that I should look in your bucket.   I don’t know what kind of fish those are, but your son’s right.   Those are nice fish.”

Among the best trash talkers I ever knew was Dick Jones.   When I was a teenager in Springport, Michigan, Dick, though an adult, was one of my best fishing buddies.   He lugged me with him all over the State.  

Though I was not present, so I cannot attest to the veracity of either account, Dick and my dad often recounted a trip they took, along with Dick’s dad, to Long Lake in the Upper Peninsula (I know, there are lots of Long Lakes and some long lakes as well).   They rented a round bottom boat and took it far down the lake.   While miles from the landing, wind and rain drove them ashore.

Hours later, they returned to the landing and what happened next depends on whose trash you believe.   Dick’s dad got out of the boat and took an armload of gear toward the car.   According to Dick, my dad then picked up the several anchors they had with them, stood near the edge of the boat, and promptly threw himself into the chilly lake.   “You should have seen him!” Dick chortled.   “He grabbed those anchors, one in each hand, and dove head first into shallow water.”

“Dick, the boat would never have tipped if you hadn’t pulled the bow up on that log.   Everybody who knows anything knows you cannot pull a round bottom boat onto a log.   The boat will tip every time.   You pitched me into the water.   I didn’t fall.”

Each time they repeated this tale, the wind and the rain grew stronger, the roundness of the boat bottom and the slipperiness of the log increased.   And the laughter of listeners and friendship of the trash talkers increased.

Different perhaps than the trash talking of professional athletes, but a key element of outdoor friendship is the trash talking that goes on, the verbal “one-upmanship” which recalls some of the ups-and-downs of our experience.

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