Worming my way through a Limekiln Lake fishing excursion
Fishing was such a big part of my daily life in the spring and summer of 1976 that it seems like I spent most of my free time looking for worms.
I suppose more time was expended with the hunt than actually wetting my line and feeding the assortment of maroon and pink wrigglers to the fish population of Limekiln Lake.
Hunting worms took cunning and a little bit of luck as my skills at the time were only slightly honed.
But my knack for the search was growing every day.
Most of my worm quests began at my regular hunting grounds. I searched around the garage, under piles of boards—any place within 200 yards of our house.
I equipped myself with a small, rusty half-moon-shaped worm container that conveniently slipped onto the belt of my pants. I wore the container like an accessory and took it with me everywhere.
Though the unpleasant aroma of its contents could easily be detected from 20 feet away, I took comfort in knowing that my fresh-picked worms would feel right at home among the stinkiness.
When I found that my usual hunting spots were exhausted of good-sized trophy worms I was forced to spread out my search area—something that definitely cut into my precious fishing time.
I would worry about the well-being of my bait should I run out of time to fish. Would my worms survive the night in captivity?
These worm hunts took me on journeys that had me studying the undersides of just about every decaying piece of lumber, woodpile and rock around every summer cottage along the shores of Limekiln Lake.
I’m pretty sure I observed more interesting bugs than a college-level entomology student and picked more worms than were sold in any store in downtown Inlet in my hunts—only to see them nibbled away by schools of Pumpkinseed Sunfish.
I once caught 63 sunfish on just 19 worms. It was a feat I have never topped that was worthy of a certificate of merit.
When I no longer felt like fishing my favorite thing to do was to release my remaining worms in a bed of leaves near an old pram boat on the back side of the garage.
I have often wondered how many of them found their way into my collection container, only to be released back where they came from and caught again at another time.
At the end of the day, the black earthy crud under my fingernails and the slime I wiped on my jeans were reminders of yet another adventure.
