Fishing for Cows Ears

Few things stand out in my memory as strongly as the fishing trip I took with my sister, Vicki, when we were young. The results of that fated trip were unexpected and evolved into a definite learning experience for both of us.

Our family took many group angling trips throughout our rural countryside, dropping lines in neighborhood creeks and ponds to while away a few hours on sunny afternoons. We all went on these trips, five girls of varying ages, and our parents. Loaded in the back of Daddy’s truck, it seemed like we were flying, the wind blowing through our hair, as we sailed along gravel roads looking for the perfect spot to wet our hooks. And always was the chance that after the fishing was done, we girls might have the chance to wade and frolic in the cool water.

With age comes the belief that parents are overprotective and that they lose the ability to determine what their children are capable of alone……….at least in a child’s eyes. That being said, Vicki and I were becoming more adventuresome as we got older. Parental restrictions were a thing to be ignored, as was the reasoning behind them. In order to avoid parental supervision and censure, it was easier to neglect to tell them of you plans. Thus, the ill-fated fishing trip came to be.

I should point our here, and being totally honest, the jaunt was entirely her idea. I was the good kid, never back-talked, never in hot water. Where-as she was in your face and far too brave for her own good. That being said, I am POSITIVE that it was her idea. We had a plan, secret of course, to sneak off and go fishing in the cow pond on the back pasture of our farm. Without the requisite parental permission, we were boldly going off on our own, foraging for food in the form of fishes. Likely with the idea of cooking them over an open flame blazing deep in the woods, and most probably lit with pilfered matches. It’s a wonder we didn’t set the world on fire!

Once the plan was set, total secrecy was vital. With three littler sisters around, one couldn’t be too careful. And Mom had a way of ferreting out information, which for our backside’s benefit, was better not known to her. The plan was uncomplicated……. find bait and tackle and disappear for a few hours. Simple, easy to accomplish, no muss - no fuss.

Bait…..the first and easiest requirement. Out near the old barn was rotting hay and feed, left - over bits and pieces from where Daddy fed the cows. Discarded pieces of lumber and bits of tote sacks, likely blown by the wind or scattered by the hooves of cattle and horses, were around the cool and shady perimeter of the barn, the perfect hiding place for fat, juicy earthworms. Excellent enticement for hungry and unsuspecting brim. Catching worms is easy unless you are squeamish about getting dirt under your finger nails. And getting dirty was something we girls excelled at. The means of digging for worms is simple. Some sort of utensil for excavating and elbow grease were all that were required. For a mission of stealth such as ours, the risk of borrowing a hoe or shovel from the garden utensils was far more dangerous than risking a splinter in our hand from a piece of scavenged wood lying around the barn lot. An empty coffee can to keep the worms in, a little moist soil to keep them cool and damp, and we were set. The next undertaking was the procurement of fishing apparatus.


Over the years, Daddy had made or purchased each of us cane poles to use for our fishing endeavors, while he and Mom had rod and reels, those new-fangled pieces of prime angling equipment. Now, being semi-grown as we were, sis and I decided that we were certainly mature and capable enough to handle these contraptions of mechanical technology, and we were entirely too old to be restricted to the cane poles our littler sisters were made destined to be using to entice fish onto their hooks for eternity. We were made of sterner stuff ! Unwisely, we were sure we were equal to the challenges of fishing with the mighty rod and reel, and decided to “borrow” the parents much prized examples of the latest models of elite fishing apparatus. To obtain the objective….equipment…much stealth and furtive movement was required. Slipping as silently and cautiously as we could, we approached the shed where the fishing tackle was kept. The goal was to grab the rods and hurry away before either our sisters or our Mom spotted us. Once we achieved that, we were home free.

Hurrying across the grassy fields, we made sure to stay low and, hopefully, out of sight of the house and windows of home. Usually we skirted the woods across from the garden spot, since the grass and vegetables would offer cover from being seen. Once at the back of the woods, it was a simple matter of crossing a fence and being lost to view. The pond was in the center of a hay field waiting for us in hot, hazy afternoon sun. The cattle were gentle, scarcely looking up as we crossed the pasture. They roamed at will around us as we prepared to capture our feast. The fish were there, waiting for us. All we had to do was taunt them enough, with our trusty bait, to bite the hook. Dinner on a string!

Getting the rods prepared was scary, the line wasn’t wrapped around it, tied on at the tip and running clear to the bottom of the pole! And it wasn’t fastened near the end of the pole with black electrical tape! This fact led to a bit of experimentation as to the workings of the apparatus we had…..ahem………borrowed. Much trial and error was employed in our endeavors to understand how they worked. Once we were assured of our competency at casting, we proceeded to explore the pond for likely fish to capture. Slip a big, fat earthworm onto the hook, threading it through the end and sliding it up over the hook, or one good nibble from a fish would strip the hook clean as a whistle. Once a successful cast was achieved, thereby bait and hook hitting the water instead of at the ground near our feet, we settled in to wait for luck…and fish… to come our way. Now, it has to be said here, that fishing is a lot of waiting and watching, often with few and disappointing results. There is also the mandatory checking to make sure you still have bait and that some obnoxious fishy hasn’t swam by and sucked the hook clean without even a bobble of your cork. It should also be a given that everyone knows that fish do not care for a dead and water-bloated worm, hanging by a thread and white and disgusting looking, hence the need to refresh the bait occasionally. Yuck!

Here we were in supreme pre-teen Heaven, far from the prying eyes of parents and siblings. Luring unsuspecting fish to our hooks, hopefully prepared to die for the cause of our empty bellies and the good of girlhood everywhere. We waited, occasionally doing the required and necessary bait checks, then recasting to a more likely spot of water, sure that sooner of later our luck would change. Then if happened, something that would change my thoughts of following where sis led for the rest of my days. She had reeled in her line and was starting to recast, flinging the reel far back over her shoulder and preparing to release the button to send the line zinging across the water. Somehow, that isn’t what happened. Instead, the line went flying behind her, and hooked into…..unbelievably……right into a cow’s ear. I remember standing there with my mouth wide open, and wondering how we were ever going to explain this to Daddy. If I had known any cuss words, I would surely have been yelling them at that moment. The cow was bellowing, I was hyperventilating and panic was not far away, for me or the cow. Sis, of course, just grabbed the line and jerked, leaving the hook and a lot of the line attached to the poor cow’s ear, dangling like a gaudy earring. There she was, ambling across the pasture, hook attached, the broken line dangling on the ground and the cork bouncing along through the grass and dust. After much lamentation and discussion of how to explain the missing parts of the rod and reel, we decided that we would not mention our little expedition to anyone. That way, maybe no one would notice the damage and we would get off free and clear. A surreptitious trek back to the shed, careful replacement of the “borrowed” tackle, and angelic faces accomplished our goal. We were going to get away with it!

No one ever questioned the damage to the reel. I am not sure why, thought I am sure it was noticed. I assume it was considered to be damaged in some other fashion than being “borrowed” by us. We got lucky that time. Actually, we got lucky a lot over the years. I never knew what became of the infamous cow with one earring, although she likely rubbed it off on a tree or fence somewhere along the way. I am equally sure she didn’t appreciate our addition to her customary dressing habits. If a lesson could have been learned from this little transgression by me, it was that, absolutely, under no circumstances, was I ever going fishing for cow’s ears with my sister again.