"One thing in the world I hate: leeches. Filthy little devils." -- Humphrey Bogart, "The African Queen"
As parasitic annelids go, leeches are a bit unlovable. Unlike their earthworm cousins, a bloodsucking leech will never be the protagonist in a cutesy children's book. Leeches rank near Donald Trump and West Nile-carrying mosquitoes on the personality scale.
However, there is one creature that loves leeches: the fisherman. For walleye anglers in particular, the leech earns its space in the plastic foam cooler -- even displacing imported beer. Many seasoned line flingers swear by leeches. I just utter a few choice words for the live bait that bites back.
While I can cast without hooking my own flesh -- or the carotid artery of others -- my fishing ability is tied to bad knots and plastic bobbers. My tackle box consists of very artificial looking lures, bent snap swivels and jumbled hooks. However I don't rock the boat in the capsize or conversation sense, so there are standing offers to sit out in a lake and fish.
Such was the case this past Sunday as a call came in to rendezvous at a Long Lake boat launch. The instructions were simple: bring beer and leeches. It had all the makings for a fun night out on the lake or a "then things went horribly wrong" bachelor party. So I set out for one-stop beverage and bloodsucker shopping.
Whenever I set foot in a wooden floor general store two thoughts come to mind: pop in glass bottles tastes better and No Pressure.
As a kid, I would fish on the Au Sable River aboard a family friend's houseboat aptly named No Pressure. Of course the joke was the name derived from a lack of flotation in the pontoons. Before we reached the river we would stop at a wooden floor general store for snacks, pull-tab Schlitz and bait.
However, I don't recall the cashier ringing up leeches.
Thirty-some years later, I'm standing in a wooden floor general store staring at a box filled with enough leeches to make Humphrey Bogart's skin crawl. Little leeches and horror flick size leeches. Black leeches and others brown with black spots. Lots of leeches.
Only one problem: I see no way to carry them.
Now the guy at the counter must have seen me coming -- and I don't mean from the back room bait refrigerator. After all, I sincerely asked if I was supposed to bring my own leech container. He took pity and skipped the obvious "stick out your hands" joke and instead pointed out some foam coffee cups.
However, he couldn't resist setting the hook on an easy catch. "You know how to spot male and female leeches, right?" he dead-panned. The answer, unfit for print here or on the side of a Dixie Cup, went right over my leech neophyte head. I even earnestly repeated it on board the boat.
Unfortunately, while everyone else hauled in walleye, my leeches were shown no love. After one night, I can't blame old Humphrey. I'm not overly attached to leeches either; unless you count fingers.
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