Smelt: unfortunate name, inescapable fate.

I went fishing this past weekend with my Dad. It was gloomy, chilly and exactly what I crave from an NYC escape--virtually empty. We practically had the lake to ourselves. Plus, it's a beautiful place. Clean water, green mountains, beautiful homes (most charming and old) peppering the shoreline.

It was a great weekend. We caught several fish, and almost every one of them had something in common: they had recently eaten a smelt. I know this because they puked them up upon entering our boat, which while rude and unsightly is reasonable considering their situation.

If you are not familiar with smelt, or are confusing it with its homonymic brethren ("I smelt a smelt while smelting"-- it could happen), a smelt is a very small fish. Tiny, really... they rarely get larger than 15cm. There is very little to say about them, other than this:

It sucks to be a smelt.

These things are so small that they can't defend themselves, and everything in the water wants to eat them. They are surrounded by nothing but natural enemies. In the lake where they live, everyone wants to eat a smelt. It's like the macaroni and cheese of the underwater world.

Sometimes, people catch the smelt. We catch them in nets, pulling them out of this watery cauldron of death they call home.

Then we put hooks in them, and put them back in the water. And then they are eaten.

Or sometimes, we take them out, and then fry them up for the purposes of....? Eating them.

Sometimes, we eat their eggs. Smelt roe is often used as garnish on sushi.

The name itself is a harbinger of misery. Smelt. Just typing it makes me feel languid, unhealthy...smelty.

I don't want to write about smelt anymore. It's making me feel smelty.

Here are some pics from Lake George.... please note my dad's sunglasses. Rock star.