Bluegill... -- Roxanne and Terry Wilson

Bluegill Fly Fishing & Flies by Roxanne Wilson

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
Essential reading for the warm water fly fisher.


View all my reviews.

A Semi-Perfect Day

A few weeks ago, I went out for what might be my last warmwater fishing outing of the year. I headed again to the lake, and I can't tell if I had a good trip or a disappointing one.

Here's the thing: this time of year, I don't expect to catch many fish. What I was hoping to get into was some really big bluegill. They fatten up this time of year, and some of my biggest sunfish have come in Octobers past. So I was only hoping to catch one or two fish, but of a quality sort. My day turned out a little differently.

I went to my favorite spot, and before long a massive 'gill hit just a few feet out from the bank. It easily would have been my biggest of the year, but (as my grammar gives away) the fish came off. I was fishing a tiny crankbait, and those little hooks are prone to pulling out.

No big deal, especially when a little while later, I started seeing bass strike at my lure. They wanted an exact angle and depth of retrieve, and when I could replicate that path, I'd get a strike. Finally a big one hit, maybe 15 inches. He didn't fight at all and I gave him a slow pump. Then he came up and didn't even shake his head, but just gave a real slow back-and-forth motion. The lure popped out.

I was a little disheartened, but I persisted in that spot until I was convinced that nothing else was going to hit. I moved to the spillway and finished the tiny pool between the lake and the creek. Remarkably, I started getting hits on nearly every cast. I took six or seven fish, including one little bass and one chub. The rest were typical undersized sunnies.

Now, had I known before arriving that I'd catch six or seven fish, I'd have been pleased with that prospect, but to have missed the two I was after was disappointing. While the brief flurry in the pool was fun, it also meant that all my catching over the course of a couple hours happened within a span of maybe 15 minutes. Had I been able to throw those first two fish that came off into the mix, I'd have called it a perfect outing, especially for October. Instead, I'm not sure how to feel.

The good thing, at least, is that catching the chub allowed me to figure out what the silver-flashing fish I had hooked and lost earlier in the spring were. I wouldn't have thought there were chubs in that lake, so I never considered it.

Okay, how I feel: I caught fish. That never feels bad. Let's take it at that and head into fly-tying season (minus cold-weather brookie fishing as soon as the spawn's over, of course).

Dick Sternberg - Panfish

Panfish: The Complete Guide to Catching Sunfish, Crappies, White Bass and Yellow Perch by Creative Publishing international

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
It's a solid intro to the sport, with some extra detail and spots in too little in others. I got it largely for the photos (which are, for the most part, pretty impressive, esp. the underwaters shots), but I picked up some ideas here and there, too.



The odd thing about reading this book is that it feels a little like a time-warp, or at least a remove from what I normally read. There's no concern with catch-and-release here, which isn't too surprising given that it's a book on panfishing. Some of the techniques are just things I haven't seen discussed in a while, like peeling live crayfish, using chunks of perch to catch perch, etc.



All in all worth the read, and more worth the pics, but not groundbreaking or anything.


View all my reviews.

Btw, we'll be back soon with more stories. This site hasn't turned into a reviews mag.

Lefty Kreh -- Fly Fishing for Bass: Smallmouth, Largemouth, and Exotics

Fly Fishing for Bass: Smallmouth, Largemouth, and Exotics by Lefty Kreh

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
Excellent at what it is, a quick look at what you need to know to chase bass with a fly rod. It's heavy on the instruction, with spare storytelling and few wasted words. It's simple enough for a beginner (but you'll have to go elsewhere for knots and other true intro stuff), but even more experienced anglers should find useful material here, even if it's just a necessary refresher.



The book's worth at least a library grab for the last chapter alone, where Kreh talks about chasing the exotics. The peacock bass isn't that odd these days, but the New Guinea fish (black and spot-tail bass) are pretty amazing, and Kreh's depictions of his adventures with these monster fish are the book's high point.


View all my reviews.

Patrick McManus -- Kerplunk!

Kerplunk by Patrick F. McManus

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
At one point I might have called McManus my favorite writer. Now I remember why.


View all my reviews.

Bugs and Stuff

A few weeks ago I headed up to one of the mountain streams, mistakenly thinking that water levels would be high enough to make fishing enjoyable. I was wrong, but still had an interesting day.

First, I wandered off the path early. The trail, easily wide enough for two people to walk side by side, crosses the stream. I forgot this (despite its obviousness) and headed up a steep bank on what eventually turned into just a deer trail. I had to scramble over rocks and fallen trees and try not to slide in the mud and fall of the cliff. When I finally found my way back down to streamside, I realized quickly what had happened, as I reconnected with the main trail after it re-crossed the river. I've rarely felt so foolish while hiking.

Had I gotten into some nice fish, it might have been worth it. Instead, I only caught two fish all day, totalling about 6 inches between them. The only adult trout I saw all day came after I made a perfect cast into a little nook, saw the dry fly stop, and set the hook, hoping to feel some weight on the nymph below. The fish wasn't there, and I saw him swim for cover after my hookset.

I did manage to catch a spider at one point, which marked a first. I was leaning over a boulder, trying to flip my flies into a tiny pocket. It was an awkward angle, necessitated by the fact that a large spiderweb was blocking my casting from downstream (and was too close to the hole to risk knocking it free). Finally a cast flipped too far onto the opposite, head-high boulder and slid against the web. As I brought my line in to clean it off, I noticed that my leader had not only the web on it, but also the spider. I did not panic, but the spider was removed.

Later I also did not panic when I saw a snake drop into the water a few feet upstream from me. I calmly said "Oh baby!" and jumped onto a rock.

Walking out, I stopped and considered that it couldn't be a terrible day. It was a gorgeous place, and even if I had sweated through not only my t-shirt but also my vest without catching a fish, I didn't care.

On the way out, I got my final treat, my first sighting of a millipede, of a size that I thought only existed in the tropics. I didn't have a camera, but it looked something like this:



I didn't touch it, but I stood next to it, and it was about half the length of my wader boot.

I assume this is why we write stories: to give fruitlessness a meaning.

A Tale of Two Great Expectations

Last weekend I headed out on two brief excursions with different expectations, and discovered that neither trip matched up at all. Sunday morning I headed out at down to a local lake with my 4'10" ultralight and 4-lb test, partly to test out a new panfish lure I had picked up. I didn't have expectations to catch much -- if anything -- but it's always fun to have the ultralight out, and I hadn't done so all year. Things started off slow (accept for getting to see an odd little bird -- a baby heron maybe?), but then I got into a batch of thick bluegill, and one nice crappie. I lost one large fish that burrowed into some algae, and another big one that was most likely a bass, but that I only got a quick glimpse (and was surprised to see it flash silver).



When the fishing slowed, I moved to another section of the lake that I'd had good luck on in the spring. I took a few more big bluegill. I lost one more big silver-flasher and headed back to the car, satisfied with a very fun outing.

The next morning I got up a little later to hit the river at a park that only opens at 7am. I was the first one at the river, as far as I could tell, and I was excited. The last time I had been here was the trip where I had done so well with Dad. Given that it was Memorial Day weekend, I tempered my expectations a little, figuring the fish had been pounded throughout the weekend. Still, I was hoping to catch a smallmouth in the two-pound range, maybe around 15 inches.

Everything was lazy, or at least tentative. I stuck with it, tossing nightcrawlers and hoping as the water warmed the fish might become more active. I took a few little bluegills, and then some decent chubs. I took one smallie about seven inches. I covered a reasonable amount of water, watched the sole of my shoe unpeel, tied it together, and still couldn't find fish. I went home after a couple hours for a big family breakfast.

The thing was, the fishing had been pretty similar. Day one: six or seven fish in three hours, lost a few, and went home very happy. Day two: six or seven fish in two hours, none lost, and went home disappointed. The batch of fish from the first day weighed more and struck on top, but the real difference was my expectations and my equipment. Expect nothing and take an ultralight, and you're likely to be content; expect much and take a heavier rod, and you'll have to do better not to be disappointed. I'm not saying to lower your expectations, but maybe a little after-the-fact revision of what the day was like isn't actually so bad.

Carp

I've caught very few carp in my life (although here's photographic evidence to prove it's happened at least once):



There was a point, though, where I was obsessed with trying. On my home river, the fish would gather annually for unknown reasons in massive schools. They rarely contained the largest carp I'd ever seen, but the sheer numbers made me think I could catch one. I tried all kinds of bait, even cooking up doughballs from a special recipe, but with no luck. I even had a friend claim at a local lake that one bit him on the finger, but we still couldn't get them to hit worms, corn, or anything else.

Still, I managed to go from no luck to bad luck. I hooked a nice one out on the lake with my dad. As I fought it, Dad frantically hoisted anchor. The carp, of course, still managed to wrap itself around the anchor line and come off.

On another occasion, one took my bait in a different stretch of the river. At the last minute, he wrapped himself around a submerged tree and snapped the line.

I felt cursed. What I didn't feel -- and should have -- was that I simply didn't know how to catch carp. [I still don't, and one of my plans for the winter is frantic reading and video-watching on this subject.] I plugged away, sitting motionless on the bank watching fish motionless below me.

Eventually I had my moment. We were smallmouth fishing, having a decent day, when I caught sight of a monstrous carp in the shallows. Unlike most of the ones I fished for by sight, this one was actively feeding, and I knew I had a chance. I crept as close as I dared, and cast my nightcrawler just upstream of him. I couldn't see the bait, but I focused on where I knew it must be. I never felt the take, but when the carp opened and closed his mouth in just the right spot, I set the hook.

Never before nor since had I felt such power at the end of my line. I had 6-lb test on my Ugly Stik lite, and I had never been happier to have a properly set drag. The fish took off across the river, angling downstream. While the drag gave it line, I ran down the bank, trying not to lose the fish. He took me up and down the river a few times and I was wearing out.

Then we spot the main hazard. A large tree limb complete with a full set of branches and twigs, was in the river, and the carp was angling past it. Dad rushed out into the river and moved it, dodging my line. I finally turned the fatigued fish to shore and brought him in.

I couldn't even guess his weight, but he went about 33 inches, as measured to a mark on my rod. I put my gear down and revived him, and he swam off. I was thrilled, tired, and shaking.

Oddly, that afternoon, the situation almost replayed itself a few miles away, as I just missed another (not quite as big) feeding carp. Not too long later, I'd repay the carp world when I found one that had wedged itself into some vegetation. I'm not sure how or why it had happened, but I actually had to help the struggling carp back out of crevice between two rocks in the weeds. I hesitated to intervene, in case there was a reason it was behaving that way, but it seemed concerned, so I did.

I haven't caught a carp in a number of years, although I tried just last weekend (and every time bass or bluegill took the lure, I tensed, hoping to set the hook on a carp, or even one of the big cats I saw every few minutes). Hopefully the next one will be as exciting -- although not as long in coming -- as the first one.

Charles R. Meck -- Fishing Small Streams With a Fly Rod

Fishing Small Streams With a Fly Rod by Charles R. Meck

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
It's a decent read as an introductory guide, but not as informative as I had hoped. The ideal audience for this book are anglers who haven't fished small streams, as it's more about what to expect that anything else (if you've been on small streams, you've already realized you need to cast backhand, roll cast, etc). Some good discussion of fly selection and while it doesn't come up much these days, good arguments about catch-and-release and general conservation.


View all my reviews.

Bob Clouser's Fly-Fishing for Smallmouth

I'm posting not because this is especially interesting, but because I felt like testing out this Goodreads review set-up:

Fly-Fishing for Smallmouth by Bob Clouser

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
A pretty amazing book by one of the key figures in the fields. Somehow he manages to make it feel like both an intro guide to the sport and one-volume resource for everything you need. Of course, it's not quite either -- the beginner would have to go elsewhere for knots, casting tips, etc; and the expert would want more details on presentations and the opportunity to consider other flies and techniques (although the last chapter does this somewhat) -- but it's pretty remarkable, running from fly and tackle selection to how to focus on trophy bass.



On top of it all: fantastic photographs.


View all my reviews.

The Pond, The Bass, The End

We simply called it The Pond, and it was one of my favorite places to fish as a kid. You'll probably hear plenty about it in this blog.

The Pond was most notable for the absurd variety of fish it contained. I've caught at least nine species of fish out of it, and I know at least one more -- carp -- swims in it. It's quantity and variety of fish made it a great place to learn to fly fish, with fish taking on most casts, and a surprise result always possible.

What The Pond wasn't especially notable for was the size of its fish. Bass ten inches long were rare, and even though I once took a foot-long perch out of it, I never expected anything too exciting (unless, of course, I could ever tie into one of the carp cruising by without ever seeming to eat).

Of course all such places have their mysterious depths, and we were certain big fish must lurk in them. We'd try various tactics at night for catfish, always with no luck. We also tried some big bass lures, thinking that hours of casting for one monster fish would pay off, and that these guys had probably never seen such gargantuan lures. Nothing ever took. Then one summer I had a pair of encounters that would change how we viewed The Pond.

I was out with my fly rod, content to catch some panfish and whatever might bite. I set the hook on a small sunnie and started bringing it in. Suddenly, not more than 10 feet away, a monster bass came up and engulfed the little fish, completely. My rod bent in half and my body quit functioning. Then, just as quickly the bass was gone. I dragged in the sunnie and took a good look at it. Scales had been knocked off and it looked, well, chomped on. I don't think it was just my imagination that it was a little unnerved. Never has a fish been so happy to have been landed by an angler.

After that, I repeatedly plied the same area with flies (never once thinking to toss something that looked like a sunfish). I also threw nightcrawlers and typical bass lures, but it seemed like the fly rod was the way to go, and a little fly of my own design with elk hair and black dubbing was my primary choice. Eventually, the persistence paid off.

The tug on the end of my line wasn't anything special, but the immediate response was. I'd never had a fish this big on a fly rod before, and I'm not sure that I have since. Several times I got him in close enough to shore to get glimpses of a staggeringly big fish, and my friends were almost as overcome as I was. Twice he made long runs into the middle of The Pond, and twice I turned him back, thinking I had worn him out (as he had me), only to be disappointed. The third time, he headed for a brushpile more than halfway across the water. I knew if he reached that, I'd lose him.

When I tried to turn him away, my line went slack, and I was done for. I reeled in my line, with the fly still on. I was too rattled to think clearly, but, ever the optimist, promptly made plans to meet my cousin at dawn the next morning to try again. My brilliant plan: casting the same fly in the same spot less than 15 hours after this encounter.

Unfortunately, the next morning was one of the worst fishing experiences I've had. After trying unsuccessfully to rouse my cousin with the old pebbles-thrown-at-the-window trick, I reached The Pond while the mist was still heavy on it. I made a couple casts, when a man appeared at the dock to my right, drinking his morning coffee. The short version of the short conversation was that he -- and not the person we had asked permission for to access this side of the pond -- was the rightful landowner, and we were only allowed to stay on the other side of the pond.

I had no legal ground, I think, but I was frustrated. We had done what we thought was right by asking the resident of the house nearest The Pond, the one whose lawn bordered The Pond, if we could fish. We always could, and had discovered that we even knew the lady's grandson, so we would occasionally stop to chat (for teenagers anxious to fish, this was a kindness, but also a pleasant part of the experience). Throughout several summers of fishing we'd never had an incident, and I still suspect if the doctor hadn't seen an idiot in an saltwater hat interrupting his morning, the arrangement would have lasted.

I still don't know the full story concerning ownership and access rights. I assume the doctor who owned the land rented the house to the lady. I should think that would still mean she had the right to say who did or didn't use her ground, but maybe they had some sort of agreement about pond usage. At any rate, it killed our enthusiasm for the place, restricting our access to maybe half of what it had previously been (and making us generally uncomfortable to be there, even legally).

Starting the following summer, people began decorating the side of The Pond we did have access to, limiting fishing even further. The last time I was by, it looked as if it might now be impossible to get to the water, and certainly the intent is that no one walk near it. I can't help but think that, restricted to solely aesthetic value and given what feels like an aggressive stamp of ownership, a once great place has gone to waste. All I needed was one more morning, but I could have done with a few more years.

Why Dad Should Visit More Often

My hiking boots were destroyed. I'd never wear them again. Both thumbs were raw and I had two cuts on my right hand. I hadn't had as good a day fishing as this one in a long time.

The day didn't start out promising. Dad was visiting, so I took him to a spot that was accessible, and which I expected to hold a few fish but nothing remarkable. When we got to the river, my opinion of the place was confirmed. Two guys had driven a pick-up down the sandy trail and backed the rear tires into the water. They sat on lawn chairs in the bed, drinking from a case of Keystone Light and sharing the use of one surf rod while country music blasted out of the speakers. We headed upstream.

Dad stopped at a pool, and I went up to the start of the slow water, just below a short, but quick set of riffles. Another angler appeared in the brush behind me. We chatted and he, after asking if I'd mind, took up a spot halfway between me and Dad. Before he had a line in the water. I took two little smallies and a bluegill on nightcrawlers.

I was efficient with the nightcrawlers, pulling fish out regularly, with nothing going over eight or nine inches. Then I saw some kids in swimming trunks fishing their way upstream. They waded through Dad's pool, bungling along fishlessly and their leader reached me. We had a chat about river etiquette. I don't know if it took, but it was worth the breath. They were high schoolers new to fishing, and I don't think they knew any better (if they had, they wouldn't have been so friendly about invading my space). Later one of them was stuck 15-20 feet above the water trying to situate a rope swing.

After catching a few more fish (and adding the first river chub of the day, on what I hoped was a bass to teach them a lesson), I walked down to Dad. He'd only taken one bluegill, so we headed downstream, to a spot I knew where the water pooled just off from a weedbed, near some algae (the type I always referred to as "sea weed" as a kid, and which I still can't identify). Then things got interesting.

I continued getting hits on nearly every cast, but the size of the fish increased. I waded out as far as the algae would allow, to allow my casts to reach close to the far bank, under the shade, assuming that the fish, like me, would be wanting someplace cooler in the 90 degree day. I wasn't wrong, and when the sun lowered enough to extend the shadows out to the middle of the stream, the fish really turned on.

I pulled two surprising fish out of the river. First, a largemouth I was sight-fishing for. Not a big one, he simply surprised me by being there. I know now it's not uncommon, but I didn't realize the largemouths were in this river. The next one I caught a flash of after I set the hook, and thought it was a chub, except for it strong fight. When I got a second look at it, I realized it was a cat, and I quickly landed my first ever channel catfish, only about 12 inches, but still a treat.

Things kept getting better. I took one largemouth and one smallmouth that were 14 inches or more. The first I led quickly through the open water around the algae, but the second burrowed into the stuff, and I had to maneuver him out, and then nearly missed netting him in the thigh-deep water. After that, the 10-12 inchers were plentiful. The sun dropped lower, a goose arrived, and the fishing slowed.

Dad, on the other hand, had an okay day, but nothing like what I had, and there seemed to be one key difference in our approaches. He used the traditional pre-snelled Eagle Claw hooks, and I was using Matzuo red-colored baitholder hooks pre-snelled on fluorocarbon leader. I had become convinced that the thickness of typical snelled leaders was too big, and was costing me fish, but this was my first time putting the theory to the test. The Matzuo didn't hold the nightcrawlers as well, but the fish seemed less shy of the leader. I even took one bluegill while reeling in an empty hook.

When the fishing's that good, it's usually hard to leave the water, but today I just felt like I had received so much more than expected that I was content to leave. We hiked back to the car, sand filling our shoes. My hand was bleeding from where a smallie had finned me, and I had another cut I couldn't remember getting. When we reached home, I took off my boots and realized they had made their last trip. They'd given me 15 years, and while I'm sad to see them go, at least they'd gone out as part of an incredible trip.

Temptation

You'll forgive me if I have the heebee jeebies. I spent the morning fishing in a place where humans weren't meant to go, and I'm sure of this because Nature has erected the proper defense. Primarily, according to my scientific study, the defenses stem from the fact that the area as more spiders per square mile than any other temperate location on earth. The spiders are also bigger, and there's at least one large black one that will crawl on your arm and make you realize that you're unable to identify black widows, and that you don't even care so much about necrosis, you just want it off you.

The trek's worth it, of course, even if I doubt it when I stumble off the path yet again, dodging brush or webs. At the end of the trail -- or at least as far as I take it -- is some good smallmouth water, and that's why I'm scraping through with a fly rod in hand. I've only hit this spot twice before, but I'm aware that I could possibly catch the biggest bass I've ever taken on a fly today.

When I reach my spot I realize two things I'm going to have to compensate for: the water is much lower and it's much slower than I had expected. This means longer casts and stealthier wading, neither of which is my forte. My strength in fishing, as you might guess, is my willingness to go into ridiculous places to catch fish; my strength isn't actually being skilled.But I've still got a plan today. I'm fishing a smallish popper trailed by a soft hackle hare's ear. It's not a perfect bass set-up, but it's ideal for catching something, and I'll be happy with that today.

Before I tie on, though, I realize this day could be turning into a struggle. My leader has somehow snuck through the side of my reel (while sitting unused), and I've developed such a backlash that I've got to pop the spool out to fix it. No real problem, and I'm rigged up quickly enough.

My first cast provokes a strike, and my second takes a bluegill on the popper. The first hour or maybe 90 minutes continues like this. I'm wondering now if I should have left the 7wt at home and brought the 4wt, but I remind myself that I'm going to be throwing bigger streamers in a little while and should remain optimistic about big bass. Then, as I pull in a small bluegill, a giant smallmouth takes a swipe at it. My faces does all the cliched googling and dropping, and I bring in the very lucky panfish. [Note: soon I'll put up a story about the bass I once actually hooked like this, leading to the question: are there flies that look like sunnies?] A few minutes later, I do take a fair-sized bass on the surface, and he gives me one good jump and plenty of fight.

After that the day quickly fizzles, trying to cast next to a stump, I bounce the popper off it into the water, which would be perfect if the hare's ear hadn't snagged the wood. Too deep to wade, I eventually break my line, unfortunately at the leader/tippet knot rather than at one of the flies. I'm mad at myself, because I'd forgotten extra leaders and because I couldn't get the new 5X tippet unfurled, so I had 4X both to the popper and to the dropper, meaning I couldn't break off just one fly.

I switch to a variety of streamers after that and flail around a while without getting a single strike. I fish some riffles for a while and then clip off and head out. I'm cutting it close to being on time for work, so I hurry.

Then I'm stopped.

Below me a school of carp fins in some shallow water. Not only do I see carp going an easy 20-24 inches, I see some nice bass following them, looking for easy prey that carp might root up (as the Bob Clouser book I'm currently reading repeatedly mentions) as well as bluegill and suckers. I'm late for work, but I'm tempted.I've got three challenges (let's not dwell on my considering going home without casting -- that'd be nuts). First, I'm not sure how to get to the water, but that's always manageable. Second, I need a good approach. The only options I see are from straight downstream, or to come in from far upstream, cross the river and work from a ledge that reaches about halfway across. That path would test my casting range and accuracy. Finally, in the midst of the carp is a big brush pile that I'd have to turn any fish away from quickly. I'll just have to chance that one.

I head downstream, find a drop-down to the streamside and take out my fly box. I'm stumped. Nothing looks good, and I couldn't figure out what they were feeding on. I should, perhaps, tie on something bass-y and focus on one of the foot-plus smallies I saw. Instead, I'm an idiot. I tie on a glo-ball, which I've never caught a fish on. I've heard about a vaguely similar pattern taking carp, but it's not smart. It's not a terrible choice, but I'm in an utterly new situation using a fly I don't trust (and that I probably selected because somewhere deep down my subconscious was thinking carp like orange), which isn't good.

I wade upstream carefully, away from the bank, and realize two more problems. First, I'm in over the bottom pockets of my vest, soaking my streamers and pliers. Oh, well. Second, I'm so close to the water level that I can no longer see the fish. I marked their range with some objects on shore, but I wanted to sight fish, since a carp's mouth opening can be a key signal. I cast blindly.

A few casts and absolutely nothing. I'm just about to leave (now thoroughly late for work) and take the typical "one more" cast. I watch the drift, twitch it a little, and the fly just halts. I set the hook. It doesn't even move.

Because, of course, it's not a fish, but a snag. Again I break off, again at the tippet connection. I've tight the double surgeon's knot differently this time, based on the Orvis guide rather than my old learning. I can do without the glo-ball but it irritates me. I head up into the woods again, ready for the spiders.

I pause when I reach the fish again, and this time I nearly lose it. The carp king has now come in. He's the type of fish that just looks like a different species. I take five steps and see a drop-down to the river right there. I won't be able to backcast, but I might be able to roll cast, or at least shoot some line out bow-and-arrow style...

No, I go home, shower, and start my workday. I have this sort of relationship with carp, but I'll talk about that another day.

Colorado Spinner

My Aunt Phyllis was a wonderful person. She instilled in me the love of fishing. She made me aware of not only the thrill of catching a fish, but the joy of sharing the beauty of God’s gift of nature. My first fishing pole was made of bamboo. It was not truly a bamboo fishing pole; it was a piece of bamboo that had come with a piece of carpet wrapped around it. Aunt Phyllis had cut it to a length of approximately five feet and tied twenty feet of 8 pound test line to the end. She added a size 6 hook, a lug nut off of a fifty-five Chevy, and a red and white bobber the size of a tennis ball and I was ready to go fishing.

Aunt Phyllis and I fished almost exclusively using worms as bait. We used a wide variety of worms, grub worms, night crawlers, mealworms, just about anything that was slimy and wriggled. I was convinced that this placed serious limits on both the size and variety of the fish we were able to catch. On my tenth birthday she bought me a fishing rod and reel. It was not just any rod and reel; it was a Zebco 202 spin casting rod and reel. I had coveted this particular fishing outfit for months. Every time we went into town I had insisted that we go to the hardware store so I could see it. Now that I had a quality rod and reel I would definitely need to upgrade the rest of my equipment. I had saved some money, one dollar and fifty cents, and I used it to purchase my first artificial lure. It was a Colorado spinner. I tied it to my line and began practicing casting in the backyard of Aunt Phyllis’ house. I would press the button on my reel lean back and then whip the rod towards a variety of targets -- a maple tree, a plastic bucket, and once at my grandmother’s cat. Thank goodness I missed.

It seemed as if I had waited for months to go fishing, but it was only a few days after I had bought my spinner that Aunt Phyllis agreed to take me fishing. We would be going to our favorite place, the Indian, which was located approximately ten miles from the house. There was a place along the river that for some reason I never understood there had been a statue of an Indian erected. I never saw the original Indian statue because someone had stolen it shortly after it had been dedicated. Something else that I have never heard an explanation for: why would anyone, except my brother, which is another story, want a ten foot, concrete Indian statue?

We arrived at the stream shortly after dawn. The air was heavy with humidity and the sun had begun to creep across the water, obscuring the view of the trophy fish I knew were waiting to do battle. I watched my Aunt tie on a night crawler and cast her line a few feet from the river’s edge. I felt a misguided sense of superiority as I prepared to make my first cast with the new reel. I leaned back as I had practiced and whipped my arms forward. The reel screamed in protest as my spinner lodged securely in the tree behind me. My aunt Phyllis attempted to stifle a chuckle and pretend she hadn’t noticed my pitiful attempt. I quickly unfastened the spinner and with great care cast into the water. I was not sure how to fish with the lure so I simply cranked the handle of the reel as quickly as I could. Suddenly there was a flash of silver behind the lure and a large fish grabbed my spinner. I heaved back on the rod in an attempt to land the fish in one motion. I was both confused and dismayed when my line went slack and I realized that I had lost the fish! Not only had I lost the fish, but it had kept my spinner. I was inconsolable, even though Aunt Phyllis pointed out that we had plenty of bait and tackle and I could still catch fish. I sat by the river and pouted. Finally, even Aunt Phyllis’ infinite patience wore thin and we gathered our things and went home.

I spent most of the afternoon engrossed in self-pity, but when evening came my thoughts shifted to the container of night crawlers on the porch and the spot below the house where a strip of fast water ended in a deep pool. I received permission from my aunt, grabbed my rod and the worms and hurried to the river. I cast to the end of the riffle and was rewarded immediately with a strong strike on my line. I set the hook and was thrilled at the weight at the end of my line. It was a big fish. The fish tired rather quickly and I lifted it from the water. It was a huge fallfish, at least a foot in length. I admired the fish and noticed a flash of silver below its jaw. It was a Colorado spinner!

Part Two

You saw the first part of this story, which amounts to me catching few fish and getting lost. So let's get to the meat of it, with the appearance of an archetype out of the proverbial mist and the catching of a large fish by me.

On my way out from the river that evening, I ran into another fisherman. The fact that he was older than me and black wouldn't matter except that he gave me advice and I'd later feel like it was the type of story we'd only read politically in lit classes these days. I asked casually if the fishing was usually any good around here, expecting "Eh. It's okay." Instead, the man told me how great it was just downstream, and what lures I should use, where I could buy the right kind of minnow, etc. It was a miraculous gift. I thought it looked good, so I knew I'd be back, but finding fish is at least half the challenge, so now I was psyched.

Just a few days after that initial adventure, I returned to the last place I had fished on the river, this time dragging my dad along on a hike that was longer and brushier than I had remembered. I dropped Dad off at the top of the run (his request) and I headed downstream to where I had caught the little bass before. I stepped out of the brush, and there was my new friend, waiting on the bank.

I squatted down next to him and we chatted a bit. He'd been there a while, and was taking a break waiting for the topwater bait to pick up. Rather than guard his hole, though, he pointed out a few spots on the far side of the river I should try, then encouraged me to take over his area. This is not the common behavior of anglers.

I waded across and made a few casts with my nightcrawler. I took a couple average fish, then I noticed the spot downstream, a place where a little eddy curled out of the main current behind a boulder, with an overhanging tree nearby. My first cast didn't quite get in far enough, and I took a decent smallie. My next one got back in the eddy and I let it drift. No big hit, just a change in the feel of the line.

I set the hook, and it was like a fantasy. I was tied into another kind of smallmouth. One full of fight and intent on frequent jumps. I panicked about my drag, which I hadn't checked, and my several-years-old line. Everything held. I considered how I had chosen to leave my net at home. I reached out and lipped the fat bass and raised him up. My friend wasn't watching. I measured him against my rod (he'd turn out to be not quite 17 inches) and put him back.

That was the most fun I'd had with a fish in a long time, but the preceding conversation really set the stage, talking about the challenge of fishing around family time and how to get out more. We exchanged our names at the end of the talk. My new friend is known simply as Monte Carlo.

Part One

If it were fiction, I wouldn't like the story. For starters, it features a reasonably experienced outdoorsman doing something stupid. This part, of course, is believable, and probably as many veteran explorers get lost from overconfidence as novices do from lack of skill. The real problem, though, comes with the appearance of an archetype, a Bagger Vance-style wiseman who saves the day. More on him in part two.

Even so, it's how it happened, so here it is. I was heading down a new piece of water. I started at a trailhead and quickly got down to the river. Where I came in was a small divergence from the main stream. My plan was to fish my way down this side portion and then work my way back up the other side of the large island. I'd be able to find my way back to the trail simply by heading straight uphill from the upstream tip of the island.

When I got to the downstream end of the island, though, I discovered the main stream was too deep and too fast to wade safely. I decided to work my way downstream a little, and then pick up the trail. I did that fine, and started hiking downstream. I found some nice spots, and I saw a huge fish jump in the middle of a shallow run. I couldn't catch him, and I finished my day with nothing but a little smallie, some bluegill, and a handful of river chubs.

I started back upstream, which is where I ran into the older black man who would be my guide. More on him later, but for now it just matters that he convinced me I was in the right area for some big fish. With that in my head, I took a few more casts. I took no fish, but something enormous surfaced, possibly a gar. It was unlike anything else.

Finally I had to go, and I hopped the trail and headed back. The plan is simple: follow the trail back to where I started, walk up to the main road and get in the car. Of course, I hadn't paid enough attention on my way downstream, as I didn't realize that near where the island ends, a little feeder stream runs in. It's about the size of the river section I had waded down. So when I was hiking back and began following a narrow stream, I thought I was still on the main river.

Quickly things looked unfamiliar. There were the train tracks I had passed on my way in, and there were the orange moving vans. Both, though, seemed to be placed oddly. I hadn't crossed the river (and at any rate could orient myself by the stream's flow). I couldn't imagine how I could be lost, because I was simply following the trail. It became harder. I had to crawl at one point, and I knew this was wrong, but I couldn't figure out my error.

For the first time in a long time, if ever, I felt the beginnings of real anxiety in the woods. I was close to town, yet hopelessly lost. I didn't want to spend the night going back and forth on the trail. Worst-case scenario: I call for help and get rescued, probably within city limits. Eventually I figured out I could climb up the bank to the train tracks above me and get an aerial view. From there I could see what had happened, and, while it took me some time, it was easy enough to get back on the right trail.

The lesson was obvious: pay attention. I still don't know if I saw and forgot the feeder stream, or if I simply missed it while carefully fishing the end of the island. Fortunately I was someplace where I was in danger of nothing worse than embarrassment. I could even have followed the tracks back to town. Even so, I took the lesson to heart. I've been out of the woods for a few years, and I shouldn't act like I haven't. Given that nearly outing for me is new territory now, it's time to get back to the basics of planning and observation.

I don't mean this post to be didactic. If you're reading Anglenook, you probably know all this already. Mainly I just wanted to tell a story in which I'm an idiot. It's also a set-up for the big fish and mysterious stranger that come in the next installment.

The Fish

Is there anything in this world more completely satisfying than being somewhere you should not be, at a time you should be somewhere else, and doing something you should not be doing? Of course, I am speaking of playing hooky. The pleasure gained from this endeavor does not diminish with age; at least in my case it hasn’t. One of the most memorable and exciting times I have ever experienced while playing hooky occurred when I was fifteen years old.

In the middle of April, in Pennsylvania, life becomes decidedly better, if you are a fisherman, especially if you are a fisherman who is too young to worry about the IRS, but old enough to go fishing without adult supervision. This is the time of year when the Pennsylvania streams and rivers are stocked with trout.

My best friend at the time was a boy named Miles and our friendship was almost solely based on our shared love of fishing. We had heard that the local fish commission had stocked the river, where we usually fished, for a second time. The problem was they had stocked it in the middle of the week and we just knew that most of the big fish would be caught while we were learning who discovered aluminum foil, which were the seventeenth President and other useless information. We decided the sensible thing to do was to forego the rigors of learning and go fishing.

Miles and I had hidden our fishing gear the night before in some bushes that were conveniently located between the school and the river. The bus that took us to school always stopped on the other side of the street from our houses. It provided a shield for us from prying eyes for perhaps one minute. We had perfected the art of simply running into the adjacent woods before the bus pulled away.

Miles and I arrived at the river around eight o’clock and were dismayed to see several adults already fishing. Who would have guessed that adults could play hooky too? We were using night crawlers, the only bait we knew how to fish with. I thought I noticed a few smiles among the men as we quickly cast our lines into the water. I was standing on a small overhang about six feet above the level of the river. My impatience was growing as cast after cast resulted in nothing more than a more miserable looking night crawler. I noticed a log below me at the water’s edge and concentrated on bringing the worm over it so not to get snagged. The log suddenly moved and I realized it was not a log, but a huge fish. I guessed that it was five feet long.

There was a calm arrogance about him that comes with being the biggest, baddest fish in the water. I had been fishing this river for years and had never imagined there was a fish of this size living here. My hands were shaking as I presented my worm to it. I was not surprised when it showed absolutely no interest in my soggy worm. The fish continued to lie almost at my feet. I needed something bigger and more tasty-looking. I searched frantically through my vest for my only lure. It was a four inch Daredevil that I had found stuck in a tree. I wasn’t sure how to tie it to my line, or how to use it. I cast the lure far into the river and retrieved it right past the huge fish’s mouth. It must have startled him into striking. The fish exploded out of the water in a display of strength and anger. He rode his tail across the top of the water like fish I had seen only on Sunday morning fishing shows. Immediately I was besieged with shouts of encouragement and advice from the other fisherman. I had never played a fish. It is hard to compare this with the rock bass and sunfish I usually caught. The battle raged upstream and down and people graciously made a path for me as I frantically tried to keep my line taut. After approximately thirty minutes the fish tired and I was able to guide him into the shallows. Miles jumped into the water and wrestled him onto the bank. People gathered around to admire the fish and congratulate me.

I was emotionally and physically exhausted. My hands were shaking and I was drenched in sweat. Someone mentioned calling the local newspaper to get a picture of me and my trophy. I thought of the trouble I would be in when my parents as well as school officials learned I had skipped school. So what, this was well worth any punishment I might receive. Then one man in the crowd burst my bubble by informing me I would have to release the fish because musky season did not begin for several months. We measured it at forty-seven inches and then I turned away as Miles gently returned it to the river. The fish remained within sight for a few moments and then with an air of dignity disdain and a powerful thrust of his tail he disappeared into the depths.

Cooperation

Sometimes everything goes right. Casts are smooth. Line lays out upon the water. Leader and tippet unfolds without memory and the fly settles slowly, only a dimple upon the surface.

Sometimes the conditions are right, too. The water unstained. The sun not so hot. The breeze a breeze and not a gust of wind.

And then there are times when the casting is right and the weather is right and the river is right. And there are times when the fish are right, cooperating by doing what they should be doing, which is feeding actively and aggresively, taking from the top in the early morning and late afternoon; feeding from the middle of the water column in the early afternoon; foraging from the silty bed after lunch and then lazing static above the river rock. Sitting, shining, beautiful color in flashes of sunshine.

The hatches were happening. Stoneflies. Blue-Winged Olives. Caddis. We were using flies we'd only ogled. Stuff we never thought we'd tie on and toss. Sometimes I'd throw a stone as a joke in the 'hooch, just to see what it felt like. The traffic blaring from 75 ruined the illusion. It sure aint the West. It aint even close.

Reliance, TN sorta felt like the West. Green humps of mountains. Greener hills. Sunshine settling in patches over the rocks. Clackacraft creeping by with thick bearded guides rowing, pointing, spitting chaw over the side. The water was clear. It was cold. The beds were smooth accumulations of rock, round as prehistoric eggs. We could see the fish in their holes before we slipped into the water. We could see them rise and thrash and smash the bugs lighting upon the surface.

I saw osprey and beavers take rainbows from the river. I saw a big doe trample down the side of a hill and buck and splash in a hole and clip-clop back up the hill. I saw copperheads and thick swarms of mayflies. I saw crows and buzzards and hawks. I watched the spiders creep over the picnic table while the fire pulsed thick gray smoke into the air.

We caught a lot of fish. We caught nearly all of them on dries. Big dries. Royal Wulffs. Adamses. Stimulators. Trudes. Stoneflies. Caddises. BWOs. PMDs. Yellow Sallies. I shoulda tried Clousers or lightning bugs. I shoulda used bigger flies. Like when I saw that brown; he was the size of my calf. I watched him bump my BWO. And then I watched him dart back into a clump of submerged wood. I didn't have to watch my fly; I watched the fish. I watched them react and I tried to counter. I missed a lot of fish.

After a long day of fishing, we wrapped the ribs in foil and drowned them in some awful "NASCAR" BBQ sauce we picked up at the local Piggly Wiggly. We settled them into the fire. Had a few beers. I tied on a big Stimulator and slipped back into the river.

Pulled a lot of line out, watched it settle upon the water in long green loops. I picked the line up and pulled back, shot it out over the river to my left. The false cast swished, swished, and then to the right it fell. I watched the line drop through the air. I watched the the leader settle, the tippet settle. The fly standing upon the water and sailing across out in front of me. I watched the chunky rainbow soar up and tear it off the top. There was a splash and my reel ran.

Fish on!

I was laughing.

Awesome... Was that your first cast?

Tim was on the bank, tying on.

Yup.

Man, I wanted to play this fish for years. I wanted to tug and give him line and let him run and get him on the reel over and over again. Instead, it was over in seconds. I popped the hook from his lip. No clip on the adipose. He was wild. Gorgeous color. I kissed that fish. I kissed him on the head. And then I held him in the water and let him gather his strength. I watched him swim back into the dark. And then I cast again.

A Team Effort

I took a day off work so my wife and I could go canoeing up in this mountain lake. I took along a spinning rod and a small amount of tackle, but I didn't have plans to fish properly -- to work structure diligently, to key in on certain areas. I just figured as long as I was on the water, I might as well fling some lures about. The lake is supposed to have brookies, rainbows, largemouths, catfish, and bluegill in it, so I took some general stuff and figured something would hit.

No luck early on, so I tied on one of my favorite crankbaits, a little blue-and-silver job that has teeth marks all over it from Pennsylvania pike. Still no luck, so I suggested to Nicole that we try a little trolling. She could row as fast as she could, and I'd let out about 30 or 40 feet of line and drag the crankbait behind us. I didn't feel very optimistic as I'd never done this from a canoe, but we set off across the lake. When the lure reached the middle of the lake, I felt a hit, and we slammed on the brakes. Or, rather, we coasted, then spun a funny way, and the bass politely hung on.

Fishing from a canoe is a fun way to go about it. It's not easy, but when you're bringing in a fish, you feel as if you're at eye level with it. Nicole was thrilled to see the fair-sized bass coming up. I boated him and turned him loose, and we resumed cruising about the lake. We didn't have a single hit the rest of the day, but I didn't care that much.

I hadn't ever caught a fish that had been so much a team effort. The closest I can remember is working the trolling motor while a friend threw bait against a bank in a bass tournament. The weather was lousy, and the fish only wanted to hit if we were moving the right speed at the right angle. The fish we took that day (none big enough to enter in the tournament) felt like a team effort, but the catching wasn't nearly as fun as this one fish, taken high in the mountains with my wife as captain. I think she's hooked, and I couldn't imagine a better way to spend the day.

Unless I had used a little more sunscreen on my knees...

What's a Catch?

In my first post, I mentioned I lost a brookie when I hoisted him out of the water. There's no way I'd call this a catch; it fits the description of what I recently heard termed a "jack fish," as in you jack it out of the water if you set the hook with any force (sorry I can't credit whoever's writing I read this in). It did get me thinking about what constitutes a fish being officially "caught".

We all like to pretend that it doesn't matter whether or not we catch fish, and to a point, at least on certain days, that's true. But at the same time, when you get back and someone asks you how many you caught, it's nice to have an honest answer. Sometimes it's hard to say.

When I was in high school, I learned two things that changed how I thought about a catch. The first was that some saltwater anglers -- and I don't know if this was simply for tournaments or not -- consider a fish caught if they can reach down and grab the leader, partly because it wasn't practical to lift big fish out of the water. Second, I read in one of my magazines, almost certainly Field & Stream or Outdoor Life, that if you reel in a little fish, you can often release it by simply holding onto the eye of the hook. The fish gives one wriggle and he's free. It lets you release your catch with virtually no handling. [Note: this is a far cry from Tom Waits's "catch, put it in your pants, and release" program.]

My fishing buddies and I always had contests. "Most Fish" was the key category, but we'd also break it down into whatever categories favored the person behind: "Biggest Fish," "Most Bass," "Most Unusual Fish," "Most Unusual Way to Catch a Fish," etc. Integral to all categories was determining what was and what wasn't a catch. We finally came to the conclusion that if you touched the last six inches of line with the fish under control, it counted. This made everyone, including the fish, happy, and I don't think count totals went up any because of it.

But it's not always so clear, and here's my real story: I was trout fishing alone in a special regulation stream in PA. I had usually caught a few fish there, but nothing huge, although I had seen some big fish. This day I was in a run that I always knew held fish, but had never had so much as a hit, when something big grabbed my nymph. The trout took me up and down the river, and my skills then (and probably now) weren't up to it. I was trying to keep tension on my line and making it up as I went along. When he ran past me just a few feet away, I was sure I would lose him, but I didn't.

Eventually I tired him and brought him in. An enormous rainbow, bigger at that time than any fish I had ever caught (and still bigger than any trout), finned at my feet. I bent down to pick him up, and discovered he was so thick I couldn't get my hand around him. He launched himself back into the river. I got him back under control and tried -- with a horrible tactic -- to net him. He was longer than the opening of my net, I bungled it, and one of the flies became tangled in the net, breaking the line as the fish drifted away. I lunged for him, but he was just out of reach. I still feel bad that I didn't have the chance to revive him.

I crawled up onto the bank and sat down. It's one of only a few times I've been so excited that afterwards my hands were shaking and my heart was pounding and I don't know that I could have moved. Eventually I tied back on and started half-heartedly fishing again, more stuck in that moment than in what I was doing. I felt exhilarated, but a little disconcerted by the ending of the encounter.

I ran into a young angler about my age on the way back to the car. We chatted a few minutes and I told him my story, hesitant to say exactly that I "caught" the fish. He felt bad about it and consoled me for losing a big one, but that didn't feel quite right either. Landing a fish is part of the deal, but the fact that I had picked the fish up out of the water and just couldn't hold him still to unhook him seemed to count for something. At this point, I can't say I'm entirely concerned with what the officially ruling would be on it, but it would be nice to feel confident in saying that this trout was the biggest one I ever caught.


[Note: Yes, we'll eventually start having pictures here.]

Catching is Seeing

You gone tear them up lil man?

I guess so.

Aw you got to meanit lil man. You got to see yo self catchin fish befo you can catch them fish.

Papa laughed and the crown of his cigar ash tumbled down his shirt. We had loaded up on crickets and minnows. Papa had grabbed a carton of worms, a few artifical lures that we'd probably never use. The man behind the counter was twice the size of Papa and he burst from his Liberty overalls. His neck hung thickly in rings as a dog's and his wide veined hand rubbed at his beard, white and wiry as a scrub brush.

Aw hell, he laughed. You gone tear them up, lil man. You mark my word. You watch.

We got back in the El Camino and drove. I watched as the sky went from black to indigo. I watched as it went to navy to thin blue to white with light. The sun splinttered though the cracked windshield. The AM radio crackled and stilted voices spoke of things that did not concern me. We stopped to get gas and Papa bought Tampa Nuggets and Cokes and pre-packaged sandwiches and chips. He bought cans of Vienna sausages and Chunky candy bars.

It won't be long, Sturt, he said.

I was fine with it. I danced my arm in the warm wind. The air was hot and the cicadas sawed and screeched and sounded as the summer itself, alive and humming. I thought about the bugs that I did not see as Papa backed the boat up into the pond. The boat slid silently into the warm green water. Bugs lit thickly in the air. Swarms of them danced in pockets over the water. Papa parked the El Camino and we pushed the boat on.

We rowed. We baited up. I watched Papa grab a minnow and slip the hook under his throat. The barb winked from its silver belly. I tried. The minnow danced from my fingers. Plop. I watched as the silverfish vanished into the green water. I tried again. I watched it as I dug the hook into its throat. Its eye widened as the barb woke from its tail. It straightened and then twitched, adjusting to the hook. I picked the rod up from the boat and raised back and shot the line out over the bow. I watched as the bait and bobber tumbled in air and then splashed upon the surface and steadied.

Nice cast, Sturt.

Papa lit a Nugget and the gray smoke puffed over his face and shrank away. He cast one rod and then another. He watched their bobbers steady and then he baited a third with a worm. I watched as the thin red line danced and throbbed about the sting of the hook. He shot the line towards the bank and its bobber steadied and a dragonfly set upon it.

I reeled in. I checked the minnow. Its eyes held quiet, spooked. It was dead. I cast out and watched the line straighten and fall.

You aint gonna catch any fish castin and reelin, castin and reelin. Let it set in there, Sturt.

I watched the bobber. I imagined a fish surging from the bottom to ravage the bait. I thought about how I might set the hook, how playing that fish might go, how I would get him on the reel and let that Zebco do the work. Maybe I'd get a largemouth. Maybe it'd be a record Crappie. Two-hands. Two adult hands. Bigger than a teenager's calf. Maybe it would be.

I watched the bobber. Down and over, down and over. It seemed like the line moved. But it didn't. I thought about that fish surging again and I thought about what I'd do. Papa threw me some Fritos and a Coke. I watched the bobber. The salt of the chips and the sugar of the Coke was good. I burped.

That man at the shop was right you know, Papa said. You got to see yourself catchin fish before that line'll go tight for you, Sturt. He aint lyin.

I watched the bobber. And then I thought of that fish.

Tying On

I like the drive out. It's just after dawn, and I pass the spot where my wife and I, when were still dating, took hot chocolate and our sleeping bags into someone's farmland to watch a meteor shower in the middle of the night. After that the white lines disappear from the road and I go by the church with the handwritten sign that reads PRAY FOR ASHLEY WALTON AND HER FAMILY EVERY DAY. I turn off the main road and start to see the "Road Narrows" and "One Lane Bridge" signs. It feels good to be someplace like this. I used to fish on a daily basis, but after I moved to Virginia, I got away from it. It means something to me now to take the road that's barely wide enough for two cars.

I'm not too optimistic today. I'm out primarily to test my new 4wt rod. I'm not expecting quite the fun I had last week, when on my first time in the mountains I took four fish, three of them native brookies, while exploring new terrain, climbing over boulders in what felt like true backcountry, admiring the string of waterfalls, and wondering at how I could walk within ten feet of a whitetail. The smallest brookie came entirely out of the water for my fly. The biggest was seven inches, full of blues and oranges, and pretty near perfection.

But today I'm fishing the other fork of the river, the one that isn't catch-and-release water, and that I know gets hit. We've just come out of a long heatwave and the water is low. I know there are some brookies and 'bows up this stretch, but I'm not confident I can catch them. In fact, I don't do too much, even though the new Cabela's Stowaway casts beautifully. I land two tiny fish that I assume are juvenile rainbows, but I'll admit I'm not positive. Then I lose a little brookie. I hoisted him out of the water and he flopped off. I miss two more fish, one pretty nice, and that's it for the day.

Still, I'm satisfied, and when I reach the car after a lengthy hike (far enough going in that I was worried I had missed a turn-off) I see another car has arrived. A van unloads some kids with swimming trunks and towels, destined, I'm sure, for the hole where I just missed the nice fish. There's a rope swing there, and I remember jumping in a few years ago, the water so cold that my back clenched as soon as I went under. I considered stripping to my shorts and jumping in today.

I'm still learning the area. Figuring out that last week my leader was longer than necessary. That I shouldn't leave the floatant at home. That if I wonder if I tied a bad knot, I probably have. More important, I'm learning the river. The pool last week that I approached from the wrong direction, not realizing how the river splits and comes back in from the side. Or the spot today where I spooked a trout by coming down from the trail just above a little hole I didn't know was there. It's getting very late in the season for this water, and I'm not sure I can wait until October to use this new knowledge.

With that in mind, I pull away from the water. The drive home's nice. Coming in last week I had turned the stereo off once I reached the forest, unwilling to let anything else in with me. This week I left it on, and turn it up when I get back to the main road. I roll down the window and let the cows get a listen to "All My Friends" and remain reasonably satisfied even after I come to the slow-moving traffic. I'm late for work, but not in any hurry.