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.