How to Salvage a Trip

We were about an hour outside Charlottesville when I realized I'd forgotten all my fishing equipment except for my wading pants and an old t-shirt. I had been anticipating this outing quite a bit. Pennsylvania's fish-for-free day was falling on my birthday, and we happened to be heading home that weekend anyway. I planned to fly fish my home river for a reasonably lengthy stretch, something I hadn't done in close to a decade.

I was utterly dismayed. The river was never a great stretch, but it held fish and I was more interested in feeling nostalgic and in examining the changes to the waters I used to know inside and out. I tried to come up with an alternate plan, knowing I still had odds and ends of gear at my mom's house, and thinking I could buy cheap versions of the rest from Wal-Mart or borrow from my dad.

That plan fell apart quickly. I uncovered the reels with 15-year-old fly line and dug up the spools of monofilament I could use for a leader (the bass and bluegills wouldn't be shy). The problem was with the rods. I had three there (instead of the two I was expecting). One was cracked and taped together as I remembered. The second was worse. The third one -- my dad's original fly rod with non-functioning automatic reel still attached -- was the one I hoped to use. It was cracking at a joint, too, and I wasn't willing to risk either the rod or the outing on its durability.

So I had to drop the fly fishing idea, but I could spinning gear from my dad, and a nearby vending machine could sell me bait regardless of the hour I got around. Now I was set.

Except I got up that morning and immediately learned that we were under a tornado watch. I considered my options, really hoping not to miss out on fishing (and we had plans for the afternoon and evening, so there was no chance of trying to wait out the watch). The mile-long wade/hike was out, but I could park near the river and keep within running distance. It would have to do.

I wasn't that optimistic, and when I realized I'd forgotten to grab split shot and had only my dad's oversized equipment, I realized I just had to adapt. The grey sky mildly worrying, I snagged bottom my second cast, freed it and kept moving.

But the day would change. On cast number six or so, I hooked something with some bulk, and when it flashed silver, I was stunned. Moments later I landed a fat, foot-long rainbow trout. I'd just been thinking that the second biggest trout I'd ever caught had come from that pool but that that pool was completely different. It still holds fish.

I worked my way as far downstream as I could and the sky turned black and I worked my way back toward the car. I was working a little slack spot I thought would produce some panfish. The line pulled tight and I brought in a brown a little smaller than his predecessor. I've caught trout in this river this late in the year, but not often. It must be my birthday.

I moved upstream to a spot that used to be good for rock bass (I've come to feel a special pleasure in this fish -- once regarded as forgettable "puners", they've taken on a sort homecoming significance since I rarely catch them in VA). Making miraculous casts between brances to exactly the spots I needed, I landed 2 or 3.

After that, I pushed through some brush to where I hoped I could catch a smallie. I did. He was only about 6 inches, but I wasn't greedy. I'd fished through the sporadic light rain, the storms had circled by us, and I'd had very pleasing grand slam for my birthday.

It was exactly what I would have asked for, but I'd have never had that day if I'd brought my fly gear. I planned on throwing bass and bluegill bugs, so the trout would have been extremely unlikely (unless I'd changed to something like a woolly bugger or soft-hackle by that point). I might have caught more fish or bigger bass in the stretch I didn't get to fish, but things wouldn't have been as interesting. And that's how to salvage a trip and have a happy birthday.

Rough Day

I’ve rarely been in the outdoors and just felt ready to come home. There must be times I no longer remember, when I was frozen or wet or just worn down. There’s one hike gone bad, and there’s the time I dropped my rifle in the snow. That’s about it.

But yesterday was a rough one. When I saw the forecast for high winds and a cold front moving in, I probably should have stayed home (especially considering it had been a night of rocky, newborn-era sleep), but I was anxious to see if the smallmouth were active yet, and to test out the new bass taper fly line I’d just gotten. So as soon as I had the baby back to sleep, I grabbed my gear and was off.

The first problem became obvious quickly. The trail had suffered from the harsh winter, and what had once been an annoyingly brushy hike had now become one full of fallen trees, lost paths, and the like. Upon reaching the river, I discovered the second problem: the river was higher than I had anticipated (so much my ability to read USGS reports), just enough so that some of my wading routes would be cut off. It’s a tricky wade even in August, and as it would turn out, it would be especially problematic now.

The first stretch I wanted to fish requires a reasonably deep wade out to a sandbar. The bass hangout in the deeper area just beyond that. Yesterday I had to go in nearly to my sternum to get there. I had promised myself a wading staff this year, but haven’t gotten around to it. Once on the bar, I was alright, but then the wind picked up.

Mostly it was the kind of wind where you just direct your false cast a little offline, keep the flies away from your head, and work with it. At times, though, it was bad enough I had to just stand and wait for a gap to cast between. I did manage a couple bluegills (one being the first fish proudly caught on a self-tied popper) before deciding to head downstream.

I just couldn’t wade it. Unwilling to give up, I climbed the bank and started on what might have been a trail. At points it turned into a game trail, then disappeared. Through wood and then through water, I got to where I was going. And found a creepy gray spider in my hair. Shortly after the wind would blow enough that my hat wouldn’t stay on, so it went into my pocket, got drenched, and made the return trip that much more itch-inducing.

I did land my first smallie of the year, a feisty little guy who gave me one good jump and a couple short runs. I took a few more bream. On my way out, I encounted a four-foot watersnake (dark enough I briefly thought, “Cottonmouth?”) and watched a channel cat eat a carp that had died and bloated.

By now I was tired from fighting brush, wind, current and sleeplessness. I was daunted by the prospect of my return journey. The going back was no easier, as I had to work to find ways up and down the bank, and at one pointed wondered if I should hold rod and chest pack aloft and sidestroke for it (I didn’t dwell on the idea). Eventually I reached the sandbar. And couldn’t quite leave without catching one more ‘gill.

Walking out, I noticed some fish near shore, inaccessible to a fly cast without more work than I had left in me. I directed a father-and-son combo to head that way. Finally nearing my car, someone asked me where I’d been and how I’d done. Then he explained that they’re building a trail on the far side of the river that can get you most of the way to where I was going.

Now I know for next time.

A Bully Saves the Day

I've been slacking with the posts lately, but I should have some more writing time freed up, so let's get back to it.

About a month or so ago, I took the fly rod out after some bass. Working my way far downstream, I passed four other anglers. None of them admitted to catching a fish, which was a little troubling, and my day started off slowly. I was looking for a big bass and was sticking mostly to the bottom. I didn't have a single hit.

Finally, I figured it was time to just catch some 'gills, and hope the bass might show up. I tied on a small popper with a new fly I'd been meaning to try out, Bully's Bluegill Spider. I don't know if if was the fly switch of the sun suddenly coming out, but the hits started. I took a number of fair-sized panfish, mostly on the spider.

Finally, a bass hit. He wasn't a monster, but he was 12 or 13 inches. I hung on through three jumps, and then he burrowed deep. I saw him angle for a boulder and I tried to lead him past it. No luck. I felt the line stick, but could feel a slight throb. The line was snagged on the boulder, but the fish was still on. I've caught fish like this before. I plucked the line, and when that didn't work, I waded out to him. I saw him come loose just before I reached him.

That was my only bass encounter of the day, but I did see a pretty large smallie take a swipe at bluegill I was bringing in. That happened at least once last summer, only a hundred yards or so from this spot. I've got to start throwing some of those bluegill patterns...

Anyway, I couldn't complain. The fishing died completely after maybe an hour, but I had kept plenty busy on a day when no one else seemed to be doing anything. I was optimistic about tying into some bass over 15 inches on that outing, but changing expectations and plans made for a fun day even without the big ones.

If you're interested in the Bully's Bluegill Spider pattern, I recommend (again) Bluegill Fly Fishing and Flies by the Wilsons. You'll get a good pattern, pics, and the story behind the fly, as well as tons of great info on bluegill fly fishing in general.

Bob Clouser -- Clouser's Flies

Clouser's Flies: Tying And Fishing the Fly Patterns of Bob Clouser by Bob Clouser

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars

I was going to wait to review this one until I had tied and fished more of the patterns in the book, but it's not necessary.

The book's strengths are obvious: clear descriptions, and big, colorful pictures. I've been tying Clousers for years, but one night with the book immediately improved them. Clouser gives detailed instructions even down to the level of how to properly anchor your eyes, how to epoxy, etc.

This one does have advice on how to fish the patterns. While it's certainly enough to get you started, I think it works best as a partner to his Fly-Fishing for Smallmouth Bass book, which goes into far more detail.

So, yeah, if you're tying for smallies, this one's probably essential.


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Bruce Ingram -- The James River Guide

The James River Guide: Floating and Fishing on Virginia's Finest by Bruce Ingram

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars

Much better than I expected. I thought it would be a pretty basic overview of the various floats on the river, but Ingram goes into some wildlife, history, etc. He dedicates some time to specific fishing locations and even lure suggestions (focusing on smallmouths). It's a quick read, but seemingly essential before tackling the James.

View all my reviews.

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.


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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.

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.

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.