Jorge Hildago and I arrived at the river before five a.m. I put my fly rod together beside the Honda, and tied on my favorite yellow popper. When we hit the short trail back to the spot, soft light made things visible in a way suggestive of the day ahead; it would be a long time before sunlight got on the water.
Jorge's casting rod reminds me of someone who commented on one of my posts. He says that's what the river demands: a casting rod and big plugs. He catches smallmouths as big a five-and-a-half pounds. I didn't argue against that.
I began by popping the seam in front of me. Two years ago with Matt, I caught one that way. Then I tried my favorite current break. Nothing happened. Jorge kept plowing the surface with a Whopper Plopper, a plug that looks like it weighs about half an ounce with a propeller that makes it behave like a buzzbait. True to my usual style, I offered no advice. I'm well aware that people who know it all tend to get shown up.
I was trying to get more distance from my casts. I have to admit my medium-power St. Croix 7-weight--though break-the-bank expensive--doesn't shoot the line very far. I bought it--I think--because I took the advice that it's a good all-round fly rod for a beginner, but I really don't clearly remember just why I chose it, except that it is 7-weight, so good for steelhead. I had won a $300.00 St. Croix gift certificate for an essay that placed as a finalist for the Brookwood Press Writing Award and wrote a check for the additional $60.00 cost. Or I do clearly remember the $60.00 I had to pay, but don't remember if the prize was $260.00 or $300.00. Any case, a nice win.
Perhaps I should spend another hundred on a fly line that will cast better.
Maybe not.
Suddenly, the river exploded. I saw a big bass airborne.
"Don't lose that fish, Jorge!" I hollered helplessly. That was the logical impulse, coming from my experience here. I had already set the fly rod aside and had eased a Senko off that current break down into the mouth of the hole where a bass took it. I waited two seconds, set the hook hard as I always do. Don't give a fish any mercy until you land it. That's fair. A smallmouth bass is a murderous predator that eats little fish, so you hit that bass hard, and only when it comes to your side, be kind and treat it well. I release each as best I can. I felt great resistance on the hook, and then yet another big smallmouth was gone. "Goddamn!" I whipped my rod back, the Senko flying out of the river and far behind me and off the hook. I searched in the water near the gravel bar where we kept our stuff, not finding it, before I let it go and got another from my bag. That's my fifth big bass in this stretch lost in recent years. I know, it could have been a two-pounder, and I have caught a few of those recent years, but I would like to imagine it was yet again the smallmouth over 20 inches I want to catch.
Jorge's bass thrashing on the hooks, I nervously made for the bank, set down my rod, took my camera, and began shooting as he hauled the bass towards the gravel bar, the fish leaping twice beside him, me rushing out to help stabilize the situation. "Don't hold it up by the line." I reached to grab the bass, if I remember rightly, shivering at the thought of six-pound test, though apparently his mono is a heavier. I never asked.
Nineteen and quarter inches. Jorge's best smallmouth.
Beautiful bass released, I worked halfway down the stretch with the Senko, then turned back for my fly rod and worked all the down to near the tailout. In the search, I got hit by what might have been a sunfish, and then many minutes later, I saw the flank of a smallmouth of maybe 11 inches as it took the popper. After I missed the hit, I wondered if I have a whole new learning curve to climb, but then I remembered catching many on poppers while fly fishing Stony Brook as a boy, so I guess I just wasn't ready for that one.
I came back to the gravel bar, got my camera, and waded well downstream to get some shots of Jorge with the sunlight breaking on him, his presence set against a large river. Then I took my Senko to order again. Jorge was experimenting with a crawfish jig. Lots of deep water for that. My favorite current break was getting lit, so I fished back further, nothing happening, but I felt seduced by the call of a mourning dove. It took me back many years to Stony Brook. My deepest feelings of love for this planet. There I once contemplated the call of a mourning dove for what seems to have been an eternity. As if that could have redeeming value; if so, it was secondary to my own relation to the bird. But we must have a secret pact, because I'm no more important than it was. (It did occur to me that another mourning dove I saw fly across the river is probably younger than the years I've fished this stretch.) The mourning dove perfectly symbolic of all the devastation. But so much more than that. I heard many other bird species involved seemingly in dialogue. The mourning dove the mainstay.
Suddenly, I wanted to go into the water. Swim. There were eight-foot depths in front of me. I took off my wading boots. Took off my shirt. "I'm going in," I told Jorge. And then I dove in directly, the water cool but not at all chilly.
"Don't drink the water," Jorge said.
I didn't stay in long, but after I swam back into the shallows, I plunged back out once more.
George kept fishing in his chest waders. Like I say, I offer no advice. (Who would take it if I suggested swimming?)
I got my St. Croix spinning rod and began the trek back down the stretch. For maybe half an hour I listened to the dialogue of birds, casting--besides two casts--perfectly. I thought once of the immense power in nature available to anyone who dares to submerge himself fully and yet who can hold that power. I thought with some humor in the thought of how far I have gone astray since I worked the bays for clams while submerged in brine for 13 years. Forgiving humor. A man has to earn a living. And a man will find it impossible to live in a state of nature longer than 13 years. At least I couldn't do that any longer.
A big float of phosphate lodged against my leg. I heard the mourning dove. I put my hand in that phosphate and squished the stuff. Disgusting. I could have laughed.
