Familiar scenes from about a month ago, when Matt and I fly fished minus the trout. This afternoon Mike and I found the favored hole crowded, so we drove on downstream to the second favorite, meeting a couple of older gentlemen leaving a spot just below, reporting few fish in the river, despite the state having stocked spots of these stretches yesterday. Words exchanged pleasing, instead of pocked by rough resentment and obscenity, none out of the ordinary in the healthy respect, they did get us on to the put and take stocking mentality I typically avoid. Trout always swim these stretches near Califon, and though Matt and I caught none in March, big trout stocked last fall are still there.
I caught a little nine-incher I tossed back, and since no more hits came on my salmon eggs and the drifts seemed too fast, I crimped on a BB split shot to navigate that strong current by tighter control, the river not flowing high, a little below average, actually, according to the graph Mike accessed on the way over, but this spot is a sluiceway concentrating flow on a pretty sharp slope of the bottom. The BB shot made no difference besides better performance.
We hadn't stayed long before driving back upstream, finding the favorite spot abandoned. After his first cast, Mike had one on. I drifted an egg twice with the shot still on the line, finding, as expected, drift not right in slower current, but thinking maybe with the added casting range I could provoke a hit anyhow, though a moment later I sat on the bench provided by someone or other, cutting the line and retying. Split shot without the flanges to undo the lead crimped on line are one-use only.
Mike got a trout to the pebbles, after losing that first fish, and released it. Within a minute or two, he caught another, then a third. The deeper and slower water immediately above, where we did so well last year, wasn't producing, but I feel sure a big trout or two hangs there among the rocks.
I repositioned where the trout lay and started catching, Mike going upstream to fish that wider water and getting in too deep, over one of his hip boots. "It's cold!" Within seconds, his foot and leg were numb. That was all for him.
Filling out my limit of six in little time, missing too many hits as I often do, getting involved at trying to improve the ratio of hits to fish on in my favor, I got into the familiar springtime feel of connection with life in the form of trout, which struggle on the line--as if resistance might not be desirable though anyone who fishes would disagree. My appreciations for life include painstaking effort while caught on a hook of sorts. Anyone fascinated by a worthy goal is more than willing to struggle for it, doing his or her best to stay vitally connected to the end sought.
I knew my wife would be pleased with what have proven to be orange-fleshed fish for dinner, and I caught a couple more, giving the wider water a thorough try for a possible big trout, drifting the eggs by two differences of weight added to the line: a couple of barrel swivels snapped on, and then just one. I got one solid strike and that was all. A fly fisherman arrived and the swishing and whipping of his line, the loud cricketing of his reel, made me ironically compare sleek microlight spinning to fly fishing. The latter a noisy and somewhat awkward affair.
Which way to go home. Right or left? With a vague notion of seeing more trout territory on the way, I wheeled left, and we wound up following along the river well north, stopping at the bridge dividing public water from Shannon's private club stretch. I got out and tried the seams, runs, eddies, and depressions, getting no hits, though we caught a few here last spring.
We rode over that bridge, me telling Mike about big trout Jim Holland, owner of Shannon's Fly shop and columnist for The Black River Journal, posts on Facebook all year. We rounded a curve, and sighting the Musky Fish Hatchery truck in action, slowed. I recognized the guy on the road there as Jim himself, pausing the car as we greeted each other, shaking hands through the opened passenger window.
"I've got to let this guy through," I said, an SUV waiting in the opposite lane I occupied halfway, "Good to see you, Jim!"
What a service Shannon's does for this river. I can't get over it. It would cost me a big chunk of my yearly wage to join the club, but the numerous big trout that get stocked in the private stretch don't all stay there, and besides, according to Mike, Shannon's stocks public spots all year, me having interpreted this as meaning spring and fall, in addition to the winter stocking I know they provide.
We drove on past public stretches in Long Valley, where I know a very significant percentage of the trout are wild browns. I'm told wild fish occupy the Califon regions, too, and I don't see why not. I just haven't witnessed any as yet.
Suiceway
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