Suddenly the River Exploded

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.

2018

Nice Topwater Bite

I am no longer pushing carts from the supermarket lot. Back at specialty meats, the stress hit like one of the brick walls falling on me. That's temporary. I'll be back in shape at it soon. Though I had lots of time to sit in my car and read and write--I think I read every issue of Outdoor Photographer from a year's subscription cover to cover and I read more besides--the thought of doing that drudgery otherwise for five more years just wasn't happening. Active human relationships involved in the wheeling and dealing inside the store sustain me. As bad as they do get.

So waking up this morning was like suffering schizophrenia. But I got all the gear besides the marine battery in the car. The battery I had Matt take from my study and put in the trunk. Before we left, I opened Father's Day gifts. Matt gave me beer. Trish gave me two T-shirts--one for me, one for Matt--that advertise "Litton's Bait and Tackle." Her sense of humor. We wore the shirts today.

Tough drive up there, I feared this outing would not succeed, and it was a tough four or five hours under burning sun until the evening topwater bite erupted. Matt did catch a pickerel within minutes after we launched by trolling a crankbait that gets down 15 feet. We continued to troll hundreds of yards until we found some shadow, getting no more hits. The first shaded bank and overhang was near an island we found in March. We had intended to seek this out today, but we never got around to putting much effort into it.

The second shadowy bank yielded a 13-inch bass on a Senko for me.

We ended up trolling all the way to the front of the lake where about a dozen people swam. I found the dividing line between their loud voices and birdsong. I figured that on the birdsong side, we might find more bass in shadow, but besides spotting one of about 10 inches, nothing happened.

Actually got this shot on my APS-C camera when the sun got low.

We seemed to spend eternal hours under the sun just working worms in shallows and weedy depths. I crawled through my tackle bag, looking for slip sinkers. Finding none, I just crimped on a quarter-ounce split shot. I had more control lifting and dropping through 30-foot depths. We have hooked bass here that way, but none today. We watched a school of dimpling and leaping herring go by. I wondered. Maybe 20 minutes later, and despite 80-degree water temperature, salmon did crash the school at the surface.  Quickly, we rigged up with Phoebes and trolled thoroughly. Nothing.

We had stopped at Stanhope Bait and Boat for shiners, but we were told cash only, which neither of us had. Would have been interesting to try and mark salmon and then dangle bait, but then again, salmon concentrate in big schools during August.

Matt did lose a bass on a worm where we tried next, but nothing else would happen. That fish did break the enervation that definitely got to me and seemed to get to Matt, although after the day was done, he told me was looking forward to the evening bite, sure it would happen. I did work at and repeatedly shoot a subject in this area where Matt lost the fish. It interested me intensely, although certain other shots I got seem better.

The sun got on the mountaintop. We took position where we've often done well, shadow on the water. I caught a 14-inch largemouth on a worm, and then I switched to a Hedden Torpedo, passing another of the same to Matt. Small pickerel were all over our plugs, hitting them like torpedoes themselves. They were fun, but we caught none of them. Later, just before we headed down lake, Matt almost got a nice one in the boat. I caught another bass of about a pound, and Matt caught the big one. It was a pretty good bite as is typical after a sunny, hot day. The fish had moved into quite shallow water with weedy cover.

When after lunch we first rode to Brian's, I realized I had forgotten the second headlamp and asked Matt if we should turn back for it. He assured me he was OK without it, but I still made a point of going in before it was quite dark. Deep into dusk, yes, but not as dark as last year. Matt hauled a first load and checked on the car, which was OK. He came back and told me the headlamp's batteries had died. It seemed an unusually hard haul in the dark. (When we drove off, it was pitch black and my car's interior lights don't work.) We have to haul a canoe Matt thinks weighs 125 pounds, not 100, up a steep embankment of about 50 vertical feel, maybe more. And the marine battery and all else. But I don't complain besides grunts that come almost involuntarily, because in a way, it feels real good.

Matt did Philmont New Mexico when he was in Scouts. Before we drove off, he told me that in certain ways, the haul is harder than anything on that backpack trip.

 Matt's pickerel shook violently after he unhooked it, going immediately overboard into the water.

Last Year