I did use my Hagstrom map to get an idea of where to begin, but actually, that idea primarily came from Tom at the supermarket where I work. Beyond those two initiatives, I used no map, no GPS, nothing but my wherewithal. That was easy, not only because I already knew some of the roads of the Musconetcong Valley--this not my first time fishing the river, and I've accumulated the experience of driving along it's entire length, on some occasions fishing it. It was easy because I don't get direction confused. Since I understand all the roads exist on a grid, as it were, all I need is the abstraction, "grid," and I know where to go. The cool thing about this "grid" is that it doesn't exist as any electronic configuration or printout as a map. It's entirely spiritual, entirely of the mind, but how can it be only "in" the mind and result in actual orientation?
Besides, it was nothing compared to what we used to do as kids. We called it the Space Cruise. On a number of occasions, we loaded into my station wagon at night, rode up from Mercer County into North Jersey where we didn't know the roads and smoked joints while listening to the Dead. We got stoned off our asses as we rode all sorts of roads for dozens of miles, but we never failed to get back by one or two in the morning. I always drove and used that same sense of unfailing direction.
Today, I felt very pleased to find a pull over right down in Bloomsbury, where I began fishing below where the river passes under Interstate 78. I missed two hits from little eight-inch bass on a *5 Rapala floater, spotted one of about 11 inches not interested, and watched a rainbow trout of about 13 inches swoop behind the lure repeatedly as it must have computed that lure was nothing to eat. Not by any conscious reason as we have. Not even if we're stoned beyond personal recognition. But trout have brains that organize perception into action instantaneously. They don't have to think.
Cool stuff.
When you think about it.
I soon realized this afternoon that it might be productive to walk and wade upstream of that access point in Bloomsbury. I had switched to a Senko and got nothing but sunfish interested, but it would have been a different day, and possibly resulting in more fish, if I had locked the car, slung tackle bag over shoulder and begun walking. What I need to do first is wrestle studs into my Patagonia wading boots.
Even though down there it wasn't rocky. Because another couple miles upstream and the river has freestone quality, but it's off limits because of club property. I don't know how far upstream I can hike from Bloomsbury, before I have to stop. In any case, some of the big trout that get stocked in the club stretches--find their way out.
I kept heading upstream and finding spots where I couldn't access fishing. Eleven years ago, my son, Matt, and I fished the river down around Bloomsbury. One or two points of access I did not find today. My next spot was just upstream of the Asbury Mill. One look at the river above the dam told me bass have to exist in the stretch, but it was relatively shallow and I knew it could hold few relative to its surface acreage. So I selected targets and made sure each got at least three casts, just in case a bass was reluctant to take my Senko--but might just yet. Nothing happened, except that, true to my assumption, I spotted three small largemouths swimming by.
I drove on and found access maybe a quarter mile upstream for the same slow water. Once again, I selected spots and worked them, but besides one bump, all I got were sunfish taps. I felt good by then, though, because by faithfully working that river, I had got over a good bit of my alien sense in relation to it. I get disgusted with myself, if a river doesn't at least begin to absorb me into itself, but catching a decent fish or two helps.
Then I did my dance with unfamiliar roadways, ending up in Hampton. I avoided being directed to State Highway 31 by veering onto other roads I didn't know. I ended up finding access with two large parking lots and fishless water. Again, one would shoulder up and wade.
But the Musconetcong River seems to have a lot of thin water. Take that, though, from a guy who has walked the river only in one area. Who found some good holes there, too.
Next I hit a spot at Changewater, catching an 11-inch bass on the #5 Rapala and a rainbow trout about the same length as the bass. Instead of photographing the trout, I very quickly released it. It was 87 degrees out, and though the water was so cool I could feel chill--the Musconetcong is spring fed to significant degree--I just wanted this fish to get back on its way. And it did that, showing no signs of disorientation.
Last, I tried off State Highway 57, before I arrived in Hackettstown to cut over to Long Valley. Again, the spot was shallow and had no fish. I waded. Fished thoroughly. You never know about knee-deep water. But no sign of fish. It wasn't the only possible access up that way, but it was about time to call it a day.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Comments Encouraged and Answered