Thinking forward to the few weeks I will be spending fishing the salt in November, I decided to take a break from writing tonight and tie some flies.
After cementing some pencil popper bodies, red and white Lefty's Deceivers were on the agenda. The first was a little skimpy, but that's all it took to get into the swing of saltwater tying again. More fly pictures to come!Sunday, October 26, 2014
Saturday, October 25, 2014
PAPARAZZI
His presence is announced by the ring of a rise, and everyone's attention turns to the rushing water. It's October in the southern Appalachians, and as he writhes downstream and into the awaiting hands of his most devoted fan, donning the brilliant oranges, greens, reds, and blues of the spawning season's fashion, I stand ready, like paparazzi, to attempt to preserve my reverence for his form in a photograph.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
The shutter snaps, his gills pulsating in the cold mountain water, and he leaves the spotlight with a splash--gone until the next event.
Today I spent photographing for an upcoming article for Eastern Fly Fishing on a well-known mountain stream in Virginia. From behind a camera, it's overwhelming--the beauty of nature in fall, in all its colors and moods. In fall, the blaze of color and pigments kept hidden in the crevices of the stream in the gaunt form of the magnificent brook trout explode from the water and color the Earth. And it is then that I rejoice in knowing that wild, natural beauty persists, and am grateful for my involvement in it.□
Labels:
Brook Trout
,
October
,
Photography
,
Reflection
Friday, October 24, 2014
PICKEREL LOVE FALL TOO
After spending the morning working finishing up one article on late winter bass fishing for JAKES Country Magazine and the afternoon beginning another article for Virginia Wildlife on the topic of pickerel fishing, I decided to make a quick trip out to a local farm pond to stage some photos for the first article and fish for an hour or so in the beautiful, cool weather that has been the norm as of late in Central Virginia.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
Remember, pickerel love fall too!□
Labels:
Crappie
,
Fishing
,
JAKES Country
,
Photography
,
Pickerel
,
Virginia Wildlife
,
Writing
Thursday, October 23, 2014
HOW TO TIE THE GOLDEN RETRIEVER
Developed by Jim Finn on Virginia's Mossy Creek, the Golden Retriever is a fly that has seen success the world over for trout, smallmouth, steelhead, salmon, and a host of saltwater species.
Photo by Matt Reilly. |
In my own testing of this fly, I have found it deadly on stocked and holdover trout. In fact, this fly, apart from woolley buggers and the kreelex, is often the first and only fly I tie on when fishing for meat, or simply bullying stocked trout for the fun of it.
The keys to this fly are the red underbody and the pulsating estaz or cactus chenille. Make sure you lay a solid base of red threat on the wire core, wrap the eztaz creating even gaps wide enough to let the underbody show through, and palmer the chenille while wrapping to ensure all of the material angles backwards and none is trapped by your forward wraps. All materials can be purchased at Mossy Creek Fly Fishing, or via their online store. Tie a few up in peach (below), purple, root beer, and green, and have at it!
*These instructions are for a peach pattern. To change, simply match the marabou color with the cactus chenille.*
Materials:
Hook: #10 3X Streamer Hook
Thread: Red Flat Waxed Nylon
Head: 5/32" Gold Bead
Lead: .025" Lead Wire
Body: Gold or Peach Estaz
Tail: Peach Marabou
Instructions:
Thread: Red Flat Waxed Nylon
Head: 5/32" Gold Bead
Lead: .025" Lead Wire
Body: Gold or Peach Estaz
Tail: Peach Marabou
Instructions:
- Crimp down hook barb and slip on bead.
- Wrap wire about 16 turns and lodge into the bead head to lock in place.
- Attach thread behind wire and build a dam of thread level with the wire wraps, and tapering towards the bend. This will allow you to create an even underbody after tying in the tail.
- Tie in a clump of marabou about 1 1/4 the length of the hook, and cut off tag end at end of the wire wraps.
- Tie in a strand of Estaz at the hook bend. Always pay attention to the direction of the fibers, and tie on so that they slant back.
- Form a smooth, even under-body by wrapping thread towards the bead. Remember that the thread alone is your under-body, and should be built carefully.
- Wrap the Estaz forward in 5-6 evenly spaced turns, and tie off behind the head.
- Form a red collar behind the bead with a few extra turns of the thread, whip finish, and add head cement if desired.
Labels:
Fly Fishing
,
Fly Tying
,
Mossy Creek Fly Fishing
,
Salmon
,
Smallmouth
,
Steelhead
,
trout
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
BONUS FISH ON THE CONNECTICUT RIVER
Photo by Matt Reilly |
I sat in a quaint breakfast café
sipping my sixth cup of coffee while the elderly waitress eyed me from inside
the kitchen doorway as if I was a homeless man threatening to drink dry the
kitchen’s supply of coffee facilitated by free refills and local hospitality. The previous night’s temperature dropped well
below freezing, leaving me feeling rather lethargic despite appropriate gear. Coffee was bringing me back to life.
This brought to mind the couple I
met the night before when stepping out of the upper Connecticut River. The wife, an endearing retired schoolteacher
named Dixie, titled me insane for pitching my tent and actually intending to
sleep in it while the frost fell overnight.
I could make no strong case for my sanity apart from declaring that I “just
want to prove that I can.” The like-minded
husband, Dave, identified with me and offered to take me fishing the next day,
nevertheless.
I departed the café at half-past
eight, and raced along winding, gravel roads littered with signs of direction
for snowmobilers and ATV-ers. The
four-season destination of Pittsburg, New Hampshire, the smokestack of the
Granite State north of the 45th parallel that marks the northern
border of Vermont with Quebec, is a magnet for these tourists, who swap vehicles
with the seasons.
When at last I found my
destination, Dave’s figure emerged from the ground floor of their red camp,
having just finished breakfast, ready for the day’s adventures.
I gathered my fishing gear and
made two peanut butter sandwiches from the groceries in my car’s cooler, and we
made off for the river.
The Connecticut River is unique
in that it is four different rivers in its regularly-fished length, and all are
tailwaters. Flowing out of Fourth
Connecticut Lake, the upper river runs south on its course to Long Island
Sound, beaded by Third, Second, and First Connecticut Lakes, and Lake Francis.
We began the day fishing for about
an hour above Lake Francis without luck before heading to the “Trophy Section”
below “First Lake.” In a few hours
there, Dave tied into a large rainbow trout, and I landed several smaller,
including one landlocked salmon parr.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
Photo by Matt Reilly |
When morning turned into
afternoon, we continued north in search of fish until reaching a spot below
“Second Lake” where Dave was proud to have caught and released a 19-inch salmon
the week before.
The water was comparatively
smaller, and fit the definition of “pocket water” better than did our last
destination, as an abundance of relatively-shallow pools stair-stepped down the
moderate grade of the mountain hollow.
Most pools held several brook trout and a few small salmon; and I was at
home nymphing to the fish of my Appalachian youth, though far from home.
Whenever I travel to a place
where brook trout are present, I make a point of inquiring on what a “trophy”
brook trout is locally. Everywhere the
answer is relative to a number of circumstances.
However, there are a few generally-accepted
benchmarks. At home, in the Blue Ridge
Mountains of Virginia, the answer is 12 inches, as it is most places and, as I
found, on the Connecticut. In Labrador,
the number is a factor of pounds.
Density introduces another factor. Whereas in Virginia, where one might catch a
12-inch Brookie every couple of outings, the same feat is readily achieved
several times in one day on the Connecticut, if not in the same pool.
It was upon this discovery that
my expectations for the fishery were shattered.
After landing my seventh Brookie from one particularly-productive pool,
I made another cast to a far current seam with my weighted nymph. As the fly tumbled past a small boulder, the
line hesitated, and my rod swept upward, bowed against the pressure, bringing
with it the explosive form of a leaping salmon the length of my arm.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
Photo by Matt Reilly |
As it struggled to find safety
from the pressure of my arced Tycoon Tackle fly rod in the head of the pool, I,
having lost my net to some Catskill underbrush some weeks before, stumbled into
the center of the current, guarding the magnificent fish’s downstream exit with
sidesteps and sideways pressure from the rod.
The fish made two more silver
leaps as I chased him about the pool, until a fourth and final leap brought my
leader down hard on the boulder beside which the fish had emerged, loosing my
fly from its jaws sans photograph.
Dave caught up with me, and I
relayed my story. He smiled
sympathetically, and we returned to camp for dinner of BLTs and home-friend
potatoes.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
As I fell asleep that night, slightly
warmer, under the stars, my eyes didn’t blink.
“These woods hide giants,” I repeatedly thought, inhaling the
evergreen-tinted mountain air. Just like
that, I was once again haunted. □
*Originally published in the Rural Virginian
Labels:
Brook Trout
,
Column
,
Connecticut River
,
Essay
,
Fishing
,
Fly Fishing
,
New Hampshire
,
Salmon
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
A MONDAY CAST N' BLAST
There's something magical about rising before the sun, making preparations to leave, and heading for the woods or the water. Maybe it's knowing that the scene that unfolds before dawn is the prologue to great outdoor experiences everywhere, that it's a tradition as old as the sport. Whatever the reason, I was starting the week off right.
There was still a heavy frost on the ground when I parked the Versa on the grassy shoulder just up the hill from the bridge spanning the creek I was to fish. The sun was barely breaking the crowns of the bare poplar trees in the creekbottom, and I watched my breath float away into the autumn woods as I got into waders and rigged up my rod.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
Photo by Matt Reilly |
Photo by Matt Reilly |
The large bridge pool was dark and deep. The occasional rise broke the glass-like surface and sent a delicate air bubble into the atmosphere. Not wishing to spook any fish, I cautiously edged down the bank into the tail of the pool, check my backcast, and laid out a long cast down the pool's center.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
Photo by Matt Reilly |
I came to another bridge over the creek some two miles downstream; and by then it was 10:00 AM, and the sun was warming the woods. The squirrels were awakening.
Turning, I began fishing upstream, but to no avail. Even the likely-looking holding spots, when dissected by 15 or 20 casts yielded no results. A fine bushytail observed my dedicated casting shortly after it begun, and I later wondered why I had postponed my hunt until the afternoon, when none of the downstream water held fish.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
When I finally made it back to the bridge pool, I had no more than the three trout caught there at the morning's beginning to my name, so I was excited to give it a go once more.
With the combined effort of my Golden Retriever and a purple, red, and black Woolley Bugger, I landed 42 fish between 8 and 16 inches in an hour in the shadow of the bridge. It seemed that the fish had taken up residence in the pool and could not find a reason to venture downstream even to the next pool. I will keep this in mind when fishing delayed harvest streams in the future.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
Photo by Matt Reilly |
Photo by Matt Reilly |
Photo by Matt Reilly |
Photo by Matt Reilly |
Lunch was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich enjoyed in the hatchback of the Versa; and I sipped on a water bottle as I drove down the dirt road in search of a promising stand of mature hardwoods--the venue for my evening's squirrel hunt.
The afternoon brought with it a steady breeze, which I knew would make squirrel sighting difficult. The first grove I chose offered no squirrel sightings, though there were plenty of large oaks, hickories, and poplars present. For just an hour and a half south of my Fluvanna County home, I noticed, the woods were noticeably greener and fuller than those at home, adding to the challenge.
With two hours of light left I opted to get back in the car and head back to the bottom of the second bridge over the creek, where I had seen a substantial amount of mast crop, and the single squirrel that found my fly casting so intriguing. But after surmounting hardwood ridges bordering both sides of a mile-long stretch of creek, I had yet to see a squirrel.
On such a long day, if dusk threatens and I haven't yet dropped a squirrel, I often don't aim to. Taking the time to clean one animal so late in the hunt is exhausting and unnecessary for me to feel accomplished. So, as is my practice, I located a beech tree, picked a small white spot on its bark, and unloaded my .22 in its center. At least I know I could've hit a squirrel given the chance!
I had hoped to mirror my successful morning with the trout with a limit of squirrels in the afternoon, but maybe that's just selfish. Pleased with the day, I shed my field vest and rifle into the back of the Versa, and rode home through the chilling night with the windows down.□
Labels:
Cast and Blast
,
Delayed Harvest
,
Exploring
,
Fishing
,
Fly Fishing
,
Hunting
,
Rainbow Trout
,
Squirrel Hunting
,
Tycoon Tackle
Monday, October 20, 2014
THE ALL-NIGHT ITCH
You pack a lunch, maybe a breakfast, throw all your gear into the corner, stage tomorrow's clothes, click the alarm clock on, and hit the sack, early. Sleep never comes.
The next day will bring a long-awaited adventure, or maybe a last-minute throw-together. You'll tread paths untreaded by your seasoned boots, fish waters not yet probed by your feathery or flashy temptations, stalk woods of unknown population and chance. The unknown awaits at dawn; and though you are to rise before the sun, your eyes remain wide long into the night. As I sit here working--writing how-to's and me-and-joe's--I'm distracted by what awaits me in tomorrow's adventure. One of my favorite combinations--a "cast n' blast"--will commence to the south--squirrel hunting a wildlife management area I have yet to explore and fishing a delayed harvest trout stream previously unknown to me. I've been working hard all day; and I'm yawning now; though I fear I won't sleep much. Morning will come early.□
Sunday, October 19, 2014
SQUIRRELS ON THE MIND
Perhaps it's the wonderful memories I made in the woods in my early childhood years with my father or the first solo adventures I had in our subdivided woodlot with my very own Daisy pellet gun. Or maybe it's the influence of the late Bob Gooch following me in the field as I weave stories of my own; but nothing welcomes in the fall season for me like a calm, cool day in the squirrel woods.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
My first squirrel of the season has already fallen, but I look to enjoy my first hunt in the near future. Maybe somewhere new, where I can explore. Look for the story in days to come.□
Saturday, October 18, 2014
STOCKED TROUT ON THE ROSE RIVER
It's not often that I fish for stocked trout, or rainbows at all even, here in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia; but with the parental units gone until later this month, I've been rolling on a wild game/fish diet to save on groceries, and have some fun, too.
The Rose River parallels the road that runs through Criglersville for much of its length, making it easy for the stocking truck to disperse fish throughout the river, rather than concentrate them in one or two holes nearest the best access point--supposedly. So without much thought, I picked a pull-off, parked, and rigged up.
I passed several pickup trucks parked along the river below me, and there was a mini van taking up the pull-off just upstream. So I was mentally prepared to have just one pool to fish and make the most of. This wasn't the case, however. A friendly fisherman (a fly guy too) stood in the pool just above me as I slid into the crystalline flow, running high from a full day of rain two days prior, but clear as ever, filtered by the limestone bed.
The cover was tight; but I didn't skip a beat. My new favorite rod, the Tycoon Tackle Scion Series graphite rod, roll casts like a dream; and with a flick of the rod tip, I turned a sliding D-loop into an airborne cast.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
Photo by Matt Reilly |
The next cast was claimed by a fiesty rainbow, who immediately took to the air, thrashing and trying to break free. I guided him to my hand and admired him. His rosy, spotted flanks marked him as a holdover--a welcome indication in those waters. With dinner on my mind, I slipped him into my creel.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
I continued fishing upstream, hooking the occasional fallfish and sunfish, but managed one last trout, larger than the first, but obviously a recently-stocked fish by appearance. He too met the bottom of my creel.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
Given the choice in sport, I typically forgo fishing for stocked rainbows for blue-lining on the upper reaches of the same streams for native brook trout; but if you're in the mood for trout for dinner, following the stocking truck can be a fun way to grocery shop!□
Labels:
Fly Fishing
,
Rainbow Trout
,
Rose River
,
trout
,
Tycoon Tackle
Friday, October 17, 2014
50th ANNUAL SEOPA CONFERENCE
Last weekend I had the pleasure of being invited to the 50th anniversary Southeastern Outdoor Press Association (SEOPA) conference at the beautiful Fontana Village in the North Carolina Great Smoky Mountains.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
The winner, as selected by the OJEFA committee, is selected from a pool of applicants between the age of 12 and 25 who complete an application and essay demonstrating a strong desire to pursue a career in outdoor communications. The award provides one free conference registration, four nights lodging, and up to $750 in travel expenses to attend the annual fall conference held by the organization.
The real blessing provided by the award, is the opportunity to meet and network with over 500 of the country's most prominent outdoor communicators. These conferences are where careers are born, shaped, and grown; and anyone interested in the field would be doing themselves a disservice to not attend one.
So if you are an individual that fits the aforementioned criteria, I urge you to mark June 1, the deadline for the scholarship application, on your calendar for next year. It very well may be the best move you ever make. I know it was mine.
OJEFA Announces Recipient of Fourth Annual Lindsay Sale-Tinney Award
Thursday, October 16, 2014
SILENTLY AND SLOWLY--SHIPWRECKED
Summer is stagnant and never-ending in the South. And when the sun seems to melt the passage of time, and willing-to-eat, enthusiastic fish fin the waters of farm ponds with water cooler than the air, it's not uncommon to find me at my favorite local arena several days a week.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
It's this place that continues to teach and reteach me a valuable lesson: In nature, it seems, the more you get to know a place the more mysterious it becomes. There's something special about the unknown, which I believe is central to the sport of fishing as we all know it.
I was in the midst of a particularly productive summer season on the banks of said pond, with a long rod in hand and a popping bug tied like a bad habit to the end of a staunch, level leader. On many separate occasions I had taken respectable largemouth bass from the surface of the pond, along the heavy lily pad breaks and grass pads, and I was fairly dialed in to the fishery I was targeting.
Though fish tend to be more willing to break the surface in overcast conditions, it is not a rule on that body of water; but regardless, the heavy-gray morning sky leaking an intermittent drizzle boosted my chances considerably and made for a pleasant fishing atmosphere.
Fifteen minutes into waving my 8-weight, a gaping mouth intercepted my popping bug's chug-chugging course towards the edge of the pads and closed, spewing an air bubble the size of a softball into the atmosphere in what sounded like an earth-bound meteorite breaking the water's surface. The fight was on. The fish made consecutive runs, right, parallel to the weedy edge, then left. When it's fighting energy was depleted, it sounded and buried itself in a thick subsurface wad of grass. I edged out into the water, chest-deep, and found the fish's mouth at the end of the leader and lifted. Another trophy was added to my season's tally.
It wasn't long after that morning that I returned to my favorite playground. The ground where I had fought and landed the storied fish of a few days prior was taken by another. Not a fisherman, but an allusion to one--a sparkle-finished Champion bass boat, anchored in place and devastated. Paint chipped from the finish, remnants of fishing tackle and days of relaxation and drinking colored the deck, where carpet was shedding from fiberglass. The seat cushions were dilapidated, the electronics obviously shot, and the steering wheel detached from the console and riding squarely on the deck. Grass and weeds gripped the craft naturally, as if shipwrecked long ago and left unsalvaged on the banks of a timeless ode to summertime in the south.
It remained for months, and still does remain motionless and unmolested. No one seemed to know where the boat had come from or why it was so weathered and beaten. But somehow it didn't remain a mystery for long, but was accepted shortly as a wild and simple act of nature--of human nature, even. Though one could raise a fuss about littering and degradation, the boat grew quickly to be seen as a feature of the landscape, a casting platform from which to ply the waters of the pond with greater reach, until the air turns cold and the fish abandon their fondness for surface feeding, and the craft is out of season. Then, I will not be surprised if it should be gone.□
It remained for months, and still does remain motionless and unmolested. No one seemed to know where the boat had come from or why it was so weathered and beaten. But somehow it didn't remain a mystery for long, but was accepted shortly as a wild and simple act of nature--of human nature, even. Though one could raise a fuss about littering and degradation, the boat grew quickly to be seen as a feature of the landscape, a casting platform from which to ply the waters of the pond with greater reach, until the air turns cold and the fish abandon their fondness for surface feeding, and the craft is out of season. Then, I will not be surprised if it should be gone.□
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
US FOREST SERVICE PROPOSAL CAUSES STIR
The US Forest Service has issued a proposal to
require an expensive and extensive permitting process for anyone poised to photograph
or film on federally-designated wilderness areas for “commercial gain,”
triggering outcry from professional and amateur photographers, reporters,
outdoor writers, and First Amendment supporters in mass.
According to the controversial proposition,
photographs and film, even if shot with a smartphone, would be subject to
approval by Forest Service administration, following a detailed application
designed to verify the intent of the media.
Upon approval, acquisition of a permit would cost up to $1500. Those apprehended for violating the act could
be hit with a fine of up to $1000.
Now, before you dismiss this, readers, with a
confident “Ah, that will never happen,” let’s take a look at the details.
The proposal first gained public attention when
the governmental agency posted a notice on the Federal Register on September 4
seeking public comment.
In response to the outcry, the Forest Service has
since spoken up to clarify that such an implement would not interfere with
reporters or recreational photographers, one with commercial activity. The regulation, the Forest Service states,
has been deemed vital in honoring the 1964 Wilderness Act, which requires that
the nearly 110 million acres set aside by Congress as “wilderness area” be
preserved in their natural state.
Moreover, the Forest Service wishes to direct
attention to the fact that this measure has been effective since 2010, though
with minimal enforcement.
But even during a period of minimal enforcement,
and with the Forest Service claiming to side with reporters and only oppose
commercial motors, in 2010, the agency denied a public Idaho television station
access to a wilderness area to film student conservation workers, according to
the Oregonian.
This
exemplifies governmental overreach to a T.
In what started out as, and may still be viewed as, a beneficial measure
in preserving America’s wildernesses, this government agency has slowly slipped
a collared leash around the neck of the free reporter.
Though the application seems to be tailored to evaluate
commercial filming projects, requiring others to undergo the process is truly a
violation of the First Amendment Freedom of the Press. There seems to be some confusion about the
idea that hampering personal freedoms is synonymous with limiting them.
For even if this regulation has the intent that is
commonly cited, giving the Forest Service—a government agency—the power to
determine whether or not an individual or project will be issued a permit and,
at that, how much it will cost, opens the door for biased governmental
politicking in the media world. And with
smartphone cameras creating a hazy border between recreation and
news-gathering, the path becomes laborious and winding. Beware, the slippery slope.
Furthermore, it seems to this author that the
Forest Service would be doing itself a huge disservice by burgeoning the
permitting process and hindering photographers wishing to photograph the beauty
of nature in wilderness areas. If you’ve
ever visited a national park or wilderness area, or dream to some day visit one
far away from home, chances are your desires were inspired by photography,
whether on the cover of a pamphlet, on the internet, or in a magazine or book. What would happen to growing public interest in
the outdoors if this advertising and appreciation of nature was decreased or
discouraged through the process being discussed?
Thankfully, our country’s lawmakers, on both sides
of the political spectrum, agree that this proposition is out of bounds.
The Washington
Post cites U.S. Representative Greg
Walden’s (R. – OR) letter to Forest Service Chief Thomas Tidwell: “It is also very troubling that journalists
could be held to different standards at the discretion of the issuing officer
depending on the content of their stories and its relevance to wilderness
activity.”
U.S. Senator Ron Wyden (D. – OR) also acknowledges
the potentially First Amendment-violating rules, saying that the Forest Service
should be careful of overstepping, according to the Oregonian.
As an outdoor communicator, this issue poses a
threat to me personally, as it should to anyone that enjoys recreating on our
Nation’s public lands—most anyone reading this column. Though this issue seems to be one that will
be shaken down by legislators and the outspoken few, don’t let it earn a
foothold.
In response to the large-scale public protest that
erupted with this breaking news, the Forest Service has extended their public
comment period to November 3. Take a
stand for your public lands, and write the agency, your local legislator, or
both with your opinion on the matter. Or
visit the website for the Federal Register and submit a formal comment. □
Originally published in the Rural Virginian
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
THE FOREMAN
Every year, around the same time, when the air begins to
chill and crispen, and the leaves of silver maples and paper birches are consumed
into a red-yellow blaze by the dying embers of summer in the Northeast, a
steely character wanders south along the River Clyde into town for the season
from his regular residence, Lake Memphremagog.
His appearance is a phenomenal mystery to the townspeople, apart from lore
that it began long before the river was dammed along its course; but the town
takes note of his arrival, and succumbs to a feverish restlessness upon it. He rolls in unannounced, like a
shadow--deliberate, like a life-long local.
The habits he keeps are only attempted to be understood by those seeking
to make contact with him, if only briefly; and still others simply observe him
sulking in his regular hangouts in accepted ignorance. Such is the alluring nature of salmon.
He brings with him a posse of thousands from the mother lake
to the north. In years previous, there
were others mightier in the River; but after a gluttonous summertime, this
year, beautifully adorned with muddy-bronze flanks and dime-sized black spots,
he emerged as the strongest in the order, entitling him to first choice in a
lie.
Salmon are a fish like in appearance but unlike in habit to
trout, in that a trout’s lie and dining preferences can be entirely
predictable, while salmon seem to act completely at random. That is not to say that salmon are without
character, for the opposite is true, particularly in the case of large
salmon.
The Foreman, as he was called by the townspeople and
familiar anglers, chose his lie in the belly of a meadow bridge pool. The pool was really the tail of a much larger
elbow pool, which moved slowly from the head, under the bridge, where a narrow
band of current adjacent to relatively-still water cut down through a foot of
bedrock and flowed into the limbs of a downed tree sweeping into the current, opposite
the approach of most anglers, where he could retreat from danger. Fifteen feet downstream from the bridge’s
center, an orange traffic cone laid, opening upstream—an allusion to past road
construction.
A pillow of sub-surface current rolled on the mouth of the
cone, creating a micro-eddy; and that’s where the Foreman held, motionless,
save for the occasional subtle turn to take an imperceptible insect tumbling
along the streambottom. His 12-man crew
flanked him, all much smaller than he, and would move upstream and higher in the
water column to feed when tempted; but their overseer remained immovable.
All of this was easily observed from the overpassing bridge
which, apart from his size, was probably the reason the Foreman was regarded
with such prestige. If the largest in
his crew went four pounds, the Foreman went 12.
Yet it was evident that he fed most sparingly and lazily.
When one ambitious angler positioned himself to take his
shot at the talked-about salmon of the traffic cone below the town bridge, the
town’s population in full arrived to wish in his favor as if a silent alarm had
been wired to each one of their homes.
To get a promising drift, because of the slow surface current and faster
sub-surface current running along the streambottom, an angler had to make a
long cast upstream with a fly weighted to allow it to drift naturally to the
bottom without lodging in the shelf rock on the bottom prematurely. If this was achieved without snagging the
full-figured apple tree on the backcast, then a strong mend had to be placed
upstream to prevent drag on the fly, allowing it to sink to the desired depth.
It was rare this would happen, and when it would, perfection
was rewarded by the Foreman simply nosing the fly to the side or allowing it to
tumble over his nose without reaction.
After several hours of this—if the angler’s wits lasted that long—the
onlookers crowding the bridge would return reluctantly to their homes, and the
onlookers’ vigil would be reopened to vehicle traffic.
To visit the bridge pool after fishing hours was
enchanting. When the water appeared
black and the graying sky became peppered with insects hatching from the
riffles below the tail of the Foreman’s pool, the town’s residents who perhaps
understood the steely veteran best, and were often fishermen themselves, would
emerge to take in the scene from the bridge strikingly empty in the pale
evening light. If it was a particularly
special evening and the Foreman was in good spirits, the delicate rise-forms
dimpling the tail of the bridge pool would erupt with an explosion of water and
the august form of the Foreman enjoying the day’s concluding meal. Such is the nature of salmon. □
Originally published in the Rural Virginian
Labels:
Clyde River
,
Column
,
Essay
,
Fishing
,
Fly Fishing
,
Salmon
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