NIGHTTIME IN THE SWAMP

Swamps never really go to sleep; they only wake up.

Campfire in Dragon Run Swamp. Photo by Matt Reilly.

    I was a few paddle strokes into one of Virginia’s own when this thought came to mind. I could feel it.

    The aroma of black swamp water--of cypress and tannin--burned like incense as a fiery sun yielded to the chill of night over Northern Neck farm fields, behind a labyrinth of crowns and tangles.

    Noises grew as their sources disappeared under cover of darkness. Red-winged blackbirds whistled gurgling shrills in staggered succession. A choir of spring peepers, and its baritone bullfrogs, sounded off eternally. Dragon Run, trickling audibly as thick roots and channel tighten its course, rounded out the background.

    A blue heron made its last flaps of daylight across the landscape, breaking limbs, pushing air, and emitting a raspy squall as it found a roost in a cypress crown. Odd screams--from bobcats, foxes, or something else altogether--broke the rhythm, but went unquestioned, as part of the age-old awakening song that commences every day as dusk turns out the lights.

    The horizon blazed orange, and I intended to keep it alive as long as possible, but craved nightfall. With a heavy-footed boot, I carved out a wide circle in the leafy understory—six feet wide, about. With a strong stick, I dug a shallow pit into the dirt--through humus, mud, and veiny roots—just two feet wide, enough to harbor a modest pile of sticks.

    It didn't take long, or much roaming, to ascertain a healthy collection of wood—twigs and branches of increasing thickness. Each size went into its own pile, ready for application. From an undisturbed site, I took handfuls of leaves from the floor—dry ones, untouched by the dampness of the swampy ground. In an airy ball, they represented my last ditch effort to retain light, with the sun gone, light fading quickly.

    A match brought it back, slowly. It caught as a glowing edge on the finger of an oak leaf, smoked, smoldered, and grew to engulf the pile. One by one, I added small twigs, then larger ones. As the flame gained strength, I invested a pile of arm-thick branches, leaning them to rest against each other over the blaze, hopefully to catch, and keep the light on.

    But the swamp is old. The wood that was readily accessible was punk—rotten, flaky. It burned through in minutes, making upkeep a chore. It was a happy chore, though.

    Fire has long been a symbol of civilization, of life—the only thing that sets humans apart from animals. It grants hope and comfort. A fire illuminates more than just the night.

    If ever there was an old-world essence surrounding my activities, it disappeared the moment I bit into an imported mango. Dinner was finished off with a handful of cashews.

    After a final fueling of the fire, I lashed rope to two old oaks, and hung a hammock, from which to become, with the fire, the only thing fading away in the swamp.

    For the time, the fire granted enough light to read by--A River Runs Through It, Norman Maclean's masterpiece--and the shadows it cast made the plot all the more dramatic. In the swamp, a river runs through the forest—is the forest--save for a few firm spots where the oak trees grow—a long way from the glacial canyons and bustling logging camps of western Montana. Maclean probably never saw the likes of a southern Virginia cypress swamp, but the drama, and the haunting, he knew is rich here, too.□

*Originally published in the Rural Virginian.

LEAN FORWARD, PADDLE HARD

Finally relaxed, nose mechanically plugged and eyes squeezed closed, I pushed my hands past my ears and over my head, tracing the rim of the cockpit for a nylon loop attached to my skirt. As quickly as I found it, I formed a fist and ripped it over my head, twisting, pushing free, and bursting from cold river water into a seasonably warm early fall afternoon.

Public Domain photo.

    Knee deep in slack water, the South Fork of the Holston River dripped from my traumatized face. I had just completed my second ever “wet-exit” from a whitewater kayak, as a prerequisite for my first run down one of southwest Virginia’s domineering rivers. I was green, to say the least.

    Whitewater kayaking, on all counts—from the construction and maneuverability of the craft to the safety precautions and nature of the game—, is a different sport entirely from flatwater kayaking or floating a moderate river in a sit-on or sit-in boat. It’s a win-lose battle with hydrologic currents in which every stroke, every tilt, every pressure point, is a decisive action.

    Luckily, there’s one hard-and-fast rule that I was repeatedly offered—lean forward, paddle hard, even if you’re backwards.

    Jim Harrison, Director of the Emory & Henry Outdoor Program, whose boat I followed like a distressed duckling down the first rapid, echoed this advice from ahead.

    The first piece of whitewater I was up against was a choppy rapid I would be tempted to dub a “narrow” as a fisherman. A multitude of large rocks studded the riverbottom as the river’s width halved, resulting in a frothy water slide 200 feet in duration.

    From an upstream position, I did my best to center my weight in the boat, lean forward, and dip short but powerful strokes at the bow, managing to keep a straight course, even when falling into the holes behind larger boulders. The bow would dip, get drawn down by tumbling water, and pulled forward, until the hull met the system and bucked the whole craft upright, and over the bulge, each rapid paddle stroke an anchor point.

    Covered in spray and pumped with adrenaline, I battled through to the tailout upright and oriented, until I hit the tailout, that is. Relaxing, I must have put more weight on the left side of the seat, because the bow swerved to the left while I still had a good amount of speed. Luckily, I remembered to paddle, and saved myself from a coldwater swim.

    A few hundred yards of flat water provided me opportunity to practice. Consistently tracking a straight path remained a difficulty. I couldn’t solve the left-hand spin.

    Regardless, the next obstacle was up, this time, complete with a belligerent name—“The Fist.”

    The others in our party, seven students from the College, took turns shooting the famed rapid, one at a time, each aiming to trace the same “line” through the system.

    When at last it was my turn, I was still skeptical of my sub-novice ability’s suitability for the task at hand, but, determined to give it my all, went forth anyway.

    “The Fist” is a rather tight rapid, the safe and preferred currents of which run tight to the right bank, under several overhanging tree limbs, and finally through a choppy froth near the tail, which quickly meets an outward jut in the bank.

    Leaning forward and paddling hard, I managed to save myself from flipping through to the end. Still, I had built up enough speed to make the approaching jut dangerous. Human instincts being what they are, my eyes were locked on the danger zone (a recommended practice when rowing a driftboat or raft), influencing my balance and keeping me straight on towards collision. Thankfully, I managed to shift my weight and avoid conflict with the trees.

    Light was fading fast from the river valley as we approached takeout. Only one obstacle was left to conquer. “Triple Drop” is a relatively straightforward rapid, save for the three sudden drops of a few feet, and the eddies that accent the current seams. Maintain a straight course, and avoid the back eddies, and you’re golden.

    I was second in line this time, behind a friend of mine. Our line ran at first tight to the left bank, under overhanging limbs, then towards the middle of the river where the drops started. Drop one spat me out disoriented—sideways. A few paddle strokes corrected the issue, just in time to take on the second.

    However, at the last second, an eddy grabbed my bow and swung me backwards. Still straight, although in reverse, I was pushed over the second drop. The third drop came, and the story was the same—backwards, but leaning forward, paddling hard. I landed intact, redirected my course, and found takeout.□

*Originally published in the Rural Virginian

FINDING AUTUMN IN OKEFENOKEE

I get nervous when I lose sight of the mountains. Something about the overgrown, flat, expansive terrain of the Deep South (and something about burning through a tank of gas nervously purchased on the Florida-Georgia line in an hour, too) causes me to lose my bearings and bring my guard up. As I traded blazing maples and conifers for Spanish moss and cypress knees en route to Okefenokee Swamp in south Georgia in early November, the change was evident.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Just days before, snow fell on a turkey hunting effort and spiced up the sex drive of brown trout in northern Pennsylvania.  Clouds hid the sun for days on end.  The hardwoods covering the walls of the Pine Creek Valley were barren; it seemed winter had moved in before fall was through unpacking.  However, almost 1000 miles and six states south, the crisp nights of the season so treasured were just beginning.

    Southwest Florida, and the promiseof snook and tarpon fishing amongst a mangrove maze, was on the menu for the end of the week, but with kayak in tow, I couldn’t, in good conscience, pass up the rich paddling potential of the famed swamp.

    That night, after a short walk, I laid my head upon firm ground, yards from the swamp, resonating with the cuckoos and whistles of swamp creatures. The distinct drone emitted by spiraling mosquitos hung in the background, held at bay by the screen of my tent, while foraging gray squirrels rustled the palmettos above. Small-framed swamp deer wandered close, but kept their distance.

    As the sun set, the temperature dropped. No rain or dew threatened. So, for the first time since I left home in early September, I forsook the tent’s protective fly and soaked in the night. The moon was bright and full; and I drifted off to sleep watching embers from a dying fire drift across its face.

    With no hills or valleys to hush it, the swamp will wake you well before sunrise to share in the majesty of dawn. For a while I dwindled on the edge of consciousness, watching light return to the scrubby understory, the night creatures and goings-on whisked away with the shadows.

    The restlessness of morning grew to a detectable level. My eyes snapped open, my body filled with a sense of urgency.

    I shouldered my kayak and carried it a short distance to a narrow canal and broke water. It was 6 a.m.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Life was all around. Though the sun had not yet poked the majority of its fiery form above the horizon, birds were awake and plentiful. Egrets drew attention to the lily pad and daisy crops on the water’s edge, and waded carefully around cypress knees, heads bobbing in rhythm. Cormorants idled passively by, stealthy boaters yielding to the wake of my kayak.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    When the canal met bigger water, the scene revealed more of the dark divers. The early-to-rise occupied perches in the canopies of magnificent, moss-covered cypress trees, wings spread and hunched, drying out—the avian equivalent to a morning shower. Taller, more awkward blue herons glided overhead, piercing the scene with their raspy squawking.

    Dipping my paddle into the main body of the waterway, I caught a glimpse of the sun as it emerged from behind a cypress forest, casting a deep yellow hue through the sky.

    It was then, in the growing morning, that my attention turned to the shorelines. The swamp is known for its alligator presence, though none had yet shown themselves.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Following a primitive sign, I left the comfort of big water for a tight course towards Minnie’s Lake.

    It was quickly evident that I was, though only slightly, moving upstream. The passageway narrowed to a diameter of mere feet. Cypress trees and fallen logs served as obstacles, as I navigated the cut deeper into the backcountry.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Nine miles of paddling landed me at what I can only assume to be Minnie’s Lake. The forest opened up, and water expanded to fill the void.

    Unprotected from the dense cypress canopy, I could then feel the full strength of the southern sun.

    As I rounded a corner, into the Lake, a magnificently large alligator—of well over 10 feet in length—nearly induced a heart attack as it charged into the swamp from its sunny spot.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    The hidden, cold-blooded inhabitants of the swamp had awoken, and could be spotted dotting the matted fringes. Alligators slid by like submarines, eyes and snout just visible above the surface, surveying the scene. Turtles stumbled about in the grass and popped their heads up in the kayak’s path curiously.

Photo by Matt Reilly

    Foreign is a swamp to a northerner. The creatures I encountered before takeout were well-suited to their home—toothed and armored. Such ecological diversity we have in this country. Such beautiful ecological diversity.□

For more photos from Okefenokee, click HERE.

*Originally published in The Rural Virginian

A TALE OF A FEW KITTIES

It may seem strange, coming from a kid who grew up fishing in rural central Virginia within minutes of the Rivanna River and the almighty James, but catfishing is a discipline that evaded my interests and feeble efforts throughout my childhood. It isn’t a family tradition, as is trout fishing or deer hunting; I had no teacher.  And though I had countless trout and bass to my name by the time I achieved adulthood, the number of whiskered fish remained grounded in the single digits, many of which were caught by accident.

Kyle with a small channel cat taken from the Rivanna River

    For that reason, good friend, Brian Bodine, owner of Razorback Guide Service based out of Scottsville, Virginia, offered to facilitate my formal introduction to the cats that fin the James River. A heavy rain swelled the river the day before to a light brown.  Debris was running thick.  The creeks were being flushed of baitfish.

    Marginal action colored the daytime hours, but as the sun set, we found ourselves positioned downstream from a creek mouth, four bait-casting rods fanned behind the boat.  As the last bit of light faded from the sky, talk of coyote hunting, shooting, trail camera pictures, and family took over.  The sound of a clicking drag was an anticipated interruption. 

    Unfortunately, that sound didn’t surface.  Instead, a raucous splashing broke us off in mid-sentence.  A head lamp shined behind the boat revealed a surge of whitewater, and so I sprung to grab a bent rod.  Several cranks on the reel handle confirmed that the fish had taken the bait and swam towards the boat and to the surface.  Luckily, he had hooked himself.

    Brian’s net job brought into the boat a small channel catfish of about three pounds.  Nevertheless, such a tasty morsel was relegated to the cooler.

Kayak Kitties

    Just a week later, Kyle Jenkins, a childhood friend of mine of more than 15 years, and I got together to explore a spot on my home river, the Rivanna, that I had long suspected to sport a thriving catfish population. After work, we loaded two kayaks into the back of Kyle’s Tacoma and headed for the river, which was, like the James, slightly inflated in flow. 

    Spending many summer days on this river with my kayak and no one to shuttle me taught me to paddle upstream.  It provides a workout and a fun way of fishing.  Moreover, water just a few miles upstream from public landings are often much less-pressured than water downstream, and the paddling is usually not too difficult, save for the initial takeoff from the landing.

    Our target was a major creek mouth about two miles upstream where I knew there to be large schools of baitfish holding, as well as some large carp and smallmouth—a place I had visited a hundred times.  However, due to the temporarily high flows, paddling was a bit harder than usual.  

    We paddled and pushed and sweated for a half hour before reaching the slow water that is the tailout of the creek junction. 

    There, I optimistically tied on a small yellow Beetle-Spin to begin my bait-catching efforts.  We didn’t need much.  A small bluegill would do. 

    In just a few casts, a small bluegill answered my call, and blindsided the lure in heavy current, forged downstream, and soon was captured in my hand. 

    Kyle had fallen behind a bit in the upstream paddle, and came up on me as I was landing the fish.  We beached our kayaks on the sandbar at the creek mouth, and I utilized an old, washed-up tire as a cutting board, scaling, filleting, and cutting the bluegill flesh into strips.

    A single strip was used to tip our Carolina rigs, and we once again took position in our crafts, this time pointing downstream.

    A logjam caps the tailout of the run on one side of the river, and we wedged our kayaks against the bank there, making casts straight out and across the current. Feeding slack line, I felt my egg sinker hit bottom, and flipped the bail closed.  Kyle followed suit, and we were set up.

    Catfishing is a change of pace in that it is very social.  In fact, waiting for a fish to present itself in a bouncing rod tip is perhaps the best venue for conversation I’ve encountered.  And often, such conversations don’t last long.

    Kyle’s rod tip was the first to direct attention away from the topic at hand.  Small vibrations turned to a steady pull, and as the line straightened out towards the center of the river, a sweep of his rod secured the fate of a small channel cat of about a pound and a half—his first “on-purpose” cat.

    Just minutes later, my own rod dropped, and we finished the night out with a double.□

*Originally published in the Rural Virginian

PHOTO UPDATE: EAST COAST ADVENTURE--OKEFENOKEE NATIONAL WILDLIFE REFUGE

I get nervous when I lose sight of the mountains.  Something about the overgrown, flat, expansive terrain of the Deep South causes me to lose my bearings and bring my guard up.  

    It's a totally different world.  Last November, as I traveled south on the second leg of my East Coast Adventure, I traded blazing maples and conifers for Spanish moss and cypress trees.  As I grew closer and closer to my destination, deep in the heart of Okefenokee Swamp in southern Georgia, the change was evident.

    That night I laid down my head on firm ground, mere feet from the swamp, but it resonated with the cuckoos and whistles of birds, foxes, and amphibians.  The distinct drone of dread emitted by spiraling mosquitoes hung in the background, and foraging gray squirrels rustled the palmettos above my tent.  Deer wandered close, but kept their distance.

    As the sun set, the temperature dropped.  November in south Georgia is comfortable--comparable to perhaps September in Virginia.  No rain or dew threatened, so I forsook my tent's fly for the first time since I left home on Labor Day.  The moon was bright; and I drifted off to sleep watching embers from a dying campfire drift across its face.

Created with flickr slideshow.

    Morning came early.  I had to reach Fort Myers, Florida by nightfall, but wasn't leaving without exploring the swamp from my kayak.

    I broke water at 6:00 AM.  The swamp was asleep, but slowly awakening under a fiery sunrise.  The creatures I encountered before takeout were foreign--toothed and armored.  Such diversity we have in this country.  Such beautiful ecological diversity.□

A FEW REMINDERS FOR PLANNING AND EXECUTING A SAFE FLOAT TRIP

As of this week, I am officially released from the grip of school.  Summer is officially here, and if you’re anything like me, your soul craves nothing more than river mud- and sand-crusted feet, a timeless journey down a coursing river, and tangling with the resolute will of a river smallmouth.  So, in honor of National Safe Boating Week and everything that summer is, I’ve put together a short list of tips—a refresher—for keeping your float trips safe and enjoyable.

The iconic Massanutten Mountain from Low Water Bridge on the Shenandoah River.  Photo by Matt Reilly.

Check the Weather, Plan for the Worst

    Three years ago I was floating a short piece of the upper South Fork Rivanna River with my brother after work.  It was a last minute plan.  We were just going to be out for a few hours.  The skies were bluebird.  We didn’t even glance at the forecast.

    In this case, what we didn’t know bit us—hard.  We had paddled about a mile upstream and were just about to stop and begin to fish on our float back when an audible roar started to grow in the air.  I rounded a bend in the river to see--like black and white—dark, roiling storm clouds pushing back quickly on a bright sky that had previously seemed unconquerable.  As fast as we could paddle back wasn’t fast enough.  The storm overtook us in a matter of minutes, bringing branches tumbling haphazardly into the water along our path.  We made it back to the truck unscathed, albeit soaked, frightened, and humbled.  Read about that encounter HERE.

    The moral of the story?  Check the weather—always.  Summer is characterized by late-afternoon low pressure systems caused by warming air over land.  Know that, and plan and pack accordingly.

Limit Alcohol Consumption

    A study conducted in four southeastern states concluded that alcohol is a contributing factor in about 51 percent of motorboat fatalities in those states.  If your summertime boating activities involve operating a motorboat, understand that it requires dexterity, awareness of boating traffic, and the ability to make and execute quick decisions. 

    Alcohol also increases the danger of drowning by decreasing one’s ability to swim by reducing their ability to hold one’s breath and by disorientation. 

    Moreover, alcohol should not be utilized as a source of hydration, as its consumption can lead to dehydration.  Alcohol limits the body’s production of an anti-diuretic hormone, which reduces the body’s ability to absorb water.  Putting your body in this situation while on the water, in the sun, is not a healthy choice, and can lead to minor dehydration or a more serious illness.

Know Your Course and River Conditions

    It’s easy to underestimate the amount of time required for a particular float.  I have listened to many a story from people who fallaciously equated the length of the paralleling road to the length of their intended float, or otherwise bit off more than they could chew in a day and ended up on the river much after dark, to ever consciously make that mistake. 

    If you plan to tackle a new stretch of river, do your research.  Know its length in terms of river miles.  On average, eight to 10 miles makes for about four to six hours of relaxed floating.  If you plan to fish, cut that time in half.  Current speed should also be taken into consideration.  An eight-mile float on a fast-paced river will go by much faster than on a slow, meandering river.

    Similarly, it pays to do research on the water type present along the stretch you intend to float.  For instance, the Shenandoah River is a river of many ledges and a few rapids, namely Compton’s Rapids, while the Rivanna River has little in the way of sharp ledges in its lower reaches.  Know these character traits so that you can be on the lookout for them and know how to handle such obstacles when they are encountered. 

    Lastly, but perhaps most importantly, always check streamflow levels before floating a river.  The US Geological Survey maintains a detailed, real-time set of tables fed by river gauges across the country that serve as an invaluable resource for river-goers and fishermen alike.  Utilize that resource to avoid the stretches of slow, flat water where you might have to drag your craft during low water; the tight rapids that will be more dangerous during high water events; and to know when to stay home when the water is at flood stage or a remarkable low.

     Keep these tips in mind while planning and enjoying your times on the water this summer.  Nothing puts a hamper on a great day on the water with friends like an accident, and most can be easily avoided with forethought.

    See you on the water!

                 

 *Originally published in the Rural Virginian

BACKCOUNTRY BLESSING

My eyes snapped open mid-morning.  The previous night found me restless—scouring charts, tables; interpreting the forecasts; weighing my options.  Tides were slight; and the weather, poor.  “Cold spell” complaints were being tossed about Southwest Florida tackle shops like lies since the day I arrived.  At 86 degrees and breezy, I found no quarrel with Florida’s sunny disposition.  Had I met the coast with an inkling of prior knowledge of fly fishing saltwater or the area, I might have.

Matlacha backcountry on a sunny fall day.  Photo by Matt Reilly.

    As I rolled from my sleeping bag on the concluding day of my sojourn, the mercury was reduced to 40.  The sky was dismal.  The air carried a briskness that rendered my featherweight Florida fishing garb useless.  The snook that finned my dreams would be stressed.

    Doubt flickered as I shouldered my kayak, and chilled water from a nocturnal storm met exhaustion.  Its weight depressed me.  I pushed on, slinging it atop the car. 

    I met slack tide at D-&-D marina in Matlacha.  A doorbell chime welcomed me to pay my launch fee to a gruff gentleman in a stained gray t-shirt. 

    “You might try it.  Tough day.

    Unstrapping my craft, I toted it to the water’s edge.  An anchor and PFD smacked the gravel with a ceremonial thud.  A milk crate took on fly boxes, Boca grip, leaders, and a dry bag.  A paddle was assembled.  I was a week-old tourist, but my routine was seasoned.

    Every moment of flux is opportunity.  The tide was rising, submerging the shoots of the tangled labyrinth of mangroves where predatory snook would take up vigil over unsuspecting prey.  My plot relied upon a northwest-oriented course winding through the backcountry.  Fighting for every inch of my kayak’s advancement north along the Gulf edge, I was reassured that the gusts would assist me, moving my craft south as I fished.  I needed only to reach the north end of the cut.

    In the tight, winding water trail, the wind was shielded.  I reached my destination inside a half hour.  Rod rigged, anchor secured to the trolley, I slid into a standing position--rod at my feet, anchor boated, paddle in-hand.

    The gloom afforded no chance of sight-casting.  Blind-casting would rule the day.  I poled to a position fifty feet from the mangroves and dropped anchor.

    Drizzle spawned rain and wind slanted it harshly.  Many fruitless casts turned me to gliding upright through an open lake at the confluence of two creek channels. 

    I heard the fish first.  Amid the timid roar of gray static stippling the tannic water of the backcountry, a beast woke and fed.  Billows of an angry sea breeze shrouded the hint and challenged my balance atop my kayak.  The brisk frontal haze thinned temporarily, permitting my strained eyes a quick study of the mangrove edge.  Dark water swirled again beneath arms of green.  My eyes brightened.

    Sixty feet separated me from the fish, and I feared clamoring to adjust my position would spook it.  I stripped line from reel and awaited my moment.

    At once, the wind reduced.  Raindrops thinned.  Losing no time, I flexed my 8-weight.  One, two, three false-casts and I punched my thumb through the cork.  A CK Baitfish uncurled, miraculously, between leafy limbs, tight to the shoots.

    The fly sank for two seconds.  Twitch.  The line went tight before my strip was through.  A surge of whitewater and unseen energy engulfed my fly.  I swept the rod outward, flexing the butt, stripping, driving the hook.  Tug-of-war ensued.  Then, the fish tore parallel to the edge, wrapped the leader, and severed the leader with a flare of her razor-sharp gill plate.

    My legs and arms shook.  Minutes passed before I could sit without tipping.  Ecstatic for fooling a snook into eating, I reconstructed my shock leader, retied my fly.

    My hopes were escaping with the tide.  The perfect ending to my story flashed before my eyes, fleeting.

    But it would be out of character to admit defeat.  The outgoing tide would pull the fish from their hideouts into the troughs adjacent.  I abandoned the lake, and poled on to another location. 

    Around the next bend, a deep drop-off grazed the mangrove shoots.  Ambitiously, I pushed a long cast out parallel to it and let the fly sink.  A few strips turned the water behind the white fly black.  

  

    My rod hand began to sweat.  The hallmark gill flare sucked in my offering.  My arm reached skyward, coming tight to a fish in the open, with nowhere to go.

A small backcountry snook taken just in the nick of time.  Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Somehow, I found the grace to kneel.  Raising the rod tip, I reached out and seized the Line-sider by the jaw. 

    On my knees, I gazed into a bronze eye as a warm emotion swallowed me—a summary of my experiences thus far.  I laughed, shakily, and shouted, triumphant.□

*Originally published in the Rural Virginian 

ESCAPING THE DERECHO

    Summer, more than any other season, showcases a remarkable ability to contrast black and white, clear bluebird skies and dark impending doom.  

When the skies turn dark, those in the comfort of their homes find the movie channel and take a nap; but the angler caught on the water has a decision of importance to make:  “pack it in, or stick it out?”

    Many anglers I’ve met may be too stubborn for their own good.  The answer to that question is almost always to stick it out—“…See what happens”—knowing full well the weather may change in an instant—or not.

    I’ve never been particularly swift at recognizing oncoming storms, hurricanes, etc. while on the water.  Polarized sunglasses, the time-freezing cadence of tumbling water, and a supreme focus on the end of my fly line almost always take precedence over and distract me from thunderheads and lightning.  Only when a falling notification from above slaps me on the head do I get around to thinking about things like personal safety and the two mile walk home.

    And it’s this circumstance that, I think, makes anglers so fond of braving wild storms—a case of selective sight.

    Check the forecast for the possibility of weather before leaving the house.  If the probability is high, keep a watchful eye on the sky.

    Even if weather is recognized prior to hopping in the water, I’ve always been a little unrealistically hopeful.  The thought that precedes an outing is enough to get a person excited, and that anticipation is motive to take chances with nature.  This means either being drenched for several long “ten more minutes” intervals before being carried back to the truck by apocalyptic winds, or enduring a short shower and fishing out the afternoon.  I’ve waited under rock ledges and stream banks enough to realize that Mother Nature is a merciless prankster and a habitual gambler, making us outdoorsmen prime playtoys.

               

    One particular summer I found myself totally immersed in Mother’s dry sense of humor (and by that I mean utterly wet sense of humor). 

    After work one day (a sunny, cloudless day) my brother and I decided to explore with our kayaks the upper reaches of a riverine reservoir.

    Paddling upstream and planning to float-fish back to take-out, we passed up the fishy holes, making mental note of them for the return trip.

    When we reached the point where it was evident no better fishing water lay ahead, we beached, stretched the legs, and fished a rather unpromising riffle.

Photo by Matt Reilly

    With enough light left to thoroughly fish the stretch of river between us and the truck, we shoved off downstream and proceeded to the first hole—a promising elbow, deep, with rocky shelves.

    Now, I’ve described what happened next consistently every time I’ve recounted it, by sound, because a slight bend in the river’s path blocked the view of the sky.

    After several minutes of quiet, I began to notice a growing white noise in what I thought was my subconscious.  Then, maybe an airplane, flying low and quickly getting closer?  But as I expected to see a jet barge into view from behind standing hardwoods, nothing came.

    I positioned my kayak to see past the trees and into the break allowed by the riverbed.  In the sky, a solid sheet of black clouds abutted what could have easily been Bimini’s lucid inshore waters, and was visibly moving in our direction.  Exponential winds and a gushing that resembled a breaching in the Hoover Dam quickly became obvious.  I had a decision to make:  “Stick it out, or paddle?”

    I had apparently already answered the question by the time it flashed through my mind, because I paddled past my brother, still oblivious to the clouds out of sight and asking what was happening.

    “Paddle!”

    Though there was no official timekeeper present, in the half hour that followed I may have qualified for the men’s national canoe slalom team, dodging falling trees and fighting the wind around obstacles.  All the while, an iron curtain of rain engulfed the sky above us.

    By the time we had pulled our wet, debris-littered crafts up on shore, the rain had all but stopped.  The wind was no more, and Mother Nature dangled a rainbow in our faces mockingly after robbing us of an afternoon’s fishing.  If she is indeed a jokester, she had gone too far.

               

    Though I am normally a proponent of sticking it out, I’ve come to learn that “no matter what” doesn’t fly around Ms. Nature, especially during the summer.  Weather can change in the blink of an eye, and the water is no place to be when it changes for the worse.  So keep an eye on the sky, and have a safe and adventurous summer.