Three Strikes and I was Out!

Three Strikes and I was Out!

June 2nd 2020

  Showers were on and off throughout the morning but it was mostly on. I took out my fly tying equipment and stuff and set up the vice on the table. The sun broke through the gray clouds and shown through the camper windows. I didn’t camp along the river to just eat, sleep, tie flies and smoke cigars while watching rain. I abruptly abandoned the fly tying idea and got my wading gear together. I assembled the 6 weight Winston Boron Plus fly rod and decided to go fishing. I fastened the fanny pack around my waist, put on my rain jacket and headed to the river.

   
 Greenery lined the river banks as far as the eye could see. Boulders creations exposed themselves along the banks also in no certain order or uniformity. Calm ripples developed behind any exposed or subsurface boulders. I waded out to thigh depth. The current didn’t look too strong on the surface but it was noticeable against my submerged lower body. For the next 45 minutes or so I pitched poppers hoping to encourage a smallmouth bass to rise and gulp it off the surface. I waded and fished downriver for about 40 yards as my hopes diminished with no takers. I waded back up river to where I started and decided to swing and strip Woolly Buggers.

  I added weight to the leader and made casts into the rippling water and watched it swing into the calmer flow. Each cast was a little further out across the river than the last. On one cast I watched the splash of the bugger and weight fall just beyond the rippling water shy of the far bank boulders by a few feet or so. The rest of the fly line fell to the surface and the current was slowly arcing the fly line downstream to start to swing my offering. When I figured the bugger should be swinging it appeared the arc in the fly line wasn’t moving downstream as usual. I yanked the rod and pulled in the slack line with my line hand. The wet line whipped off the water and tightened up river where I figured the bugger dropped. I felt the resistance on the other end and in an instant the line cut through the surface water like a wired cheese slicer through Baby Swiss. I had my first fish on. It tugged and put up a pretty good battle downriver from the ripples. The flexing Winston rod bounced with every sharp tug and pull the fish had in him. It took a couple of near catches in the undercurrent before i was able to scoop up a nice healthy rainbow like scooping up a ground ball off an uneven infield.

 I continued my search, casting into or near the rippling water for a short time before deciding to add another split shot to the leader. A few more casts later and I watched the swinging, arcing fly line pull away towards the opposite bank. I raised the rod and yanked the line back. The line straightened and I had another fighting fish scurrying about flexing the rod. This time I netted a fat smallmouth which I figured I’d be catching all along since smallmouth are very abundant in the river than trout.

 

 I checked my watch and I figured on leaving near 11:30 am. I had to get back home and take the Harley to the shop for some repairs. The Springer is 30 years old and never had any major issues. It developed a leak from the transmission a couple of years ago and has been getting worse. I figure it’s time to get it checked out being the Springer has near 100,000 miles on it.

 I figured I had about an hour of fishing time before getting back to the camper. After a few more casts into the rippling water without another take I slowly started wading and fishing my way downriver step by step.

  The sprinkles of rain had stopped by now. The sun appeared high and with that the wet green leaves and laurel that lined the bank sparkled and glistened from the sun rays. I watched the grayish clouds move slowly over the mountain tops exposing the blue sky higher above. An assortment of birds started to sing out that I hadn’t recalled earlier. The flat surface water was only noticeably moving by the few small leaves and small riffles upon its surface.

 I made a few casts across and downriver and left plenty of slack in the falling fly line to let the bugger drop deeper before swinging the pulling fly line downstream. 3 quarters on the swing, from where it originally fell, I felt a healthy tug and quickly reared the rod, as if going to throw someone out at the plate from the outfield, and line back behind me. The line tightened like a banjo string, the rod arced deep into the midsection and I didn’t feel, any attempt by the fish, to come my way with my pulling force. It headed up river as fast as a runner trying to steel second base on a good pitch. I noticed the fly line wasn’t cutting through the surface keeping up with the speeding fish so I raised the rod higher to cut down the line resistance. Almost across from me, still some distance away, the fish gave a few vicious tugs, splashing the surface, before heading back downriver like a runner turning quickly who missed second base on his way for a triple. I had a tight knuckle grip on the cork and let tension line slip through my fingers with the fleeing fish. I wasn’t sure just yet if I had a smallie or a trout but I knew it was hefty. It fought and fussed mid-river down from me. I had no choice in letting it tire itself out without forcing it in, struggling with the tight line, hoping the hook wouldn’t come loose. After, what seamed like 5 or 10 minutes, the fish started to swim up in my direction but keeping its distance. I reeled in line and watched the leader slowly cut through the surface water trying to get an eyeball on my catch. From just below the surface I saw an elongated fish gradually swimming upriver as if just taking a leisurely stroll out to left field from the first base side after the final out. It was apparent the fish wasn’t a smallmouth bass and for an instant thought maybe a walleye. Its sides weren’t shiny silver like a pike and besides that it was kind of hump back than any pike I ever seen. It was too light to be a brown trout but I hadn’t noticed any maroon lateral line to make it out to be a rainbow. These thoughts danced through my head while my immediate concentration was on my catch.

  After the fish passed me, still some distance away, it dove deep, turned, and headed downriver again. It was if it just came upriver just to see who was on the other end of ‘his’ line. Upon him swimming downstream, in a casual manner, I tried but couldn’t turn him around to face me. The rod flexed deep in the midsection and I had to give him line for fear of losing him. When he did finally turned, facing upriver, he began tugging and jarring like a scared wild cat trying to break loose, backing up, from a tight leash. Gradually I started to get some leverage and had him coming towards me. I backed up to water just above my knee caps. When I got him closer, within vision, I knew I could of used a bigger net. He splashed on the surface and turned away. The rod flexed and arced like a ‘U’ turn traffic sign along a roadway. I had to let line out to relieve the pressure he had on the rod. We played the cat and mouse game for a bit. Every time I would get the trout near me he’d spin away keeping his distance like being in a pickle between two bases. I could see he had the bugger stuck in its jaw so I knew I had a good hook set. I had to just hope my knots and 4x tippet would hold up.     Knowing I would have a hard time keeping him in my small net, should I get part of its body in it, I started to wade closer to the bank in shallower water. Apparently he didn’t agree with my idea. Once in shallower water he turned away and propelled himself away with more force than speed. With the rod arced in a ‘U’ turn again I held tight on the line not wanting to go through the long haul of bringing him back towards me again. He didn’t have the super strength to pull tension line through my fingers but still had body weight and enough strength keeping his distance. I finally faced the river and got him coming up closer. That was working well until he saw the net, I figured. He turned downstream with a quick tail swat. The rod arced in a semi ‘U’ and we were back at a stand still, at least I was standing still. Well, I had enough of his shenanigans, like an umpire tired of a batter stepping out of the batters box time and again before the pitch, and said ‘play ball!’

I got within a couple of yards of the boulder strewn bank and turned the rod towards the bank. I had a good tight squeeze on the cork handle that I’m sure made an impression. I had the line pinched between my index finger and the cork grip as tight a possible. My left hand had a hold of the net when needed. There was only about 6” of fly line out of the tip top of the rod. I believed the rod couldn’t bend any further or it would tie itself in a knot if the trout tried one more forceful escape. I moved the rod upriver with one hand trying to keep the trout between me and the boulders. I saw him reluctantly following the pressure of the rod as he passed by me. I stretched my arm out with the undersized net submerged. Slowly I lowered the rod and he backed up near the net unnoticed to him. I swept him in it as quickly and best I could. Of course he wasn’t too happy as he squirmed around like a fish out of water. I hurriedly got him to the bank. He looked to be an older rainbow without much fancy color. He evidently had been eating good and when I held him, to let him swim fee, I could feel his firm body and muscular built unlike a mushy fresh stocked rainbow. 

 

 

 Upon releasing him he dropped to the bottom of the river bed facing upstream. I let him rest for a short bit before moving my boot towards him. He flipped his tail and turned towards the deeper water and disappeared.

Well, with that I looked at my watch and it was near 11:00. I called it a day and headed to the camper. I only had three strikes but they were all good and within the strike zone!

~doubletaper