The Demon Made Me Do It

 

The Demon Made Me Do It

4/17/23

  I parked along the dirt road and opened the back door of my quad cab. I knew I’d be fishing this small brook trout creek and had to decide which fly rod I was going to use. I looked at my 7 ½’ 4 weight Powell rod and my 7’ 3 weight Hardy Demon fly rod. A little voice inside my head said “Take the Demon and give’m hell!”

  I’ve fished this creek many times before for years. It’s like going on the same vacation every year to Ocean City Maryland and strolling down the boardwalk. I know every little shop to check out for a good find. The buildings my have changed a bit but they are still there. Kinda like this creek. I know the deeper holes along the banks and boulders and never forget the shallow riffles brookies might be in. I start upstream casting a Woolly Bugger and let it drift into deep pockets around boulders and undercut banks and down logs. Within 10 minutes I hook my first feisty brookie. He fusses and wiggles the 3 weight all the way to the net.

 

 The mountain creek water is cold and I’m never above my knees. I’m careful with my back casts and roll casts not to get tangled up in the overhanging bare limbs that stretch out from the leafless trees and bank side brush. It’s quiet and with no one around I can wade the creek without getting out. I make long casts as not to be noticed by the brookies.

 

 I pick off a brookie now and then but none in the same hole. They are spread out like eggs in an Easter egg hunt. I’m not finding them continuously but every once in a while one takes my offering with a hard tug. Sometimes I feel a bump as if they hit the tail of my bugger but miss the hook altogether. I don’t trim the tail shorter though. If they want it bad enough they have to engulf the whole thing. 

 

 It begins to sprinkle and a cold breeze rattles the bare branches. I put the hood of my rain jacket over my hat not knowing how long or how heavy it’s going to rain. The trout don’t care.

 

My long casts prove effective.

 A deeper section, knee deep or more, I know there’s got to be a couple that might bite. I tease them with different color Woolly Buggers and Triple Threat streamers. One nudges the streamer at the end of the drift. He swats at it but misses. I don’t feel a hard pull so I let it sway in the current and then bring it towards me slowly. He can’t resist it’s getting away and grabs it quickly like a petty thief grabbing a trinket on an open shelf while the shop owner isn’t looking. Once hooked he fights with tugs as he swims to and fro. He tries to swim away but I don’t give him any line. He bounces the arcing rod sections with his quick darts as I cautiously bring him to the net.

 

 The rain comes down a little heavier as dark clouds move across the sky above. I get to where I usually stop, anyways, and wade out to the bank. As the heavier drops fall I listen to them hitting the dry leaves on the forest floor. Drops pitter-patter upon the water surface. I follow the path, leading upstream, near to where I caught my first trout. I walk up the hill to my truck. I dash out the butt of my stogie and head back to camp. 

 The solitude of the brookie stream was a nice break from the fast current and congestion of the bigger creeks.

The short rod and action of the Demon was the right choice. 

 ~doubletaper