Persnickety Panfish

I'm going to be jumping around in my journal. That's just how it will go. Today I am writing about today, and yesterday, and a bit about last week. Some other entries are still in draft, for stuff that happened months ago. I'm going to write when I feel like it, not in perfect order.


As the persistent reader has probably already gathered, I am primarily a fly fisherman, and feel only competent in that discipline but I do try to use other methods as well, from time to time. I have a bit of resistance to going after trout in a stream with anything but flies and fly line though. It is an irrational emotional thing, and not to be overthought. That's for me to do. Perhaps it has to do with my history of fishing with my father and how special that was. Or maybe it has to do with watching opening day or Wissahickon fishing. You can read about this in a previous entry.

Some time ago I wrote about catching bluegill in the pond near my office. Well, that exercise continues to attract an inordinate amount of attention from me. I've been over to the pond two days in a row this week, and I think twice last week too. But something interesting has happened: the fish got "smart." They are there, but they just don't take the Royal Coachman any longer. Whereas before I literally could not keep them off my fly, now they are eschewing it for whatever natural forage they are finding.

I should mention that after the post I made in April about the advantages of fishing while talking on the phone, I started catching bluegill like crazy--a week later. Now it is late May and the fish habits have changed.

Yesterday, I had an ultralite spinning rod in the car, and my tackle bag with flies and some lures, and I didn't want to waste time getting back to my billet to fetch my fly rod, so I went straight to the lake. I came up with a slightly unorthodox method. Having previously (oh yeah, the day before? or last week? I actually can't remember) discovered that a wiggly worm thing on a hook just doesn't go very far, I tied on a small Luhr Jensen spoon, with the hook off---and a trailer, with a streamer fly:

Use the flickr link instead if you need to. Google is not working right.

https://flic.kr/p/V3wJ8h


Well, it worked! I caught a fish! After only 5 casts. (Well I spent 10 minutes in another location first....never mind that). Of course if you know fish, you'll instantly recognize the Black Crappie. I didn't at the time.

After that, I proceeded to spin-eptly lose my lure and my fly by breaking the line while casting. I really don't know how to use a spinning reel.

I went back tonight and brought my 9 foot salmon rod with 7 weight line. I needed distance. And tied on a different streamer--first a black/silver one, and a the end a black ghost (on which I lost a good opportunity--a real take but botched set). This was interesting because I had multiple hits. Over and over. And two really good takes that I failed to set the hook on. And a number of other botched attempts.  When I tied on a rubber-legged fly with yellow legs, I got LOTS of attention. But the fish would swirl, then "punch" it, but would not put it in their mouths. But they hit it over and over!

I also brought the ultralight. This time I used a 1/32 ounce jighead and two #1 shots, and one of those white spinny-tailed worms, with a follower on which I tied the same type of streamer used on the fly rod. Now this got interesting, because one one particular cast (and only one) I had something really take my lure. It pulled hard enough that line was spooling off the drag--much bigger fight than anything of the panfish sort. But I did not "set" the hook hard enough--I lifted the tip, then I cranked and the drag screamed. After about 5 seconds, the load came off. I kind of think whatever it was had the white wormy thing in the mouth but the hook point never got him. Maybe it was a bass!

Finally, I slipped and fell in the lake while fly casting the black ghost 40 feet and that was pretty much it. Time to go wash my shoes. I suppose not filming with a gopro is good. I'd look like a clumsy fool.

The Trout Have Landed.

The Trout Have Landed.

I keep catching trout. And bluegill. And some other stuff.

But the trout!

Yes, I know, they are mostly all stockers but still. After a nearly yearlong trout drought, it is awakening--not satiating--my long-latent trout fly fisherman brain stem.

First a little history. Remember the title of my journal? I need to cover the back-story. It was early Spring 2016, and my daughter, out of the blue, said, "I want to go fishing!"  I don't know where it came from, or she told me and I forgot. I will ask her but the point here is that she immediately caused an effect on me. My latent fisherman self had been put away for years--really for over a decade, because that self is a small stream trout fly fisherman. That is my roots, my core, my fishing identity but moreso my emotional center. When your teenage daughter says "I wanna go fishing" well, you go!

I fished with my father as a kid, and up until I was around 30. Sad to say, I think our last trip actually fishing may have been 1995 (that's the trout stamp on his license). But we took trips in early 2001 to stock the stream with his grandson. I feel like we never fished enough. But when we did, it was incredibly meaningful. This was not your low-effort local fishing. It was get all the stuff together load the car drive 2+ hours to the Poconos,  get to the Swiftwater Inn (sadly gone now) get out on the stream and fish the day. Later, the club bought a farmhouse and that was fantastic! No more renting at the inn. Fish the whole weekend. We'd have pan fried trout for lunch. Private water. Natural wild brook char. Classic unspoiled small stream fishing. Local Wissahickon fishing? For years, I turned my nose up at more than the smell. (That sentiment is changing but that is another story.)

I suppose every boy or girl who grows up fishing with dad, or mom, may have the same emotional touch with fishing. I really feel my father out there. It comes with the circumstances. Because he was also a birder, I think of him when a warbler sings. The sound of the riffle, the breeze, the smell of the creek--these all bring back more than memories--more a feeling of connectedness, of wonder, of bliss.

And so as I expand my Connecticut fishing experience, I am also reliving my childhood. And remembering my father and what he enjoyed, and what was meaningful to him. It really opens up more than these sort of trite superficial aspects. Rather it opens the memory and my thoughts to everything he believed in or cared about. How do our parents influence after they are gone? Profoundly.

Just a week ago or so, I had one of these profound mornings on the river. It was a half hour from home, and I was alone there, with my father's bamboo and his waders, and his Hardy LRH Lightweight reel and some 40 year old Scientific Anglers double tapered line, and antique Cortland leaders in my pocket, of the vest he gave me as a kid. I was literally trying to fill his shoes.

The riffle was beckoning. The pool near the road seemed too easy, too lazy, too over-fished. So I walked a bit farther. The sound of the riffle reminded me of the 'road' stretch on the Swiftwater. I had to fish it. I worked up the brook, with my father's favorite fly tied on--a royal coachman--and presented it dry, as well as wet, methodically working upstream. As I settled into a rhythm,  it was astounding how I both appreciated greatly the fortunate day, but also missed my father. I wanted him to be there. 14 years ago, we lost him. It does not seem so long.

When I hooked up in that riffle, it was like so many before--it feels at first like another snag but somehow you know it isn't and you instinctively lift the rod tip. Then as trout tend to do, the fish swims towards me trying to spit the fly. Unlike the big game fish you see on TV, my experience with trout is mostly opposite. You can't retrieve fast enough to keep up with the best of them. The line goes slack, and off it goes. And so it was on this day. At 4 feet out, I lost it. But no matter. I had found my quarry in that seam and I was content for the next 5 minutes as I walked out.

Going by the road pool, I watched a man land a brook trout. Sometimes there really are fish right next to the road.