What is your favorite fishing story?

[wcosner2]

With all of you old-timers on here, there have to be some fantastic fishing stories out there and I would love to hear them.

Here is one of my personal favorites - I was probably 7 or 8 years old fishing with my grandfather's favorite rod on a lake in the Poconos. We were going a few mph from one spot to another, my rod set behind me on the bow of the boat, my worm bouncing on top of the water. All of a sudden the rod tilts and heads for the bottom of the lake. Somehow I was able to grab it before it plunged into the water. Ended up catching the largest crappie anyone had ever seen and managed to save the rod from a watery grave.

 

[salvelinus]

Summer of 1979 my friend and I were in my jon boat carp fishing in the Susky. He wasn't paying attention and a carp took his rod into the water. I told him to go in after it but he declined. The water was only waist deep, so I went in and was able to recover it.

Some time later the same thing happens. This time he goes over the side of the boat like a high hurdler. He finds the rod, crawls back in the boat and proceeds to land the carp.

After all the excitement he notices that, from his foray after the rod, his wedding ring is gone. He had been married only two weeks!

 

[DrownedFish]

Not a fly fishing story, but I used to work at a marina on a tributary to the Chesapeake Bay. They had a couple kayaks that they would rent out to folks at the accompanying campground. I convinced the owner to let my little sister and I borrow the kayaks for a couple hours one morning before any campers would want to use them. Long story short, we found some nice weedy bass water and I was doing pretty well. My little sister wasn't having much luck and I could see she was starting to lose interest. I cut of the Mann's 1-minus I was having luck with and tossed it to her. She got it tied on and in the time it took for me to paddle not 25 yards away, she starts making a commotion and yelling for me to come back and help her. I get turned around to see her rod doubled over and her kayak being towed towards shore. Got over to her and helped her get in what was easily a 5 pound largemouth. That was the biggest bass I have ever seen come out of that water. It wasn't hard for me to convince her to tag along on any of my fishing outings the rest of that summer!

 

[Acristickid]

I wrote this little story. I always hating writing but as I age it does'nt seem so much like work especially if it is about fishing.

Hope you can enjoy it.



It is all of those things…

My fly fishing career is still in its nascent stages but I have since learned to recognize a good thing when I see it. Or better yet live it. The game of fly fishing is much like the game of life I am coming to understand. There are extra special events that don’t come around much and when you do get a chance to participate the memories can permeate through a lifetime. For some, that might mean the birth of a child, marriage or the corner office. However; for this guy it is catching fish on the fly. Or at least the fleeting chance to fish with friends with life’s albatrosses bestowed upon them.

We all have been there and heard stories from our friends and mentors about great hatches and how many fish were fooled. Ahhh, the good times! As they say, the good times never last. In fly fishing I am coming to realize that these good times are far and few. The weeks before a hatch or fishing trip, there are those constant thoughts of promise. For some that is a mix of anxiety and anticipation. The ones were you read several books or search the sites on-line to squeeze as much intel out as possible. After all this is going to be great and I don’t want to mess this thing up.


Pretty sure this started back in February/March when some articles surfaced to remind us that the 17 year cicada was due to emerge after it seemingly impossible long sleep. You know the stories of how great this hatch is going to be or at least how good it could be. At a minimum, it gets you out to purchase materials or the shop flies tied by the resident experts. Then there were the maps of the emergence of the elusive “rip van winkle” fly. Many counties in central Pennsylvania were displayed with the dark red color signaling the heaviest of the emergence. The emergence seems to be right in the sweet spot of the famous limestone spring creeks of central Pennsylvania. Things were looking good for this twice or three in a lifetime event- maybe more for those with good genes and diet.


The months moved on and spring was gaining a foothold which brought us “addicts” the BWO’s and Grannoms. It was about the time the Grannoms started that my thoughts turned to building an ark. Could have probably floated an ark down Penns Creek for most of May. May in Pennsylvania is the month. You name it and it is hatching somewhere in the commonwealth except this year. Rain and rain and more rain. Hatches along with fly fishermen and their annual trips were put off or postponed all together. On the positive side all the rain might mean a promise an extended fishing season well into summer.


My fly fishing fantasies for most of May centered on sulphers. Arguably the most prolific and widespread of the PA hatches. The rain did put a damper on the hatch for me personally and with the price of gas at $4 a gallon it was harder to take the poke and hope approach to fishing a hatch. Once the rain did finally subside, I did manage to fish the sulphers on several occasions albeit tempered to my expectations and memory.

The cicada hatch was very far out on the periphery of my all consuming thoughts on fishing. I mean I have never even met anyone who has fished this emergence. Have you? My expectations were on the low side and the fishing season rolled on. Truthfully, my fly fishing prowess has markedly improved and so did my fishing success in terms of landing trout. There is only one way to go when you’re at the bottom. So in retrospect I have been pretty content with the season so far. It was one day in late May on the Little Juniata when I first saw the almost prehistoric looking bug.



Didn’t see more than one or two big bugs on that trip but enough to reenter my conciseness. Did take a few fishing excursions on home waters in southwestern PA in early June while the cicadas were continuing to emerge and practice their symphonies. By mid-June some reports that anglers were catching a few on cicadas made their way through fly shops and the typical “ I know a friend of mine talked to a guy who” talk. Still there were others who stated “I fished there, didn’t see a one.” You know the good cop bad cop routine.


Well, it was almost July about the time where this “hatch” was supposed to be winding down that I figured it was about time give it a try. Based on my recent forays I was cautiously optimistic on the big bug.
Even if this 17 year event was a bust, I was headed to Spring Creek were steady hatches and wild trout abound. Time on Spring Creek is time well spent in any event.

On a Tuesday morning in late June I set out on my 3 hour drive to Spring Creek. Several coffees and bathroom breaks later found me at Fly Fisherman’s Paradise fly shop. I remember a guy fretting over the purchase of a new reel since his was still sitting on his desk from last night’s tune up some 200 miles away. I found the cicada patterns on the counter- no need to comingle those with all the other useless patterns at that time. Purchased a couple big bugs and headed over to the creek. Just drove along the creek till I heard them. That was the advice I was given. So nice to not worry about waiting till dark to tie some size #16 or smaller fly. So with that I tied on a 1x leader and punched in on the clock.


Cast for a while and to my dismay- nothing. No risers and not more than a few cicadas in the water. Fly fishing the big lie- or was that cocaine? Anyway, I moved downstream a ways and ran into another angler. He mentioned he had just caught 2 on cicadas. I thought to myself “What is he doing that I am not?” or is he an “expert” just adding to my level of confusion and anxiety? To borrow a line from Bad Company “from then it didn’t take him long” about 20 minutes later as I cast the big boy toward the banks. BAM! The first above average brown trout was hooked and landed- for me at least. The within minutes other browns in the 14-18 inch range were landed.

There was a point in the day were I caught 3 fish on 3 consecutive casts. I had entered uncharted territory here with this level of success. I am well aware of my total mediocrity but yet success in spite of myself. Caught some brush with your cast no problem? Just rip it out of there with your 1x. When have you used same fly pattern all day and never a thought of having to switch flies or method? The answer to this question was fishing cicada 08.


My cautions optimism grew into glee that bordered on total satisfaction. The summer sun high in the sky was now becoming obscured by the hillsides and after many trout were landed my contentment directed me back home. In the following days, I was fortunate enough to fish the event again with a long time friend who does get out much. Two children under the age of four will do that to a guy. We gave it a go on the Little Juniata with similar results. Had more fun watching him hook into and land several nice trout rather than myself. And there was much rejoicing as per Monty Python.

The cicadas of 08 were all of those things I have come to know about fly fishing. The anticipation, the hours of wondering thoughts of disappointment, and possible missed opportunities that come so frequently were temporarily abated with success. The car ride home on those days was fun and the goofy smile on my face must have been curious to those motorists that passed me by. With my recent success digested I am ready for another slice humble pie served up on a Pennsylvania stream.

Story by Paul aka acristickid

 

[Sharknado5]

Good story acristickid and good writing. Half way thru I thought for sure you were gonna get skunked..

 

[salmo]

I was fishing in Yellowstone in the early 80's. I was fishing the Gibbon in the Meadow section of the park. I had my 7', 4 wt. Graftech rod that I picked up on Market Street in Philly when there used to be couple of sketchy sports stores near Two Street. It was a graphite rod made by Exxon and it was a slightly defective piece of manufacturing. Maybe I paid $40.00 for it.
The weather in Montana was clear with high blue skies like you only get in the Rockies. The Gibbon in the meadow is narrow and twisted. I was fishing an elk hair caddis on a 6x tippet. As I fished upstream I can't remember if I had any success. As I walked back, I was casting occasionally along the bank. When I came to the spot where I forded the river earlier, I took a cast. As the caddis imitation drifted back down stream a large, dark shadow moved out from close to the bank on my side and inspected the fly but did not take. I took another cast and it was fish on. I was pretty under matched for the fish, a decent size brown. It went straight to the bottom and started to sulk. I put some pressure on the fish and it came to the surface, took one look at me and headed downstream. I did my best to follow down the three small plunge pools below me. At the end of the third pool was a small, but steep rapid. If the fish went down that series of rocks it was game over. I put on as much side pressure as possible and the fish started to yield. After a while it finally came to net. It only measured slightly over 18 inches, but it was in beautiful shape, a lovely brown trout. As I released the fish I heard some clapping and clicking. When I looked up I realized that I had put on a show for several Japanese tourists with cameras. Unfortunately, I didn't get any of the photos. My thanks to Craig Matthews for suggesting that I fish that section of the Gibbon.

 

[laszlo]

A few years ago I fished a section of the Yellow Breeches that I had never fished before,at Messiah College. I was impressed with park like setting as I drove accross the covered bridge and parked in the paved parking lot. As I was rigging up other cars pulled in and the people headed to the stream, not with fly rods but lawn chairs. I didn't think much of and didn't bother to ask as I headed upstream to fish a black wooly bugger. After about a hour fishing downstream to the far bank I glanced over my shoulder to now see about 40-50 people sitting along the steam on lawn chairs. Just then I hook into a good sized rainbow that jumps out of the water and makes a huge splash, AND THE ENTIRE CROWD APPLAUDS . So I turn to smile and give a thank you wave and realize that a new church member had just been baptised.

 

[Sharknado5]

About 30 years ago I attended a conference at Breckenridge CO, and took a half day to fish. The local fly shop didn't have any guides available, but they gave me directions to the headwaters of the South Fork of the Platte. As I pulled into the parking lot of the access I saw a guy fishing downstream so I went up. A beautiful meandering high meadow stream snaking back and forth with undercut bank and a tail out repeating for miles. And loaded with hungry trout. I caught at least 50-60 fish on an EHC, my best day ever. As I was playing a small fish my rod bent double and the fight was on. I had hooked a 7 inch brookie, and attached to his back was a 12 inch brown. He wouldn't let go so I had to pry his mouth open to release him, then the brook. On the way back to my car I noticed a wire and a sign I had somehow missed when I walked in saying Private Property No Fishing....

 

[hooker-of-men]

Dunno if it’s my best, but an OK recent one:

My buddy from PA (who lurks here) and I planned a few days of camping and fishing on the Battenkill earlier in the season. We were going to fish all around the VT and NY sides, check out some brookie streams, and drift the river in a canoe one day. We meet up on the first day and are excited to see each other and have some time away, and so, of course we have a couple tasty beverages as we set up camp.

Once the tents go up, we have pretty good momentum going with the beers, and we decide we’re going to eat some old mushrooms that he had on hand from our younger and wilder days. We both eat a healthy bag, thinking they, like us, are old and won’t do much, and I drive out to buy some firewood before things get too out of hand. About 15 minutes later, I’m buying wood from a quite old and seemingly injured - there were many bandages - lady at a camp store, and the mushrooms grab me full force, 45 minutes before I expected anything. It’s all I can do to get out of the store without devolving into a puddle of nonsense and hysterical laughter.

I drive back to camp slowly, and as I arrive immediately we both look at each other and acknowledge: God damn, that was quick. They hit like a ton of bricks. We spent the next bunch of hours trying to fish a little and trying to keep the fire going a little and mostly succeeding at just getting pretty weird. A great time. (Sadly, I didn’t get any fish during freakout mode. The river was… very loud.)

As we’re settling down later in the night and able to focus on logistics, we decide we’re going to do the canoe float the next morning around 10. But, of course, there’s a concern that we’re pretty amped up and not going to get to sleep well. So we bust the beer and the bourbon back out and do some damage to make sure we’ll go down hard.

We get up the next morning pretty foggy and in a slight haze, but we cook and gather gear and everything is going smoothly. We move vehicles around for the take out and such, and we’re back at camp ready to launch pretty much on time. Look at us; we’re pretty damned functional, all things considered.

We head out on the water, and in the first fast riffle directly below camp we hit a huge rock that is unsettling, but we manage it and recover well. Again, our capabilities are impressive!

Until we come to the tailout. At this point we realize why we’ve really only seen a few people tubing on this river that is often otherwise known for its tube and kayak flotillas: there’s no damn water. We’re just sitting on the streambed.

So, we portage. Then we get back in for 2 minutes, then we portage some more in the stream. Then we get back in for 2 minutes, and then we walk the boat midstream some more. Fantastic! About an hour in, we’re at the first bridge; we should have been there maybe 15 minutes in to the 4-5 hour float. This is not working, and the prospect of doing any fishing seems bad. Luckily, this bridge is alongside a public park, so we make the tough call: let’s get the hell out.

We pull everything, and, since we need my vehicle from the take out to move the boat, I decide I’ll hitch the couple miles and come back for him and the boat.

Now, I’m not what you would call a small man. Here I am - 6’3”, 300 lbs, long hair, big gross beard, half drenched, smelling like campfire, feeling a bit wild-eyed - with my thumb out on the side of a rural Vermont road. I somehow reasoned I should keep my life vest on - you know, to let people know I was non-threatening. It was slow going getting a ride.

After maybe 45 minutes, a car finally pulls over, and I am bewildered that it is a small, attractive woman in probably her mid 50s… and she is completely alone. I think I was actively asking, “Are you sure this is a good idea… for you?”, but she was insistent so I hopped in.

She’s local, so we chat for awhile about the river conditions and the temperature and such, and we come back around to hitchhiking. I mention I couldn’t believe she picked me up, and she tells me she only had a sketchy experience picking folks up one time: She was up in Canada traveling and picked up two backpackers who looked normal enough though pretty grimey. Once they got in, though, they started acting real iffy. She was getting bad vibes and asked them if they were alright or if they wanted to get out, and then all of a sudden one reaches into his coat and pulls out… a ferret! They thought she might not be so down with the ferret on board and were just nervous.

She said she had no problems with the ferret and from then on she got along fine with the backpackers, so when she saw me she standing there on the side of the road she thought right away, “He looks nice enough!”

All said and done, we got back to camp safe, caught some fish, and then my 6 year old son joined us for the final days, so things calmed down a bit.

 

[Canoetripper]

I bought an Old Town Tripper canoe in 1984 when I lived in Washington Crossing, Bucks County. I started my canoe trips though when I lived in Camp Hill(1977 graduate of Camp Hill High School). My first canoe trip was on the Yellow Breeches through Boiling Springs, the next one was on Sherman's Creek in Perry County.

I went to Juniata College so I picked it up there on the Juniata River.

My uncle had a cottage on Coxton Lake in Wayne County not very far from Hancock, NY. He was a Delaware River regular before it became as popular as it is now.

We started canoeing the very upper, including the West Branch, sometime in the mid-1980's on Father's Day weekend. Way back then, I caught trout in Mepp's spinners and Rapala lures.

Two night/three day adventures. We ended the trips in Calicoon, NY. We camped on an island just upstream from Calicoon. I did very little fishing since I was the equipment and canoe guy, plus the trip organizer.

On one of those trips when we got to the island, I tied on a yellow maribou muddler minnow and gave it to my father hoping he would catch some smallmouth bass.

While I was setting up the tents and getting firewood, I heard all of this excitement from my brother, uncle, and cousin. My father was in the middle of an epic fight with a 17" wild Delaware River rainbow trout. Later that evening my uncle caught a 19" wild rainbow.

I wasn't expecting trout that far downstream from the Junction Pool in Hancock, and I caught none, but I know that I had a lot to do with a special Father's Day weekend for my father and uncle.

 

[Fish Sticks]

Night fishing spring creek with another Pa fly fish forum member and hooked into something that made my 6wt fast action streamer stick bend like a fiber glass 2 weight. I heard deep thrashing sounds and called out for help netting the fish. Id never had anything bend the rod like this and it was pitch black in the canyon section. The fish had to be over 10lbs easy and was worried about it breaking 17lb test. Wondered if I was coming for Humphreys state record. But just as my buddy got close enough to net it we both realized it was a fat confused muskrat. The end.

 

[Frederick V. C.]

Opening Day back in the Day

I became interested in Fly fishing in my early twenties, about 45 years ago. My rod and reel were both gifted from a friend that inherited them from his grandfather. The rod was a 3 piece Montague bamboo; 9' long and action best described as sloppy. The Reel was an aluminum South Bend automatic, if the trigger wasn't used judiciously bad things were likely!

Learned to Fly fish on French Creek (Chester Co.) which once was quite rural and had a nice and also well cared for Fly Fishing Only stretch. Even back then it was heavily fished and Opening Day was still a thing and started at 8am. Staked out a spot on the biggest deepest pool along with several other anglers. My flies were streamers purchased from the local hardware store, now a Whole Foods purveyor.

Without the aid of internet or a mentor my style was basically imitating the veterans around me. Many trout were caught but not surprisingly I struggled and only managed to catch three small fish. It was tough to cast and get good drifts with lines everywhere. Note: the limit was 6 fish at 9". All around me the biggest fish were being caught on nymphs. By around 12 fatigue set in and I took my fish home and got some lunch.

After recharging a bit and thinking about my earlier success, I decided to try again; the stream being about ten min. from home. It was a little after 1 pm and the stream was now dearly devoid of anglers; one guy fishing the pool above where I was headed. This time I tied on a gray and brown nymph and almost immediately hit pay dirt. Landed three nice trout 12-13" in fairly short order and was elated with my efforts; it was my first time fly fishing after all. On the way out I casually mentioned to the other angler that there were a bunch of fish in next hole and that he might want to try there. All and all a fine "Opening Day" !

 

[Tigereye]

A friend of mine is the luckiest fisherman I know. He is a minnow fisherman and one day got hung up on some rocks on the bottom of the Lehigh River. As he broke the line to free himself he lost the tip section of his rod in some deep rapids. 2 weeks later he caught his rod tip about 150 yds down stream, none the worse for wear.

To top this one in a million feat, we were SMB fishing in Lake Ontario near Cape Vincent. ( by the way the fishing there is unbelievable). His tactic was to work a crayfish across the rocks while letting a minnow hang off the bottom on a second rod laid across the stern of the boat, in hopes of a pike. Well one day a fish, most likely a fresh water drum took his whole outfit into the lake, losing every thing.

The following year, he snagged his rod in the same area. The reel was rusted and slimed up pretty good, but the rod was in decent shape.

We played the lottery but his luck run out I guess.

 

[krayfish2]

2 stories....

Fishing the Delaware EB with PhilC from the forum. We floated about 13 miles that day. It began raining about an hour after pushing off in our pontoon boats. The flow is about 1600 CFS when we started and I was having very good luck nymphing in the rain. I caught quite a few fish. As we got towards the end of the float, Phil asked me how I was catching so many and I explained the method I was using. From that point on he was hooking fish hand over fist. In the last pool he hooked and landed a rainbow in the 20 inch range. I quickly rowed over to snap a picture. As he lifted the fish from the net and turned, he kicked his rod off of the boat and into a 10 ft deep pool which may actually be visible in the corner of the frame. Neither of us noticed it until he had released the fish. We knew that it had rained a lot and came to find out that the river had more than doubled in flow by the time we took out. Ran to the fly shop and asked where they thought the fly rod might have floated to or where to start looking. He told us to go 30 miles down river in a week. The flows were so high it was a goner.

Another good one, I was guiding a couple of guys and had them fishing double nymph for rigs under a bobber since we didn't have any hatching going on. As I'm telling him to work the right side of the boat because there's a row of boulders down that bank, I yawned. I heard a click as his beadhead pheasant tail and Prince nymph went into my mouth. I quickly bit down on the leader as fast as I could, grabbed his fly line which was hanging in the boat just as he started to make the forward cast and screamed "stop". He was a novice so that didn't really mean much and away he went with the forward stroke. Luckily he had so much slack that it didn't rip the line out of my hand and didn't impale both of his flies into the roof of my mouth.

 

[hooker-of-men]

Jesus! The joys of guiding.

 

[Zipper]

This happened on a family vacation to Canada over 50 years ago.

When we made our first trip to Canada we always wanted an early start. Every morning we woke up before 6:00AM. Most of the time the winds would be calm which gave a mirror-like surface to the water. That was our go signal. If the winds were up, we just took a little more time before hitting the water. If we were out by 6:00AM we would fish for about three hours and then head in for breakfast.

My mother, who liked to fish, was not an early riser. Usually in the middle of the afternoon my dad and I would take her out for a couple of hours, anchor at a cove, and just relax. The area we fished at that time of the day was very quiet. We’d catch a few fish dropping a worm over the side and she would be happy. Then one day, lightning struck, and we were not ready.

Anchored at the cove, my mother hooked into a big fish. She was using an old rod my grandfather made. That fish, whatever it was, put a big bend in it. My father looked at me with his eyes wide open. We sat in the boat giving her all kinds of instruction as she reeled the fish in. My father just kept saying “don’t horse it in”. Unfortunately we didn’t realize that the net we had, with a collapsible handle, wasn’t ready. When the fish came to the surface it was a big largemouth bass. I truly believe a bowling ball would have fit comfortably in its mouth. Seeing the fish, my mother began to panic, as she didn’t want to lose it. My father reached for the net but because the handle wasn’t engaged it started to spin and he couldn’t put it under the fish. My mother, forgetting all the instructions just given her, saw that and tried to lift the fish in the boat. Her fate was sealed at that point. The fish broke the line, and all three of us sat in stunned silence that felt like hours. What happened next is something I will never forget.

The quiet of that afternoon was broken as my mother yelled “YOU IDIOTS”, in a decibel level that no human before or since has ever come close to matching. I’m sure people in Quebec, 300 miles away, heard those words. Dogs hid in fear. Birds flew to the safety of their nests. No words could be spoken to calm her down. If she knew how to swim I believe she would have jumped out of the boat and swam to shore.

Not funny at the time, but 50 years later, hilarious.

 

[lycoflyfisher]

One of my favorite small streams to fish had a number of waterfalls and bedrock pools. On of the most productive pools for me is a long chute between two slabs of bedrock, it is about 30' long starts about 8' wide and narrows to about 2' at the head. There is a shallow shelf and then and undercut under a slab of rock. One particular time there was a hemlock branch snagged at the head of the pool. I picked off a 12" or so brown at the tail and next cast got hung up on the hemlock branch. My partner that day snuck a cast in and caught a nice brookie. Figuring our luck was done, I walked up to get my fly. Fish were darting all over, as I bent down to get my fly at the head of the hole a large brown came out from under my feet and torpedoed a 8 - 10in trout. The brown nailed the smaller trout mid body and proceeded to jump at least a foot out of the water with it. Keep in mind this happened literally at my feet.

To date this is one of my more memorable small stream experiences.

 

[salmo]

A few years ago I fished a section of the Yellow Breeches that I had never fished before,at Messiah College. I was impressed with park like setting as I drove accross the covered bridge and parked in the paved parking lot. As I was rigging up other cars pulled in and the people headed to the stream, not with fly rods but lawn chairs. I didn't think much of and didn't bother to ask as I headed upstream to fish a black wooly bugger. After about a hour fishing downstream to the far bank I glanced over my shoulder to now see about 40-50 people sitting along the steam on lawn chairs. Just then I hook into a good sized rainbow that jumps out of the water and makes a huge splash, AND THE ENTIRE CROWD APPLAUDS . So I turn to smile and give a thank you wave and realize that a new church member had just been baptised.

😆

 

[MeBugSlinger]

My first fish on a fly came with a bit of dilemma. Although I was a bait and tackle angler since the age of nine, and prided myself with an approach of light tackle, high-sticking and finesse, I did not take up fly fishing until some 20 years later. This opportunity presented itself when the owner of the firm of which I was employed came back to dry ground and the office after a hiatus of cruising the southern seas.

When given the option of working long hours one day, which I was accustom, or learning the art of fly fishing and joining "the Boss" on a sojourn to a local limestone creek, I just couldn't say no - If you know what I mean.

Having parked streamside with his gathered gear laid out on the tailgate and lots of last minute instruction and advice, off we went. Yielding the first cut, as any good angling companion and dutiful employee would, I left the boss to fish what seemed to me as frog water. So plying my way upstream I saw obvious structure by way of a fallen tree. Got low on my approach, unbuttoned my borrowed Orvis Superfine 8'6 / 5 and cast an unweighted PT Nymph right above where I thought trout might just consider my offer. Fish on! A pretty 8-10" stocked Brownie as I proudly recall. Continuing my practice of catch and release, he scooted back from whence he came.

Wanting to share my experience and excitement, I was quick to retreat back down stream. Upon my careful approach, my boss turned and asked - any luck? He now could tell of my luck and new skill by the obvious expression on my grin. How about you, I asked. One "mighty fine fish" - a Brownie in my creel, he exclaimed.

With not much more success, we later got back to the truck. My boss was now most eager to show and filet his mighty fine fish. Now here's the dilemma. Although I was new to the sport of hook and feather, it was no Brown trout! In fact, I shortly thereafter confirmed several times through various Fish and Boat Commission publications, my very own fish wall chart, and let's not forget all my years of fishing, albeit with a spinning rod, that this mighty fine fish, destine for his frying pan, was indeed a healthy Creek Chub!

Now what would you have done? I simply replied - yea boss, a mighty fine fish indeed

 

[salmo]

This happened on a family vacation to Canada over 50 years ago.

When we made our first trip to Canada we always wanted an early start. Every morning we woke up before 6:00AM. Most of the time the winds would be calm which gave a mirror-like surface to the water. That was our go signal. If the winds were up, we just took a little more time before hitting the water. If we were out by 6:00AM we would fish for about three hours and then head in for breakfast.

My mother, who liked to fish, was not an early riser. Usually in the middle of the afternoon my dad and I would take her out for a couple of hours, anchor at a cove, and just relax. The area we fished at that time of the day was very quiet. We’d catch a few fish dropping a worm over the side and she would be happy. Then one day, lightning struck, and we were not ready.

Anchored at the cove, my mother hooked into a big fish. She was using an old rod my grandfather made. That fish, whatever it was, put a big bend in it. My father looked at me with his eyes wide open. We sat in the boat giving her all kinds of instruction as she reeled the fish in. My father just kept saying “don’t horse it in”. Unfortunately we didn’t realize that the net we had, with a collapsible handle, wasn’t ready. When the fish came to the surface it was a big largemouth bass. I truly believe a bowling ball would have fit comfortably in its mouth. Seeing the fish, my mother began to panic, as she didn’t want to lose it. My father reached for the net but because the handle wasn’t engaged it started to spin and he couldn’t put it under the fish. My mother, forgetting all the instructions just given her, saw that and tried to lift the fish in the boat. Her fate was sealed at that point. The fish broke the line, and all three of us sat in stunned silence that felt like hours. What happened next is something I will never forget.

The quiet of that afternoon was broken as my mother yelled “YOU IDIOTS”, in a decibel level that no human before or since has ever come close to matching. I’m sure people in Quebec, 300 miles away, heard those words. Dogs hid in fear. Birds flew to the safety of their nests. No words could be spoken to calm her down. If she knew how to swim I believe she would have jumped out of the boat and swam to shore.

Not funny at the time, but 50 years later, hilarious.

My first fish on a fly came with a bit of dilemma. Although I was a bait and tackle angler since the age of nine, and prided myself with an approach of light tackle, high-sticking and finesse, I did not take up fly fishing until some 20 years later. This opportunity presented itself when the owner of the firm of which I was employed came back to dry ground and the office after a hiatus of cruising the southern seas.

When given the option of working long hours one day, which I was accustom, or learning the art of fly fishing and joining "the Boss" on a sojourn to a local limestone creek, I just couldn't say no - If you know what I mean.

Having parked streamside with his gathered gear laid out on the tailgate and lots of last minute instruction and advice, off we went. Yielding the first cut, as any good angling companion and dutiful employee would, I left the boss to fish what seemed to me as frog water. So plying my way upstream I saw obvious structure by way of a fallen tree. Got low on my approach, unbuttoned my borrowed Orvis Superfine 8'6 / 5 and cast an unweighted PT Nymph right above where I thought trout might just consider my offer. Fish on! A pretty 8-10" stocked Brownie as I proudly recall. Continuing my practice of catch and release, he scooted back from whence he came.

Wanting to share my experience and excitement, I was quick to retreat back down stream. Upon my careful approach, my boss turned and asked - any luck? He now could tell of my luck and new skill by the obvious expression on my grin. How about you, I asked. One "mighty fine fish" - a Brownie in my creel, he exclaimed.

With not much more success, we later got back to the truck. My boss was now most eager to show and filet his mighty fine fish. Now here's the dilemma. Although I was new to the sport of hook and feather, it was no Brown trout! In fact, I shortly thereafter confirmed several times through various Fish and Boat Commission publications, my very own fish wall chart, and let's not forget all my years of fishing, albeit with a spinning rod, that this mighty fine fish, destine for his frying pan, was indeed a healthy Creek Chub!

Now what would you have done? I simply replied - yea boss, a mighty fine fish indeed

I would have said, "That's the finest brown trout that I have ever see, boss. How are you and the Mrs. gonna cook it?"