Trip Report: Smell and War

*I tried posting this early this afternoon, and if it shows up twice, I
apologize.*

I got a late start Saturday morning, moving leisurely through the
newspaper and packing my vest. I think it was ten thirty or so when I
pulled out of the driveway. The drive is just like any other drive to
go fishing. It takes forty minutes to drive ten miles to the turnpike,
then forty minutes to drive fifty miles to the fishing hole.

When I turned off the exit ramp onto Hellersville Road, "I Walk the
Line" started up randomly. That part of the road has some dilapidated
car dealers and tired diners and a construction site with some vintage
Caterpillar graders, and I like to think that my father went trout
fishing with this exact vibe, Johnny singing through a worn out piece
of road in a ground down town, long before I was born. Orange County
and AM instead of Lehigh County and MP3.

The Saucon runs through a town park there and on a bright sunny day,
the park was starting to get busy. I parked the Jeep and sat at a
picnic table fifteen feet from the water. In a seam, across the stream,
a rise. I am in the right spot, I thought and went back to string up
the rod.

I think this creek has seen a lot of abuse over a long time. Along the
stretch in the park alone, there is a weir, channelization, flumes and
a bridge. Still, the flies hatch, the bottom is clean stone and the
browns are streambred. The access is so good that even though you could
wade, there isn't much point. I didn't even put on my waders.

Sitting at my picnic table, wearing my funny hat and
vest-of-many-pockets, I tied a tiny Adams on a tiny tippet, and I heard
the "barbeque" next to me start. I guess that's what you call six guys,
Busch and a soft tail with tuned pipes. I think, between the RPM spikes
on the Harley, they were watching in a "get a load of this idiot" sort
of way. I must be the only guy to fish there. Dodging the copious goose
****, I took a spot, worked out some line, false cast twice and settled
in for a drift. The coolest thing here would be to say that I took a
trout on the first cast, as if to say, Ha! Take that Hooligans! I may
LOOK like an eejit, but I know what I'm doing!

Instead, after they had lost interest, I hooked one on the second cast.
The little brown thought he was a much bigger fish, dancing through a
riffle, frenetic in and out of the water. With a flick of the
hemostats, he went back. I took two more, exactly like the first, from
the same run. The fight, even from eight-inchers on a fast five weight,
of trout always pulls something bad out of me. After the first fish, it
is like the bleeder valve to the stress tank has been tripped. The
world in general loses its urgency and regains its detail. The gauze
comes off my eyes.

These fish were my first trout of the year, and even though the little
sunfish in the river near home are active and compliant, the carp in
the local lake are finicky and strong, the bass brutal, I don't feel as
though I've really been fishing yet until I catch my first trout. The
only thing that will wash the smell of skunk away is the smell of trout
on my hands.

I worked my way upstream, dodging angry geese, bicyclists, low riders,
joggers, dog walkers and jungle gyms. On a crumbling wall, two black
and brown snakes played Twister. That might be the only game they know
how to play, and I took pictures.

Eventually, I had to stop for risk of sending an Adams into a family
reunion, so I ate my beef jerky and smoked a contemplative Fuente
Cubanito. As I rode back to the interstate, I set the player to
"Understand Your Man," and smelled the trout, just like Dad did.

Interstate 78 took me East to Easton, and the big sign says "Last Exit
Before Goddamn New Jersey," or something to that effect. Dodge through
Easton, a mix of esoteric book shops and coffee joints with defunct
department store and county assistance office, pass the junk yard with
the bicycle sculpture of Atlas and there you are at a stretch of
catch-and-release wild trout water. This time, I put on my waders and
fished the Bushkill's cold water in total solitude.

Here, the "wild" in "wild trout water" refers to the trout, not the
water: this stream suffers through its bed, too. Lined for the length
with factories, manufacturing plants, scrapyards, fueling stations and
wholesale plumbing suppliers, it wanders through a thousand failed
endeavors and as many failiong ones. Old railroad detritus and scrap
shows up frequently. Still, the trout don't know this. The first trout
I caught was in the slack water under a sycamore's roots. It could have
come from the Saucon, an identical eight incher. The second fish,
apropos of this stream, came from an eddy behind an old swivel chair
stuck in the water.

One thing I find marvelous about the Bushkill is the color of the
water: it takes a pellucid green-blue. The big suckers hanging
unperturbed in the current take on an aquamarine color.

I took the long way home, the River Road, to survey the carnage from
the recent floods. At the mouth of the Lehigh, there were a few shad in
the fish ladder, and the floods had scoured the piers of an old
railroad bridge and damaged the raceways for the canal's locks. Looking
at the Lehigh and the Delaware there, where men and rivers wage slow
war, I can see that we're still waiting for an armistice.

Steve

"Steve" wrote in message
ups.com...
The fight, even from eight-inchers on a fast five weight,
of trout always pulls something bad out of me.

Wonderful story snipped. I love this sentiment.

bugcaster

Steve wrote:


I got a late start Saturday morning, moving leisurely through the
newspaper and packing my vest.
...etc.

A damn well-turned piece of work. Looking forward to the next one.

JR

On 16 May 2005 17:58:04 -0700, "Steve" wrote:

*I tried posting this early this afternoon, and if it shows up twice, I
apologize.*

I got a late start Saturday morning, moving leisurely through the
newspaper and packing my vest. I think it was ten thirty or so when I
pulled out of the driveway. The drive is just like any other drive to
go fishing. It takes forty minutes to drive ten miles to the turnpike,
then forty minutes to drive fifty miles to the fishing hole.

***
I took the long way home, the River Road, to survey the carnage from
the recent floods. At the mouth of the Lehigh, there were a few shad in
the fish ladder, and the floods had scoured the piers of an old
railroad bridge and damaged the raceways for the canal's locks. Looking
at the Lehigh and the Delaware there, where men and rivers wage slow
war, I can see that we're still waiting for an armistice.

Steve


Excellent.


g.c.

"George Cleveland" wrote in message
...

Excellent.

Ditto.

Wolfgang

"Steve" wrote in
ups.com:


I took the long way home, the River Road, to survey the carnage
from the recent floods. At the mouth of the Lehigh, there were a
few shad in the fish ladder, and the floods had scoured the piers
of an old railroad bridge and damaged the raceways for the canal's
locks. Looking at the Lehigh and the Delaware there, where men and
rivers wage slow war, I can see that we're still waiting for an
armistice.


Very enjoyable. In the late 90s I consulted for a company who were
based in Easton and Allentown. I bounced between the 2 places and one
lunchtime I drove the backroads to Easton. There was a little wooded
stream that followed the road and I stopped at a few bridges to check
it our -- it was full of trout. Is that where you were fishing?

I'm glad you (and the other guys) liked it.

Could be the place. The road is Bushkill Drive, and you can't miss the
junkyard with all the sculptures. There's a big bird of some sort made
out of bumpers on the roof and Atlas supporting a world made of
bicycles. The road goes all the way to Tatamy, but the woods really
only start after you leave Easton. There are some spots where the road
is very close, fifteen feet from the water, but the high bank and trees
isolate the stream. You can hear the cherry-bomb mufflers, but you
can't see the primer.

Some of the locals swear that the stream sucks now, the water quality
is down, the good old days and so on. I've only been fishing there a
handful of times in the last two years, and never before then, so I
have no comparison, but the river has a lot of fish and is listed as a
Class A. They're just harder to catch than some places I've been.

Steve

Steve wrote:
I'm glad you (and the other guys) liked it.

Ditto on the comments. My brother lives in Easton and I'll be in the
neighborhood at least once this year sometime. I will have to poke
around...
--
Stan Gula
http://gula.org/roffswaps

"Steve" wrote in
oups.com:

Some of the locals swear that the stream sucks now, the water
quality is down, the good old days and so on. I've only been
fishing there a handful of times in the last two years, and never
before then, so I have no comparison, but the river has a lot of
fish and is listed as a Class A. They're just harder to catch than
some places I've been.


It definitely sounds like the same place. Kicking myself now ...

"Steve" wrote in message
ups.com...
*I tried posting this early this afternoon, and if it shows up twice, I
apologize.*

I got a late start Saturday morning, moving leisurely through the
newspaper and packing my vest.
(snip)
Steve

Hi Steve,
That was fun. Thanks. I think I recall fishing the Ramapo in the northeast
part of New Jersey, in the late '80s. A lot of interesting things in the
water there as well . . .besides fish.
BestWishes,
DaveMohnsen
Denver