TR-Sort Of

The homemade sticker was taped to the back window of the late model
Caravan. "DNR-Damn Near Russia.”
Holy cow, what was I getting into.
I had found myself with a few free hours before sunset. Not wanting to
drive far, I first thought of fishing below the small dam just across
the road from the health club and upstream a couple hundred yards from
the hospital. It’s a fairly easy area to wade and, like the entire
upper river these days, contains myriads of smallmouth. But then it
occurred to me that I hadn't fished beneath the big dam on the state
park stretch of the river yet this year. And it had been probably five
years since I had fished it from the utility company property on the
opposite side of the river from the park. So I hurriedly assembled my
gear. The six weight rod. The cleated felt soled boots. And the
warmwater tackle pack. Five minutes found me pulling into the utility
provided parking lot and it was there I saw the van. My first impulse
was to leave.

But the sun was already nearing the horizon. My rod was unpacked and
strung up, boots laced and double tied and I had wiggled into the
harness of my chest pack. It wouldn't be the first bitter guy I'd met
on the river. I'd be fine.

I took the path around the small, softly humming transformers and
clambered down the short rocky path to the river. And there stood the
Curmudgeon. He wasn't an unpleasant looking fellow. About 70, holding
a spincasting rod with another one leaning up against his tackle box.
On the end of that rod was a Heddon Tiny Torpedo. A lure from my
youth. A lure my grandfather swore by and one that had taken many bass
from the Black River which ran through the lowlands of my parent’s
farm.

The old man smiled at me as I walked past him and I nodded back in
return. Then he spoke. "There's a muskie cruising the shore here.”
"You should try to catch him.” Well . . . this was not what I had
expected. I had thought my fly rod would earn me hostile looks. But
instead, where I had expected bitterness, it seemed I had found
generosity. But I really wasn't prepared to fish for muskies. I had
stepped on my bass taper line a few days before and the tungsten
cleats had snipped it in half as cleanly as if it had been cut with a
blade. I had another floating six weight line, an Orvis trout taper.
But while its suppleness maybe made sense on a trout stream, it was
not a proper tool for casting the deerhair divers and lead eyed,
rabbit strip lamprey flies that were my favorites. And while I did
have a couple northern pike flies in my box it would have been
frustration, nothing but frustration, to try to cast them using that
fly line. So I begged off. "I'm really not rigged up for muskies. I
came for the bass,” and I motioned off vaguely downstream, toward the
fast water at the end of the huge pool below the dam. "Well, I wish
someone would catch him,” the old guy said, the hard edge of sourness
entering his voice. "Godammed thing is only 24, 30 inches long and
this big around.” He spread his hands around an imaginary circle with
a 6" diameter. "I wish someone would hook him and take him home.”
"Why?" I asked. The fish was way to short to be legal. "Because the
goddammed thing eats all the walleye . . . and the bass" he added as
he eyed my six weight. "There's nothing left because of that goddammed
fish.” I just nodded my head and headed downstream, leaving the fellow
behind me to stew in his bitterness.

I threaded my way through a small clump of brush. As I stepped near
the rocky riverbank a swirl and a vee wake revealed where a fish had
been hovering in the softer current, a few inches from dry land.
Another step . . . another wake. What the hell, I was still a hundred
yards from the rapids and I had already spooked two fish. I knotted on
a small tan Dahlberg diver. The first cast downstream brought a swirl
and the bass darted out into the river. He hung there a few seconds
using the current to help him fight the pull of the line. Soon I
brought him to my side and reaching down twisted the bug free. At
about 12" he seemed very uneaten to me. The next cast brought another
fish. This one was bigger and took a few feet of line from the reel.
He made a low, wallowing jump and I hooted, more to let the Curmudgeon
know that not all the bass had been consumed by his fat muskie nemesis
than anything else. D a m n Near Russia my a s s. This fish was a
nice fat clean 14" smallmouth. As I quickly took his photo, I glanced
up river and saw the Curmudgeon glaring at me as he peaked around the
brush a hundred yards upstream from me. The next cast brought a swirl
but a miss from a bigger fish. Repeated tosses in his direction went
unanswered. So I turned around and cast along the shore along which I
had just finished walking. A twitch . . . a pause . . . a second
twitch . . . a hit! Incredible! I had been standing there less than 5
minutes ago! It was a smaller bass and lively and he danced his way
back into the current, jumping three or four times. This time I
laughed out loud, not to draw the old sourpuss's attention but out the
enjoyment of feeling the little fish fight. I soon lipped him and sent
him back to the river.

Now I turned my attention to the swirl maker. My cast went wide. The
noodly line sent the Diver a good 10' from shore. A gave the bug a
couple of hard pulls, drawing it closer to recast. And it disappeared.

The fish had the advantage of the current and was also just above the
point where the river began its descent into the rapids. I held him
back as hard as I could, fearing not so much that the 2x tippet would
break as having the #10 bug hook pull loose. After a short standoff
though I moved him upstream just a bit and then he rushed up and out
into the main flow. No jumps this time but instead a stubborn, hard
pull. The six weight was deeply bent, the line taut. Slowly I worked
him toward me and up from the deeper water. As he came to the surface,
he wallowed, sending spray flying. I yielded up a few yards of line to
him but then drew him back. He came to hand. I expected to see 20" of
smallmouth outlined against the rocks of the river bottom. But instead
I bent down and lifted a dripping bass not more than an inch bigger
than the 14" fish just previously taken. The small hook had worn a
large hole in the thin membrane behind his lips and the mere loosening
of the line allowed the bug to fall free. I bent down to hold the fish
so that he'd be facing the current. I expected I'd have to work him
back and forth to resuscitate him but this was no trout and after a
second or two he shot from my hands and moved away into the dark,
stained water of the Wisconsin.

I stood up. Stretched. Glanced upstream and there was Damned Near
Russia looking at me. Good, I thought. Another bar room biologist
exposed as a flake. I looked down at my Diver. It was a mess. With
four fish to its credit in less than 15 minutes, it was soggy and
disheveled. My curiosity awoke and I snipped off the floating bug and
clinched on a rabbit strip lamprey. I tried to cast it but the soft
line could barely turn the lead eyed fly over. It finally landed about
30' out. The line moved off down current for maybe two seconds the
stopped before I had even gotten ready to strip it in. "Damn, snagged.
I thought it was deeper". I gave the line a yank and the snag moved
off upstream. Another bass, not as big as the last, arched up from the
brown water. A few more jumps and he too, was landed. After a couple
more "casts" another, even smaller fish hip hopped across the water.

The fishing finally slowed. As the sun sank below the trees behind me,
I finally made it to the white water whose edges I originally meant to
fish. I drifted Lampreys, Buggers and heavily weighted Clousers
through the fast water and along it's edges. I only caught one 8" bass
from a side eddy for my efforts.

Now it was starting to get seriously dark. I waded slowly up stream.
There near the dam the Curmudgeon was packing up. As I approached, he
turned away and clattered up the shingled slope of the riverbank and
disappeared into the dusk. I walked up to the place he had been
fishing, thinking about his thieving muskellunge. I didn't want to
cast one of my big pike flies on that limp line but I did have a
couple small red and white streamers I had bought in Ely many years
ago. And one had a short wire trace twisted to its eye. I tied it on
by the dam's spillway lights. And cast it out . . .

Now here is where a story can go from "truth" to "fiction" faster than
a muskie can inhale a small red and white streamer. A fitting,
probably more entertaining end, would have me casting, hooking and
then landing the fat well-fed muskellunge. I would look at it finning
in the shallows, the streamer lodged in the corner of its toothy
snout. Then I would bend down, grab the fly with my forceps and twist
.. . . and the muskie would hesitate, the small hole in its bill the
only sign that it had been battled and fought and beaten . . . and
freed to taunt the Curmudgeon another day. It would be a good, if
cliched, ending to this story. But instead I cast. And then cast some
more. I fell into a reverie about old men and the bitterness that
hangs about some like fog on a cold September morning. A reverie about
my own grandfather slowly making his way across the darkening fields
of my father’s farm. His dark green Johnson push button reel and glass
rod hanging from his hands. A Tiny Torpedo tied to his line.

And then I reeled in my line and went home.


George C.

And then I reeled in my line and went home.

George C.

Thank you. Wonderful prose.

--
Frank Reid
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"Frank Reid" moc.deepselbac@diersicnarf wrote in message
...
And then I reeled in my line and went home.

George C.

Thank you. Wonderful prose.

--
Frank Reid
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a really nice story to go with my morning coffee ;-)
snake

"Frank Reid" moc.deepselbac@diersicnarf wrote in message
...
And then I reeled in my line and went home.

George C.

Thank you. Wonderful prose.

--
Frank Reid
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a really nice story to go with my morning coffee ;-)
snake

"George Cleveland" wrote in message
...
The homemade sticker was taped to the back window of the late model
Caravan. "DNR-Damn Near Russia."
Holy cow, what was I getting into.

(nice stuff snipped)

And then I reeled in my line and went home.
George C.

Thank you sir. Great way to start my Saturday.
BestWishes,
DaveMohnsen
Denver

The homemade sticker was taped to the back window of the late model
Caravan. "DNR-Damn Near Russia."

I thought the DNR was the same as what every one here puts on the back of
their security badges, i.e. Do Not Resucitate.

--
Frank Reid
Reverse email to reply

"Frank Reid" wrote

I thought the DNR was the same as what every one here puts on the back of
their security badges, i.e. Do Not Resucitate.


I have to wear a Do Not Resucitate sign whenever I take a nap.


Passerby 1: "Omygod! How long do you think he's been dead??"

Passerby 2: "I don't know, smells like maybe a week or two!"

Me: "Hey, whats a guy gotta do to get a little shut-eye around
here?"


Timothy Juvenal

"Frank Reid" wrote

I thought the DNR was the same as what every one here puts on the back of
their security badges, i.e. Do Not Resucitate.


I have to wear a Do Not Resucitate sign whenever I take a nap.


Passerby 1: "Omygod! How long do you think he's been dead??"

Passerby 2: "I don't know, smells like maybe a week or two!"

Me: "Hey, whats a guy gotta do to get a little shut-eye around
here?"


Timothy Juvenal

The homemade sticker was taped to the back window of the late model
Caravan. "DNR-Damn Near Russia."

I thought the DNR was the same as what every one here puts on the back of
their security badges, i.e. Do Not Resucitate.

--
Frank Reid
Reverse email to reply

"George Cleveland" wrote...

And there stood the Curmudgeon.

Beautiful. I spose we can all grow into whatever we choose, attitude-wise.

Timothy Juvenal