TR: Canoes, Cicadas and Carp

Saturday, my wife and I took our canoe to Lake Nockamixon in Bucks
County. It was the most beautiful day so far this year, cool and
sunny, with a slight breeze. I was a little nervous that since it was
the opening day of bass season, there'd be crazy guys in bass boats
rocketing around, not looking for semi-novice canoeists. When we got
to the lake, the sign said "No motors over 20 horsepower," so that
made me feel a little better.

We tossed it in, stowed my nine-foot nine weight (I figured it would
be more useful than my seven-foot four weight) and paddled across the
lake. We love canoeing, to cruise quietly and see things, especially
along the shore. We saw mallard pairs and deer and a loon or two.
Loons are creatures of the north woods, and I get a little thrill when
I see them. I feel like they bring the muskeg with them.

Periodically, I stopped and pitched a medium-sized hair bug under the
trees. It was exactly the right size to excite the sunfish, so they
pecked and harried it, but too big for one of them to take. We paddled
a bit, took some pictures, fished a bit, paddled some more, looked at
the sailboats and soaked up the sun. The cicadas were out in force,
almost too loud to tolerate. Em said they gave her a headache. The
cicadas are terrible fliers. They drop almost as fast as a stone, but
less gracefully. When one comes out of a tree, it quickly and noisily
crashes.

At one spot, where a downed tree stuck out under an overhanging one, I
figured on a small bass, maybe a big sunfish. I chugged it once, and
watched. A big pair of orange rubbery lips O'ed the popper and when I
set the hook, I pulled it away. It was a fairly good-sized carp,
trying to suck in my popper just like a big goldfish.

Of course! The carp were eating the cicadas. Everything was eating
them. The loud little *******s were perfect fish food. In my box, I
happened to have a pair of black balsa poppers with painted red eyes
and rubber legs. I tied one on to a fresh 8# leader and proceeded to
sight fish to an inexhaustible supply of fat carp. Em and I had fun
watching them come up to inspect the fly, nose it, refuse, circle it,
inspect and wait. Real cicadas got the exact same treatment, too. They
weren't skittish, I was always able to get within fifteen feet and the
fish seemed completely unconcerned. It was an education in fish
behavior.

They are very inefficient in surface feeding. For every cicada they
managed to eat, they missed a couple altogether and failed to fit
several more in their mouths. At one point, I had a popper resting on
the nose of a fair fish as it tried to work it in. As soon as I tried
to set the hook, the carp would vanish in a powerful splash and swirl.

I fished for a while, excited and frustrated. I had a dozen takes, and
always set the hook before it was really in the rubbery lips or after
they spit it out. One set held, and I was tight to the beast for a
second when my knot at the fly gave way. I tried replacing it with a
black and yellow hair bug with a weed guard but no legs. It got far
fewer looks and no rises, so I went to my last black popper.

Em was getting bored, so we pulled in at some rocks and ate our lunch,
reapplied sun block and chatted. I figured that the places to find
them were near the submerged elodea (or whatever the stuff is) and
overhanging branches. Cover and food. In the interests of science, I
picked off a cicada and threw it in the water. A bluegill watched it
intently for a second or two and smacked it, but the fish was too
small to swallow it.

Fish were out there, man, waiting for me, so I really couldn't relax.
I made her take me through the area again. I lost the popper to a
tree, but when the line broke, the popper dropped into the water. We
went and got it, because it was the only one I had left. I lost it to
a lily pad, but again, we went and got it.

Time was running out. Em paddles while I fish, but it was getting to
be too much fishing and not enough paddling. We crossed the lake and
paddled back toward the launch. The real fun of canoeing is the
watching the shoreline go by with a million small stories to tell.
There were submerged foundations, roads that ended in the water, all
the trappings of a reservoir. Herons and ducks and deer did there
stuff in the shade. We crossed a dozen carp, suspended two feet down,
and when we got too close, they would dodge deeper, and the power of
some of the fish would make washtub-sized boils on the surface. One
was probably three feet long, a veritable monster.

Of course, I had to fish some more. I tossed my beleaguered popper to
cruising carp. Finally, one took, and when I struck, instead of
ducking the popper, it held fast in an explosion of shallow water.

"Got him!"

"Well, what do I do now?" my little canoeista asked.

"Back up into deep water and DON'T TOUCH THE LINE!"

We fish with the bow of the boat pointed at the shoreline so my
backcast doesn't go near my wife. I had made a backhand cast to the
right and now the fish was running for deep water. I held my rod
straight up at arm's length, and lightened up on the drag as it pulled
backwards over my right shoulder. I couldn't turn around, because I
didn't want to distract myself from the problem at hand and also
because we're not competent enough in the canoe to keep it stable
while two-thirds of the weight flops around trying to keep a fish on.
Finally Em got me straightened out and I was able to fight the fish
head on. It tried hitting the weeds, but it was outgunned. I had a
fresh 8# tippet, clipped back a bit (I wanted to get rid of a wind
knot) and a big nine weight.

From what I've read, I was expecting a long run, a la bonefish, but I
got boring and pulling. There wasn't much head shaking, just steady
pressure and weight as it tried to retreat into the weeds.

Eventually, I brought it up. Em was working the camera, and got a
couple of pictures of the fish and the fight. From the gills back, the
fish was magnificent: thick and strong with gold, orange and bronze.
From the gills up, it was gruesome. Thick orange rubber lips, some
sort of demonic caricature of a goldfish, and little beady eyes sunk
in a heavy head. I'd say four pounds and a bit shy of two feet.

I slipped the hook while it was still in the water and sent it home.

As A. K. Best says (through John Gierach), it is good to end the day
on a nice fish, so I stowed my rod and we paddled on.

Steve