Luck was a lady tonight

Some streams have a reputation for being easy to fish; others are reputed to be difficult. The river that swept past my wader-clad legs Thursday evening, May 19, is as difficult as they come. Its long, smooth-flowing pools, broken only by short stretches of riffles, are a real challenge for fly fishers.

While I was pleased that evening to see many little rings on the surface flow as I waded into the river, I hoped they were not being made by the tiny eight-inch stocked trout a friend had reported catching in this vicinity. A large number of dead and dying spinners that floated past me probably explained why the trout were feeding at the surface.

“The fishing might be easy tonight,” I thought. An hour later, after two leader changes and five different fly patterns, my efforts had brought about only two rejection rises.

The hour had grown late. It was too gloomy to see the little fly I was casting as it floated on the flow. There was just enough light for one more change of flies.

At such times I change flies with a feeling of desperation. I drew from my fishing shirt a fly box labeled “bunny flies” (tied mostly or completely with the fur of the hind foot of a snowshoe hare). In the “Mid Atlantic Fly Fishing Guide,” Mike Bachkosky writes of a fly he refers to as “The Unusual.” It is a take-off on Fran Better’s pattern, “The Usual.” I had tied a few last year, but the season ended before I could try them. Why not now?

I struggled to thread the tippet through the eye of the fly and then tied a surgeons knot and cut the three ends. I made a short cast to see how the fly looked on the water. It was visible. But would a trout eat it? It looked like a fat, pale gray marshmallow floating along.

There were three trout feeding in a pod, cruising up and down the pool, sipping their dinner. I thought of them as the three stooges each time they passed within casting range. However, they chose to play the part of the three wise men, while I was forced to play the fool.

They came again, rising and then moving upstream a foot or two after each rise. I cast so that the fly landed three feet in front of this trio with plenty of slack in the leader. Hearing the sound of another rise, slightly upstream, I made the mistake of glancing in that direction. When I returned my gaze to where my fly had been cast, the fly had disappeared. In its place was a little ring forming on the water.

Instantly, I lifted the rod tip, hoping my strike would not be too late. Aha! Look a fish.

I had fooled one of those little stockers.

Oh, Oh, wait a minute. If this were a stocked trout, he must have been on steroids at the hatchery. My reel was buzzing; the tip of my fly line was headed towards the far bank at lightning speed. This was no eight-incher. It might be 12 or 13 inches, I thought.

I tried to bring the fish closer. The reel sang and he was off again for the far bank. How the heck big was this fish anyway?

Maybe I had foul hooked him. That would explain why I had such a time getting him under control. The two-weight rod bent in a tight arc as I applied steady pressure. Closer, closer, I could almost see him. Nuts! He must have spotted me. Away he went on another run. It began to feel like he was running out of gas. A little closer and I’d be able to see him. Wowie! Foul hooked like hell, it was a big fish. Easy, easy, there he went turning onto his right side, right at the surface. He was whipped. I slipped a hand under the trout, lifted him from the water and placed him against the rod, with the fork of the tail by the rod butt. His nose reached the 18-inch mark taped into the rod shaft.

My best fish in several years.

I slipped the little de-barbed hook from his jaw and cradled this beautiful brown trout in the water. Seconds passed, and then he recovered sufficiently to slide from my hand and swim down to the river bed. Moments later he slid away off into deeper water and disappeared from view.

A tip of the cowboy hat to Mike Bachkosky, whose fly pattern turned a busted flush into a winning hand. Want to try “The Unusual?” Mike can be reached at mike@rainbowsendlfies.com. This pattern should be deadly on the soon-to-be-hatching Pale Evening Dunds. The flies are hatching. The trout are rising. Go fishing!

On Saturday, June 4 at the Rockland House in Roscoe, NY, the Theodore Gordon Flyfishers will honor Phil Chase and Clem Fullerton for their long-time efforts in cold-water conversation.