Thursday, October 26, 2006
Sparse Muddler Minnow
October 2, 2006
The Corps now stands with six men; Thee Sven, Ken, Karl, Chet, Ray and myself. That translates to 4 rigs, six tents, 22 rods, two messes (with 5 gal propane, one stove, one grill and various sundries per mess), 5 coolers of food and basic provisions, 4 big bottles of brownsauce, 1 bottle of greensauce, 108 beers, 1 chainsaw and a trailer full of fire wood. Readiness is our watch word, mobility our motto we are six men on a fishin' mission.
We laager among the trees at Madison Junction. Our tents are pitched and a tarp strung over the mess area. The tarp is a thing of beauty. It covers the entire cooking area and enough ground for the six of us to wait out a storm under cover.
The business at hand is fishin so we each string our rods and walk down to differnt sections of the camp water. I have a hope for rising fish so I take the 4wt. The risers are small so I tie on a yellow soft hackle and commence to swinging. I works an entire run and have nothing to show for it. I walk up to a different run, Ken had already fished it but he's back in camp so the water is vacant. Sven and I are the only ones on the river as the rain starts to fall.
I opt for a streamer. I'm still casting the light rod so I tie on a sparsely tied, unweighted muddler. My cast is down and across . At the end of each swing the fly hangs for a moment before I strip it in and cast again. Step, cast, swing, hang, strip, that's how it goes.
The fish takes on the strip. The rod bends fully. This 'bow is strong and bright, up from the lake. He jumps and runs, my reel sings as the fly is taken downstream. I bring him back and recover some line. I've got him good now and call out "Woot Woot!" the tradtional cry for "fish on" in our troupe. Its raining now so they don't hear my signal back in camp. This fish wants an audience and senses that he doesn't have one so he spits the hook. I cuss and I slap my rod down on the water, "Shit! Fuck! IhadhimIhadhimIhadhim!"
Back in camp I ask the boys if they had any better luck. Karl landed a couple little guys, Ken and Sven each had a couple of bumps. I tell them all about my leviathin. Every detail, the play by play. At the end of my story I look up from my hands that are spread apart at least twenty four inches. They're unimpressed, my mates seem indifferent, "Aye Wally thats a lot of story for a small whitefish. We're after trout boyo!"