THE DAY TRIPPER FLY FISHING & FLY TYING BLOG

posted by Alex on Jul 16

It’s hard to believe that I haven’t fished the pond since early Spring, but it’s true. Last year I was there on an almost daily basis. What changed? Well for starters, I moved a couple exits south- closer to some other spots that produce bigger, scrappier fish. Which leads to the other reason.

As each day passes, I’m learning more and more about the fascist state of New York and the places where it’s fish reside. Just when I think I’m starting to get a grip on what’s what, I find out where is where.

There’s a lot of water to check out.

I’m reading this book right now, it’s about fishing spots in a particular area of the empire state. I’d tell you the name, but, there’s too much info in it that I need to investigate for myself first. If the info is bad, I’ll let you know. If it’s good, well, you’ll probably never hear me mention that book again. And I really do hope some of the info is good,it’d be nice to take some of the locals who’ve helped me out to a spot they haven’t fished yet.

The pond was just as good as ever. It’s gotta be one of the best pieces of public panfish water I’ve ever fished. Rarely do you catch anything under 7″, and there are enough of them to keep you busy the whole time you’re there.

I doubt I’ll ever retire the pond, but isn’t it funny how we fisherman retire certain spots? As we learn new spots, we stop fishing old ones. I guess you can’t fish em’ all, but why do certain spots keep a spot in the rotation, while others are abandoned like misfit toys? In a way, it’s a little sad when you think about it.

It’s funny how some people settle down with a fishing spot. They’ll fish that same damn spot every day for the rest of their life if they can. They have no interest in checking out the hole just around the bend. To each his own, but I’ve never really got that.  For me, the exploration has always been a big part of the fun.

I’ll come around a bend to the most beautiful stretch of water I’ve ever seen, give it a thorough once over, and move on to the stretch of hydro. I just can’t help it. It’s almost like I’m speed fishing at times, but really, I’m just gathering as much info on the area as I can. That way, if or when I come back, I’ll have a foolproof plan of attack.

Isn’t fishing fun?

I was just about ready to head out, when a guy and three kids approached me, and started asking questions about fly fishing. Turns out he was their grandpa, and the kids were here from South America(Columbia). I showed each how to cast, then let each try casting. All three did alright, one did better than the others. Grandpa called him the “athletic one”. We chit chatted a few minutes, and I hit the road.

Not sure when I’ll hit the pond again, but I’m looking forward to it.

posted by Alex on Jul 8

His eyes squinted as he looked at her, trying to decipher her body language. He was sure it was some kind of trick.

“Seriously, go fishing!” she repeated.

An evening without the kids doesn’t come around very often, and when it does, it usually meant they were going out together. But apparently not this time. The Mrs. decided that she was going to kick him out of the house while she put a dent in the long list of shows stored in the DVR.

He made one more attempt at getting her to come along.  It’s not that the attempt was insincere, but he had learned that women are always game to test a man’s allegiance.

“You sure you don’t want to come?”

“No! Go catch fish!”

20 minutes later, he was making his way across the flat.

It had been a few weeks since he’d fished this particular spot. The dam was only releasing water at about 850cfs. And much of the normally submerged flat was now exposed to the 80ºF air temps, the rest was blanketed by dried out weeds and algae that had experienced a bit of a growth spurt in his absence. As he walked across the jagged bedrock, he tried to remember a time when he’d seen the water lower- but couldn’t. A flock of geese eyeballed him as he stopped at the limits of his casting range from a large pool between the tails of two stretches of rapids. As he stripped line from his reel, a group of seagulls lost trust in him and flew to safety on a small boulder strewn island 100 yards upstream.

He smirked as the loop rolled over.  The nymph was enveloped by the seam. After a quick upstream mend, the end of the fly line stopped. Before the hook was even set, 18″ of slashing bronze surged into the air, then splashed into the the pool before darting for the faster water at it’s southern edge. There was a brief rooster tail as the fly line ripped through the rapids. The fish flew into the air again. Not only was it fighting the angler, it was fighting gravity.

“I knew I’d regret leaving the camera at home.” he thought as he admired the fish. It was the biggest he’d ever caught from this section of the river.

He picked up a couple more, but smaller, on his trek across the pocket water before reaching the other side of the river.

He bit the line just above the brown nymph, and stuck it back in his overflowing fly box, exchanging it for bullet-head hopper pattern. What had brought him the utmost satisfaction only several weeks earlier had become dull.

Thoughts about that pivotal moment were interrupted as he brought the mono through the hook eye, and counted the number of times he brought the tag end around the main leader.

“One, two three, four, five.”

Carp were at one time his holy grail. The challenge of catching a fish that relied almost exclusively on scent to feed, with a fly, was too good to pass up. He soaked in the glory of catching his first carp on the fly over the winter. But only two and a half months into the new season, catching them had almost become routine.

What really irritated him about the golden ghosts, was that after the hook was set, there was little chance of losing the fish. It bugged him to the point that he had very little passion to target them anymore.

He bit the off the tag end after tightening the knot and walked around a bend in the river towards the bay. It wasn’t really a bay, more like a long stretch of shoreline protected from the main current by a small peninsula. The river’s carp were fond of this protected stretch of water. At times there were literally hundreds of them enjoying it’s serenity.

He made a stealthy approach, and was shocked that he hadn’t seen any signs of fish before making it to the bay. It was a ghost flat. He guessed that the low water release from the dam was the culprit as he waded out to a central position to watch for feeding fish. A pair of lips rolled out of the water, followed by a dorsal fin and a big, golden tail at the edge of a large weed bed. Without thinking he double hauled the hopper, shooting it across the bay. It plopped down just inches from where the fish had just surfaced.

He’d never seen a carp feeding on the surface before, what were the odds that the first time he did, he had a dry on. It was as if it was meant to be. After watching the fly sit on the water’s surface for a while, he gave it a few twitches. Adrenaline roared as the fly got sucked under the surface!

It was quickly extinguished as the 9′ rod catapulted a 4″ smallmouth bass into the air.

There was little activity the rest of the evening before he called it a day. But his psyche was forever charred by the not-so-close, close encounter.

A new grail. A new quest. A new obsession.

Carp on a dry.