—Harold F. Blaisdell, The Philosophical Fisherman
Fishing always reaches its peak when the bugs are thickest. And bugs are thickest in places where fishing is best.… So whenever and wherever you enjoy good fishing you can expect to find mosquitoes, blackflies, midges, or deerflies all lusting for your life’s blood.
—H. G. Tapply, The Sportsman’s Notebook
When fishermen come home from a day’s fishing empty-creeled, and you say well, where are the fish, ha ha, they say look, bub, can’t you get it through your thick skull there is more to fishing than catching fish. But when you say what, for instance, they are stumped.
—Ed Zern, To Hell with Fishing
Are We Fly Fishing Yet?
When I read Rich Chiappone’s delightfully venomous rant in a recent issue of American Angler about how Alaskan guides teach their fly-fishing clients to foul-hook rainbow trout, I was reminded of the time last May when I watched a guy with a spinning outfit catch trout from my local fly-fishing-only, catch-and-release pond during a late-afternoon midge hatch.
“Pegging,” the Alaskan technique, involves stringing plastic beads onto the tippet a few inches up from a bare hook, securing them in place with a toothpick, drifting them through a pod of trout, and giving a hard yank whenever a fish nudges the bead with his nose. The hook impales the trout in the chin or jaw, the client gets to play a trophy fish on his fly rod, and the guide’s a hero.
It was hard to tell what made Chiappone angrier—the unsporting nature of pegging, or the fact that they called it fly fishing.
The guy with the spinning rod at my fly-fishing-only pond had waded out to his hips right next to the beach where I was preparing to launch my float tube. In this pond, which I’ve found to be typical of most cold-water ponds in my neck of the woods, the hatching chironomids—and the feeding trout—start coming to the surface out in the middle. The activity gradually spreads toward the shore as afternoon descends into evening. Until the very end of it, you need a canoe or a tube to get within fly-casting range of where the fish are working.
Except this fisherman with his spinning outfit didn’t need any watercraft to reach the rising trout. He winged it way the hell out there, about three of my best double-hauls laid end to end. It landed with a little splash among the dimpling trout near the middle of the pond, and he didn’t wait very long after each cast before he grunted and his rod bent and he cranked in another one of the fat 15- and 16-inch brook trout that our pond is famous for.
I was mainly impressed by the gall of this guy. I could understand it if he skulked through the woods and sneaked in at the far end where he could hide if somebody like me came kicking along in a float tube. But there he stood, in plain sight, blatantly and unashamedly breaking the rules.
There’s not much sense in cheating if it doesn’t help you win, and I had to admit, this man sure could catch trout. He handled them carefully and released them all, too.
I watched him out of one eye while I tied a pair of midge pupae to my tippet with the other, and finally I couldn’t stand it any more. “Hey,” I called, “you with the spinning rod. This place is fly-fishing-only, you know?”
He looked up, smiled and waved, and then came sloshing over to me. “I am fly fishing,” he said.
He showed me his terminal rig. He’d tied a little plastic bubble to the end of his line and about 4 feet of tippet to the bubble. A pair of midge pupae—the same choice of flies I’d made—was tied to the tippet. “Flies,” he said. “See?”
A quick surge of self-righteous indignation rose and fell in my chest. I was pretty sure that this man’s method violated the letter of the fly-fishing-only law. But I wasn’t so sure about the spirit. The only real difference between us was that he’d found a way to drop his flies near the fish while wading in the shallow water, while I needed a float tube to reach them.
“If a warden comes along,” I said, “he’ll take your license.”
“You think your way is more sporting than mine?” he said.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Up until a few years ago, hundreds of fun-seekers flocked to the banks of the Salmon River in New York every fall to “lift” Chinook salmon as they staged near the estuary preparatory to their spawning run up from Lake Ontario. Lifting involved heaving a big, weighted treble hook into a mass of fish and alternately reeling and yanking. The big hooks snagged the giant fish somewhere on their anatomy, and they were then unceremoniously cranked in and heaved up on the bank.
The back-trollers and spin casters and fly fishermen who used more sporting tactics fought lifting for years before they finally got it outlawed.
When I fished the Salmon River with local salmon and steelhead guru Fran Verdoliva, we used 11-foot “noodle” rods, level 2-weight fly lines, 12-foot-long 4-pound test leaders, foam strike indicators, short droppers holding six or eight fat split-shots, and pink egg imitations made from synthetic yarn. Casting involved dangling the weighted leader and a few feet of line off the end of your rod tip behind you and heaving it like you’d throw an apple on a stick. The split shots, not the weight of the line itself, gave the cast its distance. We employed this technique—effectively—in the fly-fishing-only stretch of the Salmon River, and it never occurred to us, even as we cussed the downstream lifters for preventing hundreds of salmon from swimming up to where we might catch them, to doubt that what we did qualified as both fly fishing and ethical sport.
A few years ago a bunch of fly-fishing writers and I had to postpone an excursion to Vermont’s Lake Champlain where we’d planned to cast Mickey Finn bucktails to spawning northern pike along the shoreline. We were advised, for safety’s sake, to wait until after May 25 when the two-month firearms fish-hunting season ended. It was, and still is, a grand—and legal—tradition among Vermonters to climb a bankside tree or stand in the bow of a boat armed with a .30/06 rifle or a 12-gauge shotgun loaded with deer slugs and shoot cruising pike.
I’ve yet to meet an angler who doesn’t condemn the practice of shooting fish. The shooters, however, claim that the impact of a bullet or slug on the water usually just stuns the fish, which quickly recover and swim away. Shoot-and-release, you might call it.
A Belize guide once told me that a client of his, an angler famous for his articles in fly-fishing magazines about catching permit on deerhair crab imitations, soaked his flies in the juice of crushed crabs.
I once watched a guy in the special-regulations section of the Farmington River catch trout after trout by high-sticking nymphs, I assumed, through the currents with a sweet little bamboo fly rod. It turned out he was using live mealworms impaled on a size-18 dry-fly hook.
I’m wondering where fly fishing stops and some other, lesser form of fishing begins.
Our fly-fishing ethics were codified a century ago by Frederic Halford, who condemned the wet fly, and especially the nymph. In the name of pure sport, he decreed, anglers should target only specific trout that they’d located surface-feeding on mayfly duns. The fly should float, the cast should be upstream, and the angler should be standing on the bank, not in the water.
Then along came G. E. M. Skues defending the morality of fishing with nymphs, and fly-fishing purity went all to hell in a fuzzy confusion of ends-justify-the-means relativism and hair-splitting definitions. Now we use “flies” that imitate insects other than mayflies (caddis flies, stone flies, damselflies) and fish foods other than insects (minnows, salmon eggs, crayfish, leeches). We even use “flies” that don’t imitate anything at all, but are intended to exploit the fish’s predatory instincts. We use flies constructed from plastics and metals and paint and epoxy. We use bobbers and sinking lines and weighted leaders … and still we call it fly fishing.
Fly fishing is perceived by many non-anglers as the most “sporting” method both because (they think) casting a fly is difficult to master and because it’s an inefficient way to catch fish. Although neither of these reasons is valid (anybody can learn to cast, and in many situation
s fly fishing is the most efficient way of all to catch fish), we anglers tend to promote the illusion. It makes us feel superior and gives us good leverage for criticizing Alaskan peggers, Salmon River lifters, and Lake Champlain pike shooters—and while we’re at it, all the folks who sling plastic worms and crankbaits, troll flatfish lures on wire lines, and suspend nightcrawlers under bobbers.
My father once wrote, “A man can be a fish hog with a fly rod as easily as he can with a cane pole. Easier perhaps.” A man with a fly rod can also be an insufferable, self-righteous, judgmental snob. We can argue whether drifting a pink Glo-Bug and an ounce of weight under a chartreuse foam strike indicator—or casting a pair of size-22 midge pupae with a spinning rod, for that matter—qualifies as fly fishing. It’s a harmless—and fruitless—debate that hinges on fine, arbitrary points of definition. Halford’s concept of fly fishing remains as valid as any other.
Definitions of “sporting” are equally elusive. The Greek poet Bion wrote, “Though boys throw stones at frogs in sport, the frogs do not die in sport, but in earnest.” We fly fishers need to be careful about throwing our stones at other people’s ideas of a good time. Personally, I’m not much interested in lifting king salmon or pegging rainbow trout, but I confess that hunting northern pike with a deer rifle sounds kind of fun.
Opening Day 1938
The other day I was unpacking a carton of old books that my father left behind, and I paused at a nice Derrydale edition of A Tomato Can Chronicle by Edmund Ware Smith. I remembered how much I’d liked Smith’s fishing stories. The One-Eyed Poacher was my favorite fictional character when I was a kid.
When I began thumbing through the book, I found a yellowed newspaper clipping jammed between the pages. I unfolded it. It was dated April 16, 1938.
The article was titled, “Lines Cast by 20,000 Bay State Anglers: Open Season for Trout and Salmon Begins with Limit Bags for Many Fishermen.” Under the title was a faded photo. It showed three beefy men in coats and ties looking at a fourth, thinner, much younger man. The young man was holding up a dead fish that looked a bit longer than 20 inches.
I had to read the caption to identify the men: “Presenting first salmon caught to Gov. Hurley. Left to right – Edward Place, Bradbury F. Cushing, Gov. Hurley, and Horace G. Tapley [sic], who caught the fish.” My father was a very young man in 1938.
I skimmed down through the article to this paragraph: “Gov. Charles F. Hurley is not a fisherman, but he dined on a Chinook from Lake Walden at noon today in the Statler. The Chinook, one of those raised, reared, bred, and weaned at the Sandwich hatchery and dumped into Lake Walden three years ago, weighed 3½ pounds and succumbed to the streamer cast by Horace G. Tapley, magazine editor and fishing enthusiast, who with Oliver H. P. Rodman, another angler of editorial persuasions, selected Walden for the first day… Tapley went out in a boat on Walden about 6 a.m. and got the salmon on a light 3½-ounce rod about 8.”
I had to smile. Dad used to say that he could’ve been elected president of the United States and still nobody would ever spell his name right. The only place his name was consistently spelled correctly was in the fishing magazines he himself edited.
I tried to imagine my old man as a young bachelor actually presenting a salmon he’d caught to the governor, and then clipping this story from a newspaper, trimming it with scissors, folding it carefully, and tucking it into a book for unborn me to find seventy years later. The father I knew mistrusted politicians (especially Democrats), shunned public ceremonies, returned all of his fish, and did not save his clippings.
But I did remember how keyed-up he would get for Opening Day of the trout season.
Fifteen or so years after my father gave his salmon to the governor, I had begun lying awake all Friday night before the third Saturday in April. He was still rising before the sun on Opening Day to drive to Walden and troll streamers with Ollie Rodman.
All the rest of the season, Dad took me fishing with him, but not on Opening Day. “Sorry, son,” he’d say, “but Ollie and I always open the season together at Walden.” It’s an important ritual, he’d explain, a rite of passage, the true beginning of the new year, a ceremonial occasion that a man shouldn’t even think of altering.
Then he’d narrow his eyes at me and say, “I hope you understand,” and his tone made it clear that if I didn’t understand, it was tough.
But I did understand, and I didn’t mind. By the time I was eleven or twelve, in fact, I’d established my own Opening Day rituals. I dug my coffee can of worms on Friday afternoon after school and set it on the back porch along with my old bamboo fly rod and a rain jacket and my fishing vest. In the vest pockets were my envelope of hooks, my packet of split shot, my spool of leader, my folding fish-gutting, stick-cutting knife, a Hershey’s bar, and a few packs of matches. In my bedroom I laid out my boots and long johns, my dungarees and wool shirt and knit sweater.
I didn’t bother setting my alarm. I knew I wouldn’t sleep, and anyway, Dad would bang on my door when he got up, which was around 4 AM I’d dress quickly and stumble downstairs to the kitchen, where my mother, who always seemed amused by Opening Day, would be frying bacon, and Duke, our setter, would be clacking his toenails on the linoleum floor and wondering if he had the seasons mixed up. Pretty soon Ollie would tap on the back door and then come barging in with his jokes about the weather and his predictions that he’d outfish my father.
I drank my first cup of coffee one Opening Day morning. My father told me to take it black, like a man, and I surprised him by liking it that way. Sipping a cup of pre-dawn coffee in the kitchen with the men was, I understood, part of the Opening Day ritual and an important rite of passage for me. Within a few years I’d learn that a steaming mug of black coffee before sunrise was equally integral to the rituals of duck hunting and ice fishing.
After the men took off for Walden in Ollie’s wagon, my mother would drop me off at White Pond, which was just a few miles from Walden and Number Two on Thoreau’s list of favorites, although the Concord hermit wouldn’t have enjoyed either pond very much on the first day of the trout season. The shorelines of both ponds were lined with fishermen, and boats of all descriptions milled around on the water.
Opening Day was a big deal back in those days. It warranted a full page of text and photos in the Boston newspapers, and people who never fished again for the rest of the year rose at dawn on that day, including politicians looking for publicity, if not for trout. On April 16, 1938, according to my father’s clipping, “Ex-Gov Curley [James Michael Curley, the notorious Boston political boss], Mrs. Curley, young Francis, and Mrs. Curley’s sons, George and Richard, were among the early disciples of Isaak Walton to go after the landlocked salmon and trout in Jamaica Pond. Four hours of fishing were not entirely productive for the Mayoral candidate …” A (staged) photo shows Curley in the bow of a boat holding a fly rod with a small, dead-looking trout (caught, one assumes, by somebody else) dangling from the end of his line. He’s wearing a white dress shirt and a fedora.
I don’t know how the newspaper writer fixed the number of 1938 Opening Day anglers at twenty thousand. Maybe he went to a pond such as White, counted the cars in the lot and lining both sides of the street, multiplied by two, and came up with, say, four hundred (the number he gave for Walden), and then multiplied that by the number of ponds and rivers that had been stocked. Based on my own Opening Days in the 1950s, twenty thousand was a conservative estimate.
The trick was to get there early and literally stake out a promising swath of shoreline, which I did by cutting three forked sticks and jamming them into the mud at the water’s edge 5 or 6 feet apart. This marked my 10 or 12 feet of territory and gave me three spots to fish from.
My method was simple and deadly. I impaled a worm once, through the middle, on a size-8 wet-fly hook and rollcast it as far as I could (not very far) into the water. Then I set my rod in one of my forked sticks, stripped a few loops of line onto the ground, and waited, and when it began to twitch and slit
her out through the guides, I’d pick up the rod, count to five, and set the hook.
The best Opening Days were cloudy, misty, windless, and warm. On such days I sometimes limited out in an hour. On days of high-pressure, cold, sharp winds, and cloudless skies, it often took me till mid-afternoon to catch my limit.
I almost always brought home a limit of hatchery-raised trout, which was more than I could say for my father, a few miles away trolling streamers at Walden for the potpourri of exotic species the state stocked there in those days, including Chinook, coho and landlocked salmon, and lake trout.
Dad always seemed to get a kick out of being outfished by me. One Opening Day night I overheard him on the telephone with one of his famous fishing friends saying, “The little son-of-a-gun got his limit again, and Ollie and I trolled all day without a hit,” and you couldn’t miss the pride in his voice.
Somewhere along the way, the Powers That Be decreed that there would no longer be a closed season for trout in Massachusetts, and that, of course, meant the end of Opening Day, the best holiday of my childhood—and of my father’s lifelong childhood—and one less photo op for the politicians.
My only regret is that Opening Day was discontinued before my own kids could celebrate it.
Just an Average Day
Last July, for reasons that don’t make much sense now that I reflect on them, I stayed home while Andy and Elliot went to Paradise Valley in Montana for our—their, this time—annual five-day spring-creek trout-bombing mission.
After they got back home, we met for drinks so they could stick splinters under my fingernails with their stories about what I’d missed.
“Oh, it was the usual,” said Andy with a shrug. “What you’d expect.”
Every Day Was Special Page 2