When the Dogwood Blooms

The dogwood. It mocked me. Looked straight into my bedroom window and said “It’s just a little water, you pansy.”

(For the record, the potted pansies on our deck are tough little buggers. They’ve withstood snow and ice and general neglect over the past few weeks and are still looking good. Their reputation of wimpiness is a bit harsh. They’d kick a begonia’s ass, that’s for sure. The dogwood should know that.)

The phone message said, “Hey Mike. It’s Troy. Want to go after some white bass in the rain? Give me a call if you get a chance.” It wasn’t raining. It was pouring! Go out in that for a few measly white bass? You’ve got to be kidding.

I stared out the window and the tree laughed.

I’ll admit right up front that white bass aren’t my favorites. But how can you not chase a few at this time of year? Pull out a fly rod stout enough to push a well-weighted small clouser and intermediate line, yet light enough to make it sport, and you can have a pretty good time nicking fish flowing out of the reservoir and up into the bigger tribs to spawn. Catch a few dozen in a couple of hours, easy. Eight to fourteen inches, occasionally bigger, with some tug. There are worse ways to spend an afternoon, I suppose. Even in the rain.

And perhaps the rain was the reason to go. The run was on. The river, for the first time in weeks, had dropped to a level that made the float worth a try, but it wouldn’t be for long. The forecast suggested that there was at least an inch of rain, and probably more, on the way throughout the upper watershed, meaning another two weeks of high and dirty water. The spawn would be over. It was probably our last shot.

So I gathered the Gore-Tex and a layer or two and we went. You don’t know if you don’t go.

When the dogwoods bloom, the white bass run. The tree knew that.

I wonder if it knew what else was in store.

Note: Ten (at the very least) pounds of river largemouth on a 7wt, intermediate sink line, and a #4 chartreuse-and-white clouser. It don't get no better. Thanks, dogwood.

Flush

If you look closely, you will see that for much of the year I am a subtle shade of green. It is an affliction that I refer to as Montloradaho Envy and it's onset is caused by all my western "friends" who fill my browser with stories and pictures of their Rocky Mountain trout streams and high plains fisheries. Cuts, bows, browns, ad nauseam. BAH! It's tough to deal with, here in the eastern flatlands, and most of the time I have to pick my wardrobe carefully so as not to make my odd complexion quite so obvious.

But in January my rosy hue returns when those "friends" begin to whine about what to do for the next couple of months as they huddle shivering in their homes or, when they do get out, whimper about dealing with -14 degree days and wind chills that are, frankly, obscene. And when they bitch and moan while I put together a few North Carolina days like this, I am positively flush.

January 4th

Brookies in the Appalachians

46 degrees with a 4wt

January 10th

Largemouths in the Piedmont

64 degrees, 6wt

January 13th

Down East Reds

74 degrees, you guessed it, 7wt

So, take that, you Montloradahoians. For the time being I'm good, and a positively delicious shade of pink, right here in the Old North State. Mountains to coast, it's damn hard to beat.

And I'm itchin' to get out the 8wt.

It's Not You, Honey. It's Me.

Meetup location sounds good. I'll give you a call when I leave Harry's with the boat. I plan to bring a spinning rod along with my fly rod. I've been catching some bass on swim baits on the pond here at Five Points. So feel free to bring a spinning rod if you want.

It took some digging, but I found it. Tucked into the backmost corner of the deepest reaches of the basement. Hidden behind a flaccid float tube and a roll of plastic deer fencing. Draped in cobwebs and dust. The forgotten stick. My old 5’9” Shimano BW-2593 Bull Whip Graphite Fightin’ Rod. Medium Bass/Walleye Special Action. Quantum Escalade loaded with Fire Line. Fat black jitterbug, still strung from some midnight foray to the pond down the hill, years past.

I was young and foolish then.

But we ended up using the darn things. A surprisingly stiff breeze chopped the lake. A blast from the north, forcing us to cast a blast from the past.

I remembered what it’s like to send a weighty lure sixty yards with a flick of the wrist. No false cast. No double haul. Never mind that a decent hookset from that distance is unlikely. It was startling just to watch it fly.

Jitterin' the bug. Walkin' the Zara pooch. Slingin' spinnerbaits. Deep-divin' big-lipped cranks. Bass moves I’d almost forgotten.

But after a few hours the wind dropped and the guilt moved in. This dalliance with the old girlfriend seemed cheap and tawdry. I’d taken easy comfort with another when the times got tough. I’d backslid.

I was ashamed.

So I put down the short whip and tenderly pulled from the gunnels my sweetness, my steadfast 6wt, strung and ready to go. Long elegance and light as an angel's kiss. I stripped a little line, gave it a quick roll, and sent the deer hair flying…

…twenty feet.

It felt like shit.

In Phase

I wait for the full moon to get high overhead and light up the pond like a Wal-Mart parking lot.

It doesn’t cooperate.

Midnight. One-o’clock. Two. I wait. But it plays it cagey, hugs the tree line, spotlighting occasionally through gaps between the massive oaks, poplars, and hickories that ring this watery basin. Mostly, it lies low, completely hidden behind the dense summer canopy, poorly lighting my way only obliquely, reflecting off the thin clouds that drift dreamily across this deep hole in the forest. I might have known that it wouldn’t rise to a zenith, but, in my defense, it’s not every night I’m up at three to see, let alone observe it from a wet float tube seat, mid-pond.

John Gierach recently wrote, “The line between having a little adventure and making a mistake can be a thin one." But heat often makes fishermen do odd things and a string of triple-digit days can blur that adventure/mistake distinction like the shimmer of summer heat obscures the horizon of oncoming asphalt. Floating my local bass pond is nothing new. Doing it on the skinny side of midnight, perhaps a little adventurous. Doing it alone…

The quote teases from the back of my brain for a bit but then recedes, taking with it all thoughts of things existing beyond the meager reach of my aging night vision. I methodically kick my way around the dark edge of the eight-acre pond. Casting visibility approaches nil, so I strip thirty feet of fly line and attempt to maintain a similar buffer from the shore. I don’t always see where it lands, but if I keep my distances right, it’s in the zone. I’m moderately successful, having only to retrieve my popper from shoreline entanglements a handful of times. A few bass notice.

The silence is deafening - silence, that is, when silence is defined as the absence of the ragged din of man. Peepers of every pitch voice their joy, bullfrogs glug happily, and barred owls query insistently, demanding to know who has trespassed into their dark realm. No light is visible beyond that provided by the finicky moon, except for the occasional flash of fireflies at water’s edge – fanciful lighting that does little for the eyes but illuminates the soul magnificently.

The human world huddles inside, sleeps, awaiting the daylight to emerge again. My fellow man lies deep in the trough of his daily cycle. I am disconnected, alone, out of phase. Out of phase, that is, with man, but in perfect harmony with this place, in locked-step-synch with this lunar cycle, riding the peaked sine wave of this time.

It’s three in the morning and I am alive.

I am in phase.

Escape

Subtle
A flash of deep-running green
The faintest of ripples
My popper
Quietly evaporated

More trout sip than bass strike

Had I been off woolgathering
Drifting somewhere else with my thoughts
As I often do while fishing these waters
I’d have missed it

It wouldn’t have been the first time
Nor would it have been the last
But I didn't

A hard strip
A lift of the rod tip
Again
Subtle no longer

A cartwheel
A tailwalk
A slashing run downstream
A headshake

One last, desperate leap for freedom
Off

Hard, brave work
Rewarded by a slip of the hook
A long-line release
Untouched return to safe, comfortable depths

My popper
Quietly revaporated

Good for you, Mr. Bass
Good for you

Into the Fog, and Summer Too

We slipped out of the shrouded cove as quietly as we could, not so that we wouldn’t wake the girls - the dogs and our stumbling about the kitchen had already taken care of that - but because the morning fog seemed to expect it of us. The ancient Evinrude chugged quietly and evenly, engine rolling in pace with the lap of water against our prow. Wooded shorelines melted into mists as we entered the main lake and turned north. Pulling our hats more tightly to our heads, we opened the ‘rude up and propelled ourselves into soft grey nothingness.

As we pushed across the waters, visibility no more than a couple of boat lengths, we listened for the whine of high torque turbines – GPS directed rocket bass boats that occasionally skip across the lake like thrown stones, all too certain of their God-given right-of-way, visibility or no. Speed, take heed. None appeared.

With a quickie breakfast of coffee and last night’s chocolate birthday cake rumbling in our stomachs, we headed out in search of largemouths. The completion of the spring spawn and the onset of summer weather conditions were changing the game but we still hoped to find fish hanging in the shallow lily-padded fingers of the reservoir. Topwater days are slipping away as the waters warm with summer's arrival, but surface-busting bass are much too fun to give up without a few last tries.

Dewey backed off the throttle as the faint lines of someone else’s wake appeared beneath us. No immediate danger, but someone wasn’t far away. We slowed to a crawl and a low-floating basser appeared out of the mists - a lone fisherman casting deep-running cranks off a rocky point. He’d made the seasonal change. We were more stubborn. Or dumber. Or both.

As the lone angler slipped back into the fog, we picked it up once again and headed for the feeder fingers and the acres of pads under which we hoped to find our spring holdouts. Dewey with his spinning tackle and I with my fly rod, we resumed our friendly competition on his home lake, each quietly cheering for the other to make a good game of it – but not too good.

We found bass where we had hoped and caught a few. Seems that a handful of fish were as stubborn as we. And a few was enough for all were decent fish, a bit slim having completed their spawns, but feisty and vigorous in their hold in the pads.

Just as we’d hoped when we set out into the fog. And into summer.

As always, my deepest thanks to Jo and Dewey for their warm, wonderful friendship and hospitality. And also to Boone for putting up with Wilderness Dog Sammy (who could easily be his chew toy). I can think of no better way to start the summer.

Breaking In

First fish on the new fly rod
Yes, yet another stick in the closet
Bought for Lone Star puppy drum, but worked quite nicely here

Sixteen inches of Haw River bucketmouth
Don't let the perspective fool you
They always look smaller
Damn camera

9ft 7wt TFO BVK
The cork still shiny and bright
That won't last

Breaking in a new fly rod
Breaking in a new bass fishing season
Breaking in a new year on my home waters

A year very different from the past

Rubbing Noses

Chris is freezing his jiggly parts off in Idaho.
Russ sits home in Wyoming and can only dream of his upcoming getaway to Belize.
Erin's snowed in, deep in the canyons of Colorado. Sean and Howard aren't much better off in town.
Jason's in northern Michigan, God knows why, writing year-end summaries until everything thaws.
Emily has given up and gone skiing in Utah.
Len sits waiting in Wisconsin for the Driftless to be driftless, if you know what I mean.
Ken's stuck watching Illinois snow in the wee hours.
In Arizona, Ben could probably fish, but he's too busy pumping birdshot through his Remington.
Steve's watching bugs do the hoochie in Connecticut and hoping it means that the weather's going to break.
Tom's actually getting some angling done in California, but has to wear silly hats to do it.

I'm in shirtsleeves today, pitching bugs to bass, thinking how nice North Carolina is.

And sending out a little left-handed blog love.

Bad Habits

With only a handful of days left before climbing onto a plane for a sweet western trout trip, I figured I’d better visit my home waters one last time and reinforce some bad habits. You know. Bass habits.

You see, I have lost the two truly large trout that I've inexplicably accidentally miraculously managed to hook this year by lapsing into my river bass fighting habits. The little-to-average fish have been no problem but when the stout trout have hit - and run - I've been too stingy giving up line, too heavy-handed with the rod, too impatient to turn the torpedoes my way – forgetting, of course, that I was dealing with 5X tippet, not 10lb test. The breakoffs were inevitable, but heartbreaking nonetheless.

It Seems Like Forever

It seems like forever since my river has been fishable. Sporadic spring rains have kept it high and dirty for so long that I've wondered if I'd ever get back on it. But as summer approaches - and here in the south it will arrive in a whipstitch - things are finally settling in.

I like fishing when it's been under 4ft for a couple of days. Such a tease!

I walked down the path and fished the dingy, but blessedly wadable, waters - with expectations - for the first time this year. Wet waded, to boot. I was not disappointed. It's good to be home again.

It seems like forever.

LMBs Coming Back Into the Picture

Goodbye #20s. Hello 2/0s.

Goodbye 6X. Hello 10lb test.

Goodbye delicate presentations. Hello splashdowns.

Goodbye lifting the rod tip to set the hook. Hello lifting the rod tip, with attitude, to set the hook.
Rip it.

Goodbye 4wt. Hello 8.

Goodbye sips. Hello flushes.

Goodbye nettin’ ‘em. Hello lippin’ ‘em.

Goodbye four-hour drives to the mountains.  Hello five-minute walks to the pond.

Ten to the river.

Closure

Of course I didn’t catch anything. That wasn’t the point.

The point was to take advantage of a miraculous late November mid-seventies day for one last hike to the Haw, one last wade in my home waters, one last shot at them river largemouths, before officially closing the book on my warm-water season.

I had this crazy notion that Indian summer temperatures and an approaching storm front that had barometric pressures dropping like autumn leaves would goad the bass into one last pre-winter feed. It wasn’t to be. Too many cold nights have put them down for good. I just needed to know.

I caught no fish, and that's okay. I got what I really went after.

Closure.

Virginius Interruptus

Pardon a brief interruption to the riveting Breakaway narrative, but, as much fun as it is to travel to new and exciting fisheries, there’s nothing like a good bucketmouth, or two, from your own back yard.

The current return of blistering heat and the accompanying high-pressure cell made any significant fishing success unlikely, but reasonable water levels, cooler evenings, and an early start gave me a glimmer of a chance. I’d have to find them early, though.

Poppers, Points, and Lily Pads

The cool, rainy summer Sunday morning was heaven sent, perfect for rolling over, pulling the sheets tighter to the chin, and listening to the soft sound of showers filtering through the tree cover. So, what was I doing waiting for the sun to come up, wading waist deep, seventy-five yards out on a reservoir point, huddled in my rain shell against a chilly downpour?

Fishin’ with the boys, of course.

Just a Fish

No long essay. No deep thoughts. No obtuse metaphysical gobbledygook. Today, it's just a nice bass that I caught last week in one of my usual places.

Sometimes it can be just about the fish.

A Leisurely Morning Float

Last evening, as Mary and I lazily floated on the neighborhood pond, watching the sun go down while comfortably suspended in twenty feet of water astride our colorful plastic foam noodles, I contemplated where I should fish the following morning. My go-to Haw was running high and muddy after heavy spring rains in the upper watershed, again, and I suspected other local waterways to be similarly challenged. I could try to squeeze in a quick trout trip, maybe the Smith, maybe Stone Mountain, but the thought of a day of driving just didn’t have much appeal. What to do?

So I floated, and I thought, floated and thought, floated and thought... until Mary finally stated the obvious. Fish here.

Try Something New Day

One of the nice things about fishing a particular waterway regularly is that, on any given day, there’s typically no real pressure to catch anything. And without that pressure, every now and then you can take a “day off” and try something new – a new fly, a new technique, a new section of water. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t matter because you’ll be back soon. But if it does work, well, you’ve just expanded your fishing options.

This morning, I mixed it up by:

River Largemouths

This is not your daddy’s bass fishin’.

And it wasn’t mine either, until not all that long ago. Since my childhood, largemouth bass fishing meant farm ponds and spinning rods terminated with purple worms, Original Rapalas, and jitterbugs. Good bass were fat, chunky pigs, lazier as they got bigger, not unlike we fishermen, and a good bassin' day was spent casting from the bank, preferably with a cooler beside you, and filling a stringer.

Today’s incarnation of accepted bassing is fast boats, rods that would yank a tuna from the Mariana Trench, jerk/crank/swim/buzz baits designed by computer, and hard-charging, aggressive fishing. Tournament style. I never got that far, though I probably would have liked to.

But that was before. Before fly-fishing and before river bass.

Three Rivers

The more time I spend on the water, the more I realize that rivers, like people, have personalities and a fisherman sympathetic to his environment establishes relationships with waterways in much the same way as he does with the folks around him. This past week, I had the great pleasure of spending time on three rivers - the Roanoke, the Haw, and the Smith - a renewed acquaintance, an old friend, and a new companion.

An Unremarkable Day

It was an unremarkable day.

Mary was up with the sun this past Friday and was on the road before Wilderness Dog Sammy and I could rub the sleep from our eyes. She was headed to the North Carolina Zoo in Asheboro to attend a “Native Landscaping and Water Management” workshop. You see, woodlands management is the equivalent of lawn care around our home and she wanted to get some new ideas on how to make this slice of forestland even cozier.

So I was left footloose for the day and that, of course, means fishing. Afternoon soccer commitments and a late poker game conspired to keep me close to home, so there was no room for a westerly trout trip. Instead, I decided to resume what I had started Wednesday, the exploration of my new Haw River.