I started my last post by suggesting that this was not a fishing blog site.
And, by all means, I certainly do not consider this a fly fishing blog site.
Let’s see; why not?
Well, I don’t own anything with an Orvis label.
(Or alternately, I have no fly-fishing gear purchased from eBay.)
And I don’t own a pair of hip waders.
In addition, I can’t tell a Chandler bobolink catkins white-winged gaggle nymphet from a fruit fly.
Oh yeah…and I don’t fly fish.
Well, I do own one of Cabela’s fully equipped fly-fishing combos ($39.99 Cabelas.com), which I think I have used three times in probably 15 years.
After my recent Creek Walk I was lucky enough to get invited to re-walk a portion of the recent trek, this time under the tutelage of the Grand Zen Master of fly-fishing for the Northern Hemisphere, herein referred to as “Mr. Master.”
The first thing Mr. Master instructed me was to go get a fishing license. Now, it’s been a while since I bought a fishing license so when the clerk at Big 5 asked me if I needed any “stamps”, I answered,
“No, I wasn’t planning on mailing any letters. I just want to go fishing.
And when she asked me if I needed a “punch card”, I assumed this was like my frequent buyers card from Noah’s Bagels. So I declined her offer and wondered if maybe I should have read the regs.
The next morning, Mr. Master came by at 6:30 a.m. and told me to “load up.”
With a command like that, I wasn’t sure if he meant in the cab of the pickup or the bed of the truck.
After a 30 minute drive, we parked and started the death march up the creek. (Since we were sans my mentor’s four-legged sidekick–Little Meathead–we were truly up the creek without a poodle.)
The morning was picture perfect with the early morning sun glistening off the gently flowing creek. The banks were lined with lush green vegetation and the numerous bird species each sang their own songs which combined into a choir’s chorus befitting a Sunday morning.
It wasn’t long and we started seeing some very large fish cruising near the surface of the creek.
And after a few did their best Marine World imitation by jumping completely out of the water, Mr. Master informed me that they were fish.
Well, he did give a little more detail in that they were carp, likely in the eight to 10 pound range. Lots of them.
Mr. Master demonstrated proper casting technique, deftly avoiding hooking a lurking lunker which would have required diverting our attention from our intended reconnaissance mission of the area downstream of the dam.
I was impressed.
Eventually we hiked up to pools along the creek just below the dam where there were so many large carp, you might have been able to walk across their backs without getting your feet wet. These, Mr. Master said could be up to 20 pounds.
Mercury is a heavy metal, right?!?
Once again, Mr. Master delivered excellent fly fishing grace in his style, as you would have expected from the Grand Zen Master of fly fishing for the Northern Hemisphere.
And once again, as only someone at the top of their game could pull off, there were no fish harmed (or hooked) in the writing of this blog. Why ruin a perfectly good hike with having to touch stinky fish.
We never saw another sole in the river channel.
But for the first time I noticed how much a duck’s quack sounds like someone laughing.
Laughing at us.
Damn carp by the damn dam.