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There is a pond near my house… actually there are three of them. Each is less than five acres, and they are your standard suburban mud holes. They are on the county fairgrounds property, and are spring fed. They have the “leave the styrofoam and hook packages” beer and lawn chair crowds on weekends, as the largest of the three is stocked with trout in the beginning of the season. They’re the last place you expect to see a fly fisher…and they’re beautiful at sunrise. There is often a light mist rising from the surface, and nearly every day in the summer there is a huge hatch of tiny little baetis.As it was this morning. The sky was overcast, and there was an uncharacteristic summer chill in the air. There was indeed a light mist on the pond, and the usual hatch was happening, although a little less than normal due to the lower temperature. The dancing mayflies were busy courting. The smaller fish near the shore watch the flies, and if one gets within a couple inches of the water, the little fish launch themselves clear of the water for a quick breakfast – it looks like someone is under the water flipping quarters through the surface
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So as I do a time or two each week, I was at the ponds this morning. They’re very close to home, and not out of the way on the way to work. I usually fish a foam ant for my bluegill friends, and this morning was no exception. I went to my usual spots where I know the fish hang out due to some nice structure, and pulled out half a dozen of my friends, all about six inches long. With a breeze monkeying with my fly on the surface and a turtle watching from the opposite bank, I wandered to the other side and coaxed a few more friends from familiar places with a copper beadhead peabody. It was a good morning, and my batteries were charged for another day of driving a desk.
As I walked the perimeter back to the car, I stopped at a place where I had met a man this spring.
I had gone to the pond during lunch for some recharging after a particularly bad morning at work. It was very odd to see another fly fisher there, especially one that looked like he’s been fly fishing for much longer than I’ve been breathing… The gentleman had stood there with a fly rod, surrounded by the noise and motion of the power baiters, splashing roostertails and splunking bobbers, casting gently from a four foot bank to a deep spot where I knew there was a deeply submerged tree. He’d cast, and then wait. And wait. And wait. Then he would begin the slowest hand coil retrieve I had ever seen. His line would go taut, and he’d gently raise the rod and strip in a crappie. He’d release it, and bring out a silver clicker from his pocket, click it, and repocket it…
Every cast.
Seriously.
Nobody else was catching anything, including myself, and I KNOW these ponds. After about fifteen minutes of casting myself, he wandered over to me, reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a small Wheately-type box that looked as it had a lifetime of stories to tell. When he opened it, there were only two flies in it. Each side was covered in one single pattern, probably twenty of each. He pulled one out, gave it to me, and merely said, “Try this. Cast it, count to twenty, and retrieve it so slow it hurts.”
He then said, “do it from my spot over there. I’ve caught twenty six so far right there.”
There are times when you know you’re being given a gift, and you shouldn’t say much. This was one of them. I did try it, and a couple of casts later had a nice crappie to hand. When I hooked it, the man literally gave a shout. I felt like I was fishing with the guy that every fly fisherman believes or wishes his Father to be… I felt like I was eight instead of in my late thirties.
That day I unknowingly met a local legend, a Rogue River guide who knew this area and our river better than anyone. There are flies named after him, and he won’t call them by name out of modesty. Otis is truly the consummate fisherman, and we’ve met several times since on the water and off. When we meet with some other fly fishers for an occasional lunch, he always brings flies to share, or unique materials, and stories. I am truly blessed to know this man, and forever grateful of his generosity.
This morning I stood on that spot on my way back to the car and grinned, and knew good and well the crappie hadn’t been biting for a month or more due to the heat. They’d moved out in to another part of the pond. Regardless, I cast out next to the tree, counted to twenty, and slowly coiled line in to my hand. It was good. The last cast of the morning after catching a dozen or so fish in an hour. Time for work. I neared the end of my retrieve, dropped the coils of line, and started reeling up. As the last bit of line came off of the bank and up to the reel, I noticed a familiar tautness in the line, and figured I had snagged the tree…
A minute later I had in my hand a crappie that was a big as any I’d caught in that pond, and a grin on my face.
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Thanks Otis.
It will be a good day at work today.
