Tiny Tales

Post 5

I see the guy coming down the bike path long before it registers with him that I’m not interested in chatting. Body language is often good like that. Instead of sticking around, I jump down the seven foot wall and into the river, and he gets the point.

Normally I don’t do this, but I’m tied into a freshwater drum. It’s a good one, too. The 10wt is bowed over in a beautiful arc, and while I thought at first that a rod of this size might be overkill (and it is on the smaller fish), it’s proven to be a major asset with these larger fish.

Behind me is city hall, and between there and here is a large parking lot where homeless folks like to take a piss against the pillars. Across the river from me is the nice restaurant with a great menu where, just last year, my fiancé and I watched as paramedics tried to revive a fella who had clearly overdosed on something.

The patio of that restaurant leans out over the river a bit, and I always make a point of getting a table where I can look down into the water and keep an eye out for fish. Those date nights are quite often also recon missions, but I do my best to be subtle about it.

The fish is getting fairly gassed now, flopping on its side near the surface, the heavy rod having exhausted it enough, but not so much that the fish might now live.

It flops on its side and stays like that, mouth open, a Barr’s Meat Whistle hanging out of it. That fly has accounted for so many bass, carp and drum over the years, but this is the first time that I’ve specifically sight fished for the latter, and so far it’s worked out. The design of the fly has got a lot going for it, too. Subtle flash along the flank, the inherent jigging motion, and the endless means of modification to suite just about any warm water needs has, if nothing else, made it a staple in my fly box.

Nobody else is out here because no one really gives a shit about targeting freshwater drum, and that’s perfectly fine with me. Upriver, closer to the bridge, are a couple of guys clinging to hopes of a post spawn walleye or two, and those hopes are valid - it’s been cooler than usual which resulted in the walleye spawning a little later than usual - but there guys remain relatively stationary, casting plugs into the same place.

Now the fish is in hand, the fly removed, and the reviving process begins. It’s not long before the drum, which might weigh just shy of ten pounds (respectable, but they get much larger), kicks its tail and returns to the dark water, leaving me with nothing left to do except to find somewhere to climb back up and take another swing at the next fish that comes along.

I really do enjoy this kind of fly fishing. It feels like you’ve stumbled onto a secret hiding in plain sight while everyone walks on by, completely oblivious. No doubt that I stand out around here - my howler brothers wading pants are more than likely a dead giveaway - and all of the city hall suites that walk the path to their cars stop and stare a little. The hell do you do, though? Other than watch your back cast…

Last time I was down here, I spotted a massive drum feeding about twenty yard out into the river, so I loaded the rod with a double haul, and on the last back cast, my fly, which is heavily weighted, careened off the side of a U-Haul truck. It sounded like a bullet hit the thing, and rather then stick around and find out what damage it did, I got the hell out of there.

Yeah, it’s a weird place down here, but who really needs normal these days anyway?