The Accidental Angler I fished with a friend the other afternoon on the Bushkill in Easton at the 13th Street Bridge; just a spot below the bridge. Jim is a type “A” guy who can't quite help counting and measuring the fish he catches and doing just a little comparison with what his friends manage. Not that it matters to him. Not much, anyway; it's just that he's an engineer with their usual inclination to quantify things. We started on the lower section of the Bushkill. As usual, Jim fished one direction and I fished the other. He whoops and hollers and celebrates every hit and every miss and particularly every fish he catches, and since he generally catches more and bigger fish than I do this tendency on his part makes me feel inadequate, which I suppose is appropriate. But I do try to hasten out of earshot as soon as I get in the stream. I was using a nymph below an Adams dry fly; working downstream and then back up. I stopped in the only really promising part, a nice run along a downed tree. I cast and cast and cast and got nothing, not even a hit. I persisted hard and long, since there was a plague of ducks below me and no fishy looking spot above me unless I moved within hearing range of Jim. Nothing. Sigh. I gave up—carelessly hauled in the line, and a 14" rainbow hopped onto the Adams along the way. Nice fish! At 13th Street, I was working a spot where a big fork from a tree had fallen in with the fork opening downstream, leaving slack water inside the fork which was the perfect location for a good fish. It was about 30' away. I cast and cast with no results, either side of the fork, in between the limbs, farther and farther up into the fork, closer and closer to the limbs, finally caught my dry fly on the wood a little above the waterline. Curses. I gathered up my wading staff and made my way over slowly and carefully as the Bushkill being slippery there, and I tugged on the line every now and then hoping I could free the Adams without having to wade the entire 30'. Finally, it pulled free—and the nymph, which had been dangling in the water all this time, had a 16" rainbow solidly hooked on it. Nearly 5 p.m. and I was tired and casting terribly, creating some of the most amazing mare's nests in my leader. No sign of fish in an hour. I decided to give up and head back to the car. I flipped my line out to the middle of the creek and started wading downstream alongside my line which was drifting slowly. I slipped on the algae-covered rocks and nearly fell, floundered and flailed and splashed around trying not to fall in that nasty smelly water and trying not to drop my rod, and while I was gyrating madly to regain my balance an 18" rainbow nailed my Adams and pulled me down. Those were all my fish that afternoon. I didn't deserve any of them. I can't even say that I caught them; they caught themselves. But I didn't tell Jim any of that, especially after I found out that he'd caught only one little 8" fish; instead I made a point of describing and maybe even enlarging mine a bit. He was very impressed and thought I did great for a slow day. And I wasn't about to tell him otherwise. --Anonymous-- |