My First Trout on a Fly  

WIt’s funny how memory works. We tend to assume that our memory records everything with perfect accuracy, like a tape recorder or video camera, for us to play back whenever we want or need to. But of course that’s not true. No two people will recall a shared experience in exactly the same way. Memory is clearly a subjective thing, more fluid and mutable than we would like to believe. That fact, however, is a blessing as often as it’s a curse.

Having arrived at a point in my life where I most likely have more fly fishing days behind me than ahead, I find myself indulging more and more in pleasant reveries of earlier times. This is especially true during the winter, when conditions do not favor getting out fishing. As I write this in mid-February, I feel very fortunate to have a bountiful trove of delightful memories, inaccurate as they may be, to call upon for my amusement. 

It’s quite curious what I remember and what I don’t. I don’t remember the first fish I ever caught, but I do remember the first one that got away. I remember the first smallmouth bass I caught, but I don’t recall if it was also my first bass ever or if a largemouth or two preceded it. I don’t remember the first trout I caught, but I do remember my first wild trout. And I do remember quite clearly, or so it seems to me, the first trout I ever caught on a fly. 

I was born and raised in Point Pleasant, New Jersey. Although a river doesn’t exactly run through Point Pleasant, it is bordered by the Beaver Dam Creek and the Manasquan River. I spent my youth fishing and crabbing and swimming in the Manasquan. In fact, I was born along its very banks in the former Point Pleasant Hospital. A short river by most standards, you can easily drive from its headwaters in Monmouth County to the Manasquan Inlet, where it flows straight into the Atlantic Ocean, in well under one hour. Its upper reaches are stocked with trout by the state, right down to the tidal boundary. It’s not surprising that some of these trout drop down into the estuary to feast on grass shrimp, killifish, juvenile blue crabs, and the myriad of other forage available there. Or that these well-fed fish, many having put on substantial size and weight, eventually swim back upstream again.

The Manasquan bears very little resemblance to a classic trout stream. The banks are steep and composed of highly erodible, loamy clay. For that reason, the water is never really clear. It’s rare to be able to see to the bottom in more than a foot of water. This lack of visibility, combined with high banks, make wade fishing dangerous and difficult if not quite impossible. I don’t recall ever seeing anyone attempt it. The Manasquan is obviously not fly fishing friendly, and not much of a trout stream. Still, it’s what I had to work with. And having pulled numerous trout from its waters on spinning tackle and bait I now wanted badly to catch one on a fly.

I was not yet keeping an angling log, but I would guess it must have been 1969. We had endured a long dry period that summer. The water was low and as clear as I’d ever seen it. Large tracts of forested land in New Jersey were being totally defoliated by a heavy infestation of Gypsy Moths. The emergence of the adult moths coincided perfectly with the unusually low, clear water in the Manasquan. The stage was set for some very interesting fishing.

Joe Spader, one of my fly fishing mentors, had alerted me to what was happening and suggested that I try fishing the Brice Park area. When I arrived that late afternoon Joe was already there, and had just landed a beautiful hook-jawed male brown trout of nearly 20 inches on a big deer hair salmon fly that was a good match for the moths in size and color. This was before catch and release philosophy had really caught on, and Joe had killed the fish and hung it from a low tree branch. He later told me that when he cleaned and cooked that trout its flesh was as orange as a salmon’s and just as delicious. The fish had clearly been down into the estuary, if not actually to sea.

I didn’t catch any fish that day, but I was highly motivated to return the very next day. I walked to the area where Joe had caught his big trout, and wandered downstream to try to find a fish for myself. Moths were falling into the water in numbers, fluttering on the surface. It wasn’t long before I saw a moth disappear into an impressive rise where the current ran tight against a stump along the far bank. There was no room for a back cast. Although the stream banks were closely lined with trees and shrubs I was able to find an opening opposite the fish’s lie that would allow a roll cast. Today I could make that cast easily. Then, however, my skill level and my equipment conspired to make it a formidable challenge. 

I didn’t have a lot of flies to choose from, but I found one dry fly with brown hackle that was as close as I could come to a match for the moths. I knotted it to my leader, and began roll casting toward my target. Attempt after attempt fell short, but at least I had not put the fish down. She continued to rise, taking several more moths. Finally in desperation I threw the most prodigious roll cast I could, all force and no control. The fly overshot the mark and landed far back into the eddy above the stump. “Oh no!” I groaned. Quickly the slack played out of the leader and the fly began to drag. 

There was nothing I could do but watch it dribble along the edge of the stump, sure that the fish would be put down by such a horrible performance. Then it happened. A flash of silver, and the fly disappeared! My heart raced as the fish put a deep bend in my rod. In my excitement and inexperience I’m sure I made plenty of mistakes, yet somehow the trout stayed on the hook. I had no landing net, and could not have reached the water with one anyway. There was no recourse, I had to lift the fish up and swing her onto the bank. Had my trout been as big as Joe’s, I would surely have lost her. But in a brief anxious moment the fat, 13-inch rainbow henfish lay flopping on the ground at my feet. A quick pounce and she was mine, to my utter delight. 

How factually accurate is this account? Who can say? Yet the vivid images remain with me to this day: Joe’s big brown hanging from the branch, the golden gravel of the stream bed, the fluttering brown moths, my fly skirting the edge of the stump and disappearing into that rise. These memories and many others like them are my treasures, the bright and enduring legacy of the years I’ve spent fishing.

--Mary S. Kuss— 
Spring 2008 Issue