Panfish Dreams   

Mid-January. A slow day at work. No windows, posters or photographs relieve the high-tech gloss of the factory. There are not too many places I wouldn't rather be than here. I stare fixedly at my computer screen with a practiced expression of diligent concentration. My mind wanders from automatically calculating the number of days till retirement, and I find myself eighteen years and a hundred and twenty miles away.

My Woolworth hip boots bag around worn bellbottom jeans, the waters of the Lake of the Lilies lapping softly an inch from their tops. The only sounds are the cries of seagulls, the swish of fly line, and the asthmatic rasp of my battered Berkley reel. A variety of ducks splash and glide in the middle of the lake; A vee of wild swans glide silently overhead, coming in for a landing. Fireflies begin their evening light show. I drop my Bitch Creek nymph in an opening between lily pads. Their serene bobbing is suddenly disturbed as something brushes past their stems, and I strike. My home-built fiberglass rod bends and twitches as I lean back, trying to muscle this fish out of those lily pads. It's an even contest. Finally I begin to gain line as the fish tires, and he swirls at the surface. Another run when he spots me, then a few exhausted flurries as I bring him to hand: Eleven inches of almost-black bluegill, a slightly better-than-average fish for this remarkable lake. I admire the lavender highlights from his scales as I work the hook loose to release him. Once again I start casting, confident there are more waiting for me.

Hot sunlight glares from the reservoir's still surface. I stand just within the shade line in two feet of water, sand seeping into my holey sneakers, my cutoffs coolly wet from wading too deep. A bottle of cheap Italian wine bumps against my leg on the end of my otherwise-empty stringer, staying chilled, and I'm pleasantly relaxed from a morning spent fishing and sipping. These mid-day sunfish are wary and uncharacteristically selective. I've had to resort to a #16 Olive Scud on a 7X tippet to tempt even the smallest ones. A long cast away I see the cratered bottom of a spawning area; Too far away to make out the ghostly shapes of the redds' occupants. I false cast, then drop the scud delicately between the weed line and the closest nest. My only warning of the take to the sinking scud is a golden flash, and I set the hook. Shortly I land a handful of color: A male punkinseed, indignant at being caught, flaring his fins at me belligerently even as I free him. I celebrate the catch with a few swallows of wine: The fruity, slightly astringent taste somehow enhanced by the fishy aroma of the hand tilting the bottle to the sky.

But these images are far in the past. My old tackle is long since retired, and even these cherished fishing spots no longer exist; At least, not as they were. I contemplate more recent memories: An older angler, stout and creaky, but with the same loves, the same enthusiasms.

From the bow of the canoe I spot a heron dipping its bill in the shallows. Its plumage seems grey under lowering clouds. Aft, Mary steers skillfully around gravel bars. She knows the Brandywine better than I, but we both know the honey hole above the dam is not far ahead. Still, there is good fishing all along this stretch, and she drops anchor for a while so we can work our poppers along a deadfall. Scrappy rock bass snatch them, cast after cast. A few raindrops start to fall, and we lift anchor and head for that hotspot. We reach the long, slow pool and I sniff with disdain as Mary rigs up her spinning rod for bass. No 'coffee-grinder' for me; There are big sunnies in this stretch, and if a popper won't tempt them, a Wooly Bugger should. The rain shows no sign of letting up. In fact, it comes down harder, and Mary struggles into her Gore-Tex rain suit. Where's your rain gear? She asks. I reply, You're lookin' at it, and keep on casting. I can't imagine how the fish can see my popper with the rain pelting the surface to foam, but they do. The red popper barely hits the water before bluegills and punkinseeds seven inches and up savage it. A fish per cast, and every one a fighting slab of muscle. You're getting soaked, Mary says. No shit, I think but don't dare say, It's a fair trade for fishing like this! Rain is coming down like someone had turned on a huge shower. I'm wet through to my panties and shivering, but that just adds a provocative quiver to my popper. You're going to catch pneumonia, Mary insists, And it's a good hour to the take-out point even if we paddle the whole way. It's Mary's canoe; Even if I'm too fish-happy to be sensible, I can follow the captain's orders. I reel in and pick up my paddle, not without a backwards gaze of regret.

I lived five miles from the Perkiomen for twelve years, and never knew this tiny park existed. Now three of us wade into this long, wide pool, splitting up as if by prearrangement. I'm cool and comfortable in my breathable waders, tackle bag clinched to my waist. My CFO reel purrs as I strip line, and the 5-weight graphite rod is a magic wand in my hand. Two things remain unchanged: The Bitch Creek nymph on my tippet, and my quarry. Big burly bluegills, with shoulders like piscine longshoremen, their fins edged with neon red, lurk in these dark waters; Stronger than their stillwater counterparts because of the effort of working against a current.

For variety, there are also smallmouth bass just the right size for light fly-rod sport. It's one of those rare nights when I can do nothing wrong. They are few enough when I'm fly-fishing, I admit, but tonight I hook no trees, and roll-cast the fly free easily the two times I hook an underwater snag. Best of all, that strange telepathic connection between me and the sunnies is operating perfectly. How do I know when one takes my nymph? I have no idea. Their light, quick hits are almost imperceptible when watching the tippet, let alone feeling the strike, and in the murky Perky I certainly don't see them, either before or during the take. Either there's some subliminal cue of which I'm unaware, or my reaction to their hits is totally psychic. Even my casting cooperates. I take fish on the swing, on the dead-drift, even casting upstream. I zing out casts twice my usual length and hook fish at that distance. Every fish but one is solidly hooked, a smallmouth that throws the hook with a last-minute wriggle as I reach to land him. I revel in the sensation of everything going right, doing what I most enjoy and doing it well, until there is barely enough light left to wade out safely.

A co-worker pauses at my desk to wish me a safe trip home. There's four inches of snow on the ground already, she says, And they're calling for ten before it's over. I return reluctantly from my panfish dreams to the reality of a winter day at work.

--Rabbit Jensen--
Winter 2001 Issue