The smallmouth measured 17 inches and he had the photo to prove it. The glasses on Capt. Dave’s nose came dangerously close to falling off as he slid his fingers across the touch screen and produced the picture. A bit blurry, a bit off center, but no less impressive. This is one of the larger smallmouths I’ve ever seen or heard of being caught in the Fox River system.
I’m on my mid-semester fall break and I have the privilege of the spending these next few days with the Captain. I arrive mid-morning and am quickly told of the fish tales from the past week. Dave assures me The Smallmouth’s still down there, flushing minnows to the surface and maurading his rocky shoreline.
We eat a lunch as we overlook the river before heading to the dam down the road in search of bait. We both bring our fly rods. I consider mentioning to Dave that using a fly fishing set-up to cast a bobber and nightcrawler defeats the purpose entirely, but decide against it. Somewhere in England, Izaak Walton is no doubt rolling in his grave, but if it makes Dave happy then it’s all in good taste.
Dave dabbles in amongst the rocks and quickly fills the 5 gallon pail with 2 small bluegill and a rock bass. I’m casting a beaded streamer along the rock edges and land a small largemouth just before leaving.
While Dave takes an afternoon nap, I unbox my fly tying setup and whip up a few Clouser minnows; my mind still fixated on The Smallmouth.
After dinner, we roll down the hill in Dave’s golf cart just as the sun begins to fall behind the tree line ahead. I make a thorough series of casts in and amongst the rocks, but to no avail. Not even a school of minnows exploding the surface to offer a glimmer of hope. The sun sets and I join Dave on his pontoon-house boat/dock/man cave. We set the poles with the bait caught earlier in the day, pop in a VHS of A River Runs Through It on an old square TV set situated atop a mini fridge (stocked with Hamms), and pour brandy and Sprite into coffee mugs.
About halfway through the film, commontion breaks out. The rod containing a live bluegill is quickly bent double. I jump from my stoop as Dave fumbles with the remote. I set into the fish and quickly drag peels off of the reel; big one. Dave joins me at the edge of pontoon, producing an overhead spotlight and the age old wisdom, “Well, reel it in!”
The fight lasted for about a half minute more; a classic tug-of-war. Just as it seemed I was making headway, the fish suddenly jumped into midair, shaking its head as it spit the hook. All we could see was its silhouette and the splash against the starry backdrop.
A bit dejected, we returned to the film and poured more brandy into our mugs. A skunked evening fishwise, but it soon became apparent that the evening was never really about the fish in the first place. It was about two longtime friends, enjoying life, united by the riverside.
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.”
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The Path Less Fly Fished 