The Carp and the Mulberry

Carp continue to gain high regard in the fly-fishing community with no signs of slowing. A well deserved reputation for an exciting pursuit. These cunning fish can be found in numbers in even the most urban of ponds and drainage ditches. They are subtle eaters and live in slow water environments, requiring a gentle and accurate fly presentation. And while the most common fly-fishing encounter with carp will test the angler’s prowess, there is always an exception.

Mulberry season. Even before I knew what a mulberry was, I realized these berries were special. Walking along the C&O Canal (sadly without a fly rod), I witnessed a frenzy of carp, ducks, and other birds gobbling up these berries and jostling for position below the overhanging mulberry tree. I figured, “if animals of the water and animals of the air are eating these berries, surely animals of the land can also eat them.” So I ate a few, and wouldn’t you know it, I didn’t get sick.  

That afternoon, I got on the computer and learned all about mulberries. I read about their cultural significance, growing season, culinary relevance, distribution, and most importantly fishing implications.

Later that evening I tied a few flies resembling different stages of the berries, ranging from white in coloration to a deep blackish purple.

The following day, hoping to put my newly acquired knowledge on all things mulberry and my freshly tied flies to use, I arrived at the canal to the same spectacle I had witnessed the day before.

I cast my berry fly at the largest carp I could see, careful not to cast near a duck incase it also wanted my offering. The ‘plop’ noise as the fly landed caused every carp in the vicinity to turn and race towards the fly. Luckily, the largest carp was nearest and took the fly. After a short fight, the fish was netted with the help of a German tourist (he held the rod, so I could stretch out with the net). He did well for a guy who informed me with a thick German accent, “...but I have never fished before.”

My German friend went on his way and I repeated the steps, landing one more fish until the pool was spooked.

When the berries drop, it is open season. Who in their right mind fears a berry? Certainly not carp as was clearly evident by their lack of hesitation. The opportunist fisherman I am, I exploited this trust.

I have since been on multiple carp outings and have realized that these fish are not always so willing to entertain the fly-fisherman. More often, they are worthy adversaries to the fly, not eager to eat. They can be as wary as they come and the carp is a fantastic challenge for the fly-fisherman (outside of mulberry season).

City Carp

Eleven floors above K Street in a nondescript office building in downtown Washington DC, the minute hand crawls slowly vertical. That sacred hour arrives, lunchtime. A time to stretch the legs, wolf down a sandwich, and catch some fish. Yes, time to catch some fish. The countdown begins. Three minutes elapse when I reach my bike. No time to change clothes, the slacks and loafers must remain. One mile and a few close calls later, I evade traffic and reach Georgetown. The historic C&O Canal holds my quarry: the common carp. Forty minutes until I must be back in the office. The reel and rod are rigged, the fly tied to my line, the fish right in front of me. The first cast is good and the fish inhales the fly. I almost feel bad about deceiving such a willing creature, using my lunchtime to interrupt it’s own lunchtime. I almost feel bad, but the feeling passes as quickly as it arrives. There are more pressing matters to attend to, like the fish on the end of my line and the receding lunch hour. The fish eventually tires, but not before a new problem arises. The water level in the canal is low and from the ledge I am standing on, my net cannot reach the fish. My line is too weak to lift the 12lb carp clear out of the water and my options are running out. At a stalemate, I desperately look around trying to conceive a plan that doesn’t involve me and my dress pants waist deep in urban runoff. As I mentally debate cutting my line, losing fish along with fly, the solution jogs right up to me. My request catches her off guard, but the jogger graciously accepts and I hand over my fishing rod. Strangers no more than 30 seconds ago, we are now fishing partners. She is at the helm and I am laying face down on the dirt path, my torso hovering above the water with net in hand. “Keep the rod tip up and slowly walk backwards,” I instruct while trying to avoid sliding headfirst into the murky brown water. She executes flawlessly and the fish is in the net, high fives ensue. A quick photo together and the fish is thrown back. There is no need to explain to her why she found me spending my lunch break fishing for slimy fish in slimier water. The smile on her face is rivaled only by the smile on my own. She understands; we both do. Twelve minutes before 2:00pm and I must say goodbye. I arrive back at the office with just enough time to brush the dirt off my pants, and wash the fish off my hands. Back at my desk, I reflect on the events transpired. The hour is gone, but the memory remains.