Cold Days and Smallmouth Bass

A parade moves through the small town that sits on a hill overlooking the Potomac River. It is Veterans Day and the celebration rouses the sleepy streets. American flags adorn shop windows and families gather to watch the procession. I wait in my car watching the parade until a police officer motions that it is my turn to cross the intersection.

Just below the town is the boat launch where I meet my friends, Charlie and his wife Lauren. They have already loaded the raft in the water and readying for the float. It is an entirely different scene at the boat ramp; quiet and empty.

The river is remarkably clear considering the rain we had earlier in the week. The day is flawless. The striking blue sky and intense autumn sun penetrate the water, illuminating every rock and ledge on the river bottom and soon fish begin to appear. At first we only see the occasional catfish and sucker darting away from the shadow of the raft. As the flat bottom gives way to rock ledges, smallmouth bass appear. Even with maximum visibility, the fish are brilliantly camouflaged and more often than not spook before they are spotted.

Charlie and I take turns rowing and fishing while Lauren sits quietly reading The Fellowship of the Ring in the front of the raft. When it is my turn on the oars, I selfishly position the raft so that the sun falls squarely on my back, warming my body against the crisp November air.

Charlie and I love to catch fish, but we also love to see others catch fish and thus a natural partnership began. We alternate between fish, insisting that the other take up the rod. When the current allows, we both fish and let the raft drift freely. My first bass comes at such a moment while I am watching Charlie fight his first fish of the day. My dead drifting crayfish pattern neglected deep in the current attracts a bass which graciously hooks itself while my attention is diverted. Through no skill on my part, we have doubles in the raft and the day is off to an abrupt start. With renewed focus, more fish soon follow.

Photo: Charlie Church

Close up

Photo: Charlie Church

Summer of Smallmouth

As I was leaving work on Thursday, excitement growing for the Friday holiday preceding our nation's independence day, my roommate sent me a text message. “I think someone’s broken into our house.” Sure enough, our laptops were gone, a gaming console and some cash also missing. Not the start to the weekend I had hoped for, but I had a fishing trip planned, and I wasn’t going to let this burglary sour my weekend. Friday morning, as I pieced together my gear in preparation for the day’s float, I saw the backyard gate ajar and knew instantly that the thieves had come back late during the night and stolen my bike out of the shed.

I must admit that I was disappointed and feeling sorry for myself. I thought about this injustice done to me and about those who would do such a thing. Then I thought about people elsewhere that endured life threatening injustices daily. My bike and laptop are replaceable, and I realized that I wasn’t upset so much about losing these things, but about thinking of the thieves benefiting from their crime. Again, I had to remind myself not to wallow in self pity, but to be thankful for freedom and safety. I filed a police report, then left for the river, grateful that I could simply leave this trouble behind.

Fishing requires focus, and maybe that is partly why we love it. Our thoughts, left alone, can easily turn towards self destruction. Fishing provides an outlet where we can channel thoughts towards a conceivable goal, and there is simply no room for negative thoughts when you are catching fish.

And catch fish we did.

The idle threat of rain seemed to keep most people off the river, although nothing materialized other than an occasional mist. About midday with the rise in temperature, damselflies of all colors began appearing, landing on anything they could. The fish responded to the surge of insect activity with consistent topwater action through the remainder of the day. My friend and proud owner of a fishing raft, Charlie, brought along his brother who had never fished for smallmouth bass before. It comes as no surprise that his brother caught the biggest smallmouth bass I have ever seen in person. When he hooked the fish on his spinning rod, a hush fell over the boat. Charlie and I took on somber tones as we voiced instructions for fighting the fish, maybe because we didn’t want to get too excited lest the fish come off or maybe because we didn’t want to burden his brother with the unnecessary stress of our own frantic thoughts. Whatever the reason behind the tense silence, it was broken once the fish passed that invisible line into the net. Knowing the quality of fish that lay before us, Charlie and my excitement rivaled his brother’s. In that moment, all thoughts of my lost possessions completely left my mind and only joy remained.  

Photos graciously provided by Charlie Church as I am currently without a laptop.

Photo: Charlie Church

Photo: Charlie Church

Harpers Ferry

I cherish the solitude that is only found in the wilderness, but I also love sharing in the wonder with close friends. Nature can be overwhelmingly spectacular and a second set of eyes help confirm the beauty does in fact exist.

A few weeks ago, a childhood friend came to visit DC for a few days. A shared fondness for adventure that has remained much unchanged since our kindergarten days set pace for the weekend. Also unchanged remains the constant struggle of too many activities and too little time. With only a few days together, a creative combination of activities seemed the only solution. Even so, the options are many: kayaking and fly-fishing, backpacking and fly-fishing, [insert here] and fly-fishing. We decided that canoeing and fly-fishing down the Potomac River might be the best use of time. Is there a better way to sight see, visit historic towns, experience a culturally significant river, and catch some fish? If there is, I want to know… I need to know.  

Fly-fishing is a sport that demands patience and focus, and I am easily distracted. My attention shifts from fishing to paddling a canoe, watching birds, or simply observing the shoreline. This would be a problem if I was fishing for sustenance and survival, but I’m not. I’m fishing to be outdoors and relax. I’m fishing to enjoy nature with friends. I have learned to embrace the distractions as reminders of the joy of being outside. The freedom to take a couple minutes or an hour to be still and observe leaves of a tree is an incredible freedom to have. Such was the mentality on our canoe trip. We set out to have fun and fish along the way and we accomplished both.

Warm weather and good flows and seemingly perfect smallmouth bass conditions was not reflected in the number of fish we caught. A wet spring and early summer shouldered much of the blame. Distractions to the angler could have been another reason. The handful of fish we managed to find came from slowly bouncing a crayfish pattern off the bottom. It seems the lethargic feel of the stagnant humid air had penetrated the water and only the slowest fly movements got a response.   

The beauty of setting out with the objective of fun is that it is not dependent on fishing. While fishing certainly maximizes the fun, if the fish are not biting, it is important to reflect back on the number one goal: fun.

Photos Credits: Donnie Hedden and his Polaroid camera

My friend, Steve, fighting a catfish.

Born Again

Catching fish is the obvious goal, but what happens along the way is where the memory is made. I have seen some interesting and unique things on rivers. And this past summer the Shenandoah River added something new to the list.

Gearing up for a smallmouth bass float trip with a few friends out of Front Royal, I carried my kayak down to the launch ramp where a large number of people stood gathered. It is not entirely uncommon to see hoards of people spending a nice Sunday in the park (which runs along the river) so this spectacle didn't strike me as odd. That is, until I saw the white robes and heard the singing.

Scanning through the mass of people, I found the reason behind the gathering. Baptism. Now, I have seen baptisms before, but this was the first time I've stumbled across a river baptism. I was much enjoying my role as observational bystander until an anxious park ranger informed me that, “...technically, they are not supposed to do it in this spot,” followed by what I imagine was an internal battle of whether or not the ranger wanted to shut down a baptism. As far as I know, it carried on without interruption.

Now that the white robed mystery was solved, I began rigging up my rod and kayak while singing and clapping filled the air. The music was lovely and unlike anything I've ever heard. Mostly because the songs were performed in Spanish as the congregation was largely Hispanic.

Things took a turn for the awkward when it came time to launch the kayaks, seeing as the only route to the water was through the middle of the crowd. Not knowing how long the ceremony would last, my friends and I were left with little choice, but to politely and subtly shuffle our way through the crowd. That is when everything stopped. I am not sure if they paused mid song (not being a Spanish speaker) but it sure sounded like mid song to me.

All eyes now on us, the only sound to be heard was the scrape of gravel beneath our kayaks as we dragged them towards the water. It was kind of like eating noisy chips in a silent room full of people.

One exceedingly long and uncomfortable minute later I was in the water. I paddled swiftly around the priest and the man being baptized, giving them a silent head nod as if to say, "sorry about that, carry on." A glance back over my shoulder revealed fifty heads with faces blank of expression swiveling in unison as I paddled down river. I put my head down and paddled faster.

A coupled hundred feet downstream, the clapping and singing resumed and I breathed sigh of relief, pulled off some line, and began fishing.

It truly must have been a blessed day because the fishing was that good. 

Shenandoah River

After bidding a temporary farewell to the pristine brook trout laden streams of Shenandoah National Park, I entered stage two of a fisherman’s weekend. The Shenandoah River meanders patiently through the Shenandoah Valley and is home to many species of fish, smallmouth bass being one of them. Outfitted with a kayak, I approached her banks. The river was flowing well, fed by recent rains and only slightly off-color. Perfect conditions. After a few sloppy casts sending heavy flies whizzing past my head I adjusted to the heavier rod without serious bodily injury. I began by throwing a chartreuse CK baitfish which fooled a fish on the third cast. The fish were active and continued to hammer the baitfish pattern all day. While the fishing was consistently good all day, it was incredible in the late afternoon. Recognizing this bite surge, I docked my kayak opting to wade fish and cover the water more thoroughly. Standing in the middle of the river, I was hooking fish on every other cast 360 degrees around me when I noticed a shadow appear out of the glare. I cast my baitfish a few feet upstream of the shadow before slowly stripping it back. The bright color and large profile of the chartreuse baitifsh was easy to follow with my eyes until it disappeared, engulfed in shadow. I set the hook hoping my eyes had not deceived me. Immediately, the line tightened under tension of a large smallmouth quickly followed by the stomach churning slack as the fish raced directly towards me. Stripping line like a mad man, I recovered the slack and put the fish on the reel. After several line ripping runs and inspired jumps, the fish exhausted itself and I had my personal record of a smallmouth. The afternoon blitz seemed to defy time, but the sun had gone down behind the mountains and darkness approached. I paddled the remaining two miles, content without throwing another cast. Tired and smiling, I loaded up my kayak at last light and returned to the city to begin planning the next adventure.