IMPROVISING ON THE WHITE
By Darrell Pendergrass
A long way up the river I pulled my fly rod from the canoe and set to casting for trout.
It’s a family tradition that we come here for the Wisconsin fishing opener. It’s a long paddle up the White River, but usually the effort is rewarded with some trout, most times German browns. Sometimes it’s brook trout. My in-laws came here well before I joined the family more than 20 years ago, now it’s them and me and the boys who have become a part of our lives.
You would think the older and more mature an angler gets the more prepared he’d become. It’s just the opposite for me. On Friday evening, when I first went into the garage to begin gathering my gear for the morning trip, I pulled out my fly rod and fly reel and gave them a once over. In the dark of the garage and with a squinted I’m-going-blind look I could see there was more than enough monofilament line for this fishing adventure; way more than enough.
In the morning, after working our way up from the landing, the five of us spread out along the shoreline of the river and began fishing. It was overcast and dreary, a cold gray mist of rain hung in the air. Like the others with me I cast my bait toward the far shore. This was going to be great. We’re fishing again, and life is good.
On my initial cast, roughly three quarters of the way across the river my worm froze in mid-air, and dropped to the water like it had been shot from the sky. That’s peculiar, I thought, my line must have snagged up on my rod. Wonder why it did that? Oh well.
I pulled in my line and cast out once again. About the same distance across the river the worm again froze in mid-toss, and quickly plummeted to the surface of the river. That’s weird. I turned my reel over to get a look at the spool.
Upon inspection I’d say I had about 25 to 30 feet of line on my reel; which is not nearly enough line. It’s not even close. In essence I was fishing with a shoelace. Those who fish the snags and alders of the White River will tell you that a prepared angler goes fishing here with nothing less than a mile’s worth of line. You’re going to lose some line, it’s a given. I didn’t even have enough line to get to the other side of the river.
Oh well, I thought, looking around to make sure my family wasn’t noticing my problem; there’s no going back now. We’ve come too far to think about returning; I don’t want to announce to everyone my mistake by asking for line. I’ll just have to make do with what I have and I’m sure everything will work out in the end. I continued fishing.
So, I adjusted. Truthfully, everything was going good. There were no problems. I wasn’t worried. For the first five minutes. That’s when my line broke back at the reel and began snaking out into the water, just slowly enough for me to make a flying grab at the end of it an instant before it slipped away forever. I’d saved my small strip of line. I stood there, holding it in my hands.
Well, I suppose I could tie what’s left of my line to the eyelet of my rod and try casting like that. I’d better think this through. Can’t do that; if you tie the line on the last eyelet of the rod, should you hook a fish it will pull the rod apart and be gone. So, I strung the line from top to the bottom and tied the line on the lower section of the rod. Perfect.
And I began casting that way. I was essentially fishing like cavemen must have, without a reel and without any possible means of pulling in the line, and with no plan as how to land a fish should one become hooked. It was a stick and a string. In essence, I was playing it by ear. I do this all the time.
Our crew moved down the river, again and again. I hadn’t caught anything. Hadn’t had a bite. Then suddenly the smack of a real fish hitting my bait came up the line; it was a trout for sure. And I had him.
I held onto the rod. That’s all I could do. The fish rushed up stream and then back down. I held on. The comment from up above was that I was milking this fish – meaning it wasn’t big enough for me to be taking so much time landing it. I let it be known that I was just taking my time. Everything is fine. Don’t look over here.
A minute or so later a perky 10-inch brown came to the hand. I’d caught my first trout of the year. Despite the problem, despite my inability to get ready and to be prepared, my fishing trip worked out for me.
That doesn’t happen too often.
Darrell Pendergrass lives in Grand View.