Maine Outdoor Journal

A recurring theme, I know, not just for me but for any angler who has slumped away from pond, stream or river after a fishless day. Chin on chest, eyes downcast to avoid contact with people who might ask, seeing the angler's kit and kaboodle, "How they bitin'?" On that long trudge along path, trail or road from the water to the vehicle, many questions are addressed to the ground. "Where have the fish gone? What was I doing wrong? What else could I have tied to the end of my tippet?"

Arriving at camp or home after a skunking, the angler sheds his gear, hanging his waders to dry, hanging his vest on its customary peg while gazing in wonder at the sheer number of flies clinging to the wool patch where he had parked them one by one as each, in its turn, failed to attract a strike or even a swirl. As he does, he second-guesses, thinking he should have stuck with his instincts and fished with a single fly all day, the first one he tied on, the old reliable hare's ear nymph. He rehearses the ancient catechism he will recite for inquiring camp-mates or, worse, for the waiting wife and the list of chores postponed. "Well, that's why it's called fishing and not catching, heh heh heh." "A bad day fishing is better than a good day at the office." "It's not really about catching fish, you know, it's about being there, communing with the beauties of Nature." He does not need a GPS to determine the shortest route to the bourbon bottle.

On Thursday evening I arrived at camp too late to fish, and the air was chilly enough that I fired up the woodstove for the first time this fall. Friday I fished the dam pool in the morning and again in the afternoon. I caught two salmon and three trout, none big enough to brag about, though one of the salmon was of legal size. Saturday was a glorious fall day, sunny and crisp, and the hardwoods were trooping the colors in the light breezes. Such a day draws a crowd, and more than a dozen anglers encircled the pool, each keeping one eye on their drifting fly and the other eye on the competition. Neither eye got much of a show. And in the middle of the pool, in our tin boats, Paul Bean and I were the most visible of all, and the ones who were most obviously getting skunked. Every time I changed flies I lost an inch or so of tippet, and I had to replace the tippet twice. Where were the fish? Why weren't they hitting? I got so frustrated I left the pool and drove to a pond, launched the canoe, fished for a couple of hours and got skunked there as well. Back to the pool to try again. Maybe the fading day would bring rising fish. Cast, drift, retrieve. Streamer, nymph, emerger, dry. I searched my vest for something I had not tried yet and came up with a red-tailed Woolly Bugger. On the second cast, as the fly drifted past cable rock, came a savage strike and I was onto a large fish. He stayed down deep and I guessed it was a trout, and when he finally rolled, breaking the surface, my guess was confirmed. He dove again, ran off with several yards of line, came reluctantly back towards the boat, ran again, rolled again. Anglers fishing near the shore stopped to watch the battle. The fish finally tired, and I was able to work him up the current and into the net -- a large, fat brookie in spawning finery. I measured him with eyes only, and weighed him mentally, and you know how fishermen are about those metrics. Let's just say it was a fine, big trout. Before I put him back into the pool I held him up for show. Friend Gary, perched on a rock at the tail of the pool, gave a thumbs-up. Everyone went back to fishing with renewed hope. I fished the Woolly Bugger until dark and caught nothing else, but I didn't care. For one moment I had answered the question, What do fish want, and my week was made.