One of Those Wounded Animal Days

Today was one of those wounded animal days. One of those days where humanity would be much better served by having as little contact with me as possible. I’m blaming the full moon, but there are times when circumstances dictate time alone. Even if the circumstances can’t be described.

Or as a friend likes to tell me, how is that any different than any other day. You always fish alone.

Smart ass. Not entirely true.

The creek I hit is no different than any of the other creeks in the area I like to fish. At least it used to be. But something changed a few years ago after a pretty major flood event did some rearranging of the area. The day before I was on another creek. The shallows were teaming with minnows. Creek chubs and shiners were next to impossible to keep off the hook. Smallmouth were hanging out in a deeper pool and there was a pretty decent caddis hatch that had fish chasing them down. River red horse and carp could be seen moving about.

This creek had a slight caddis hatch and that was it. The shallows were barren and nothing was seen moving around in the water. It’s been like this ever since that flood.

Fish can still be caught, but the numbers are way down. Doesn’t seem to make a difference when I come here, things are slow. Today that didn’t matter. I knew there would be at least one smallie sitting in one of the slower, deeper pools. There usually is. Only one way to find out.

My walk on the edge of the water showed that nobody else had bothered doing this so far this year. No foot prints anywhere.

Lots of deer, raccoon, geese and heron tracks, but nothing human made. I got into a methodical cast, stop and walk rhythm and covered plenty of water without so much as a tap. The few caddis that were fluttering around on the surface were completely ignored and nothing chased them down.

Off in the distance a great horned owl was talking up a storm, unusual in the middle of a bright sunny day.

At the end of the long slow pool I waded across the creek. Adjoining the creek is a private pond I have permission to fish. The pond doesn’t hold fish of any substantial size, but on a good day largemouth bass, crappie and bluegills can still wear out your arm. The caddis hatch was better on the pond and dimples were appearing on the water as something chased down their dinner. I scaled down to a bite size lure hoping to catch anything that felt like hitting.

A couple of hand sized largemouth went first. I could have stood there all day catching those perfectly proportioned samples. I think I enjoy these even more than their bigger siblings. Nobody told them they were small and they fight like hell.

Only they kept getting bigger with each couple of fish.

Since the pond water is still clear and cold, the coloration on these fish were classic largemouth. Clear horizontal stripe and that infamous moss green that gives them one of their pet names.

The biggest wound up being around 14 inches. The largest I’ve caught from the pond to date.

I was surprised that no bluegill or crappie were hitting, but then it’s barely 3 weeks into March and the water was still pretty cold. Then I dragged a lure over a submerged log only to catch a couple of crappie.

My wife gives me a hard time about wandering off into the woods looking for fishing spots. I tell her where I’m going, but she shoots back with, great, I’ll know where your car is. Now it’s a matter of how many miles away are you and in what direction.

She does have a point.

I try not to tell her too many of the details about falling down hills, tripping over logs or falling off of fences I’m trying to climb over. No need to make her worry needlessly. She knows I have my cell phone on me at all times just for this reason. All she has to do is start wandering through the woods and call, listen for the ring tone. Hopefully I’ll be found before the battery goes dead, or me.

On the way out, I ran into a father and son fishing from shore. They were fishing the beginning of the big pool where I had started a couple of hours earlier. On the ground near them was a 14 inch smallie on a stringer.

“You’re using live bait, aren’t you?” was my first question. The answer was affirmative. I had thought about rummaging up some worms for this outing, but decided traveling light was more important.

“Have you ever eaten one of these?” was the next question. The answer was no, this would be a first. I gave them some tips on the best way to prepare it and told them they’re going to be surprised at how good they are. From clear, cold water they taste like they’ve been marinated in maple syrup.

I hung out for awhile talking. Turned down the offer to fish with some night crawlers. I wanted to see his son catch something. Bobber was going down numerous times, but the hook set reaction was too slow. The kid didn’t seem to mind and he was perfectly content to just keep fishing. I asked the dad if we should give him a few pointers. “Nah, he’ll figure it out, we all do.”

I wished them well and wandered off.

“He’ll figure it out” stuck in my head. That’s why I had come to the creek after all. Not sure if I figured anything out, but it didn’t seem that important anymore.