Thursday, May 9, 2013
This morning I slip-slid my way down the steep bank below the cottage to the water's edge, where I spent a half hour fishing the deep channel that runs along the middle of the stream. A nice smallmouth was nosily feeding there yesterday evening, so I had high hopes.
Alas! Either the bass had moved on, or else I wasn't offering a sufficiently seductive lure. I caught and released a couple of smaller bronzebacks, three or four rock bass, and perhaps a dozen pugnacious bluegill—about what I could have taken from the Cottage Pool, without the rough descent. But nothing worth discussing.
Not that I really cared. Spring and the stream fishing season has just begun. I'll enjoy river waltzes with my share of hefty fish sooner or later. Just dusting off the tackle and renewing old acquaintances with the rhythm of working moving water is sufficient…at least for now.
Of course my fellow feathered angler—the great blue heron wading the shallows downstream as I made my quartering casts—was fishing to eat. Not catching means not eating. I would, of course, have tossed him those smaller fish I turned loose. But somehow, I doubt the big bird would have welcomed the handout. In spring, with the sun shining and the river running full and sparkling, a liquid emerald, we anglers can afford to stand on our pride.