What Outings Present You as the Given

Our single fish, about 14 inches.

I got up at 3:45 a.m., put on shorts, a T-shirt, water shoes. Fixed eggs and coffee before I put a Woolrich shirt over my shoulders, a light jacket over that. Temperature was 59 degrees as I drove out of Bedminster. When I arrived at Cronk's, it was 56 and raining.

I got the dolly and put it on the back seat. I put ropes up front and back, the rachet strap beside the car, passenger side. Beside the back seat. Everything was quiet, Loki the black Labrador loping about leisurely, no evidence of my having stirred Brian's dogs. I had said we have a good track record in keeping quiet, when I submitted my request to secure the squareback canoe early. As it turned out, I would later be told to back in, in the future, as the lights did wake up the dogs. I just hadn't heard them. 

Oliver pulled into the drive. I put the blanket on top of the car and two pool noodles. We put the foam plastic on the gunwales and popped the canoe on top. The rachet and ropes were a breeze. 

Still 56 at Tilcon, we found carting the canoe in--heavy marine battery, Minn-Kota, and all--so easy and efficient everything felt dandy. Rain continued to fall, but surely temps would rise well into the 60's, towards that forecasted high of 70, and the rain would soon end. I had put my rain jacket on over the other. Oliver didn't bring rain gear. 

And the bass. Oh, they'd hit in these conditions. There's a hurricane off the coast!

I know. I'm always neutral when I approach an outing, but I did think fish might be active. Who wouldn't think they might be on a morning like this one? As it turned out, they not only definitely were not active, we couldn't even locate but a single salmon on the sonar graph as we crisscrossed over the 50-foot deep basin looking for them. Where did they go? (We never saw any on the graph in 35 feet, either.) Today the lake level is down about two feet, so most of the basin registered at 48 feet, some of it 49. We had Kastmasters to try jigging with. 

I told Oliver today that Tilcon is my favorite lake to worm for bass.

"Yeah, because we always catch some."

And we wormed plenty. He did have one on that took his Wacky worm twice, so probably a pickerel but who knows. I never got hit. Only sunfish played with my Chompers. I get that worm into all sorts of tight places, love the exercise of accurate casting, but today I couldn't help but feel bass had all but entirely vacated shallows. The water temperature was 77 and misting against the 56-degree air. So I tended to cast a little way out from shore. The worm dropped a good 15 feet, but still. Nothing happened. And we had a trying time keeping out of the wind, running out of spots to cast to.

So we trolled towards the back of the lake where a whole lengthy shoreline would be out of that wind. I got hit pretty quickly, missed it, using the standard Hot 'n Tot that gets down 15 feet.

We rounded the flat, and I said to Oliver, "Good chance of catching one here. We've done well trolling along the weeds here before."

Before we would turn right and head down along the shoreline, I ripped my crankbait through some weeds and a second later felt that whomp we all troll for. The bass would have measured about 14 inches. 

We trolled, and we passed up a lot of nice looking worm water, which I couldn't help but tell myself we'd revisit, give it the chance it seemed to cry out for. We crisscrossed the basin I told you about, nothing there, and then we gave up. It was still raining. When we eventually got in the car, the temp was 59, so it had never got out of the 50's. When we hit the gravel, Oliver checked his phone and said, "Four hours."

I thought more like two, but yeah. We had given worming a real chance. If we would catch more fish, probably trolling the opposite side would have been the wise move, but were soaked, my shorts were soaked and I even felt water on my back despite my rain jacket. Shivering. 

It's a tough day when you're reduced to the like, but you don't resent it, if you're wise. Take the good with the bad and get on with it; if you start putting conditions on what outings present you as the given, you're a fool. I relished my complaints with a smile. I did complain. But I knew we'd get in that warm car and it would all vanish, and when it did, we could almost have been still out there. 

Hurricane's at sea, but it was stormy out there.

Rocks in the background. I would have used my long lens, but I was concerned enough about the camera getting wet as it was.

Clouds and Wind

 

Scouted West Branch Delaware River Above Cannonsville Reservoir

 

West Branch Delaware River miles above Cannonsville Reservoir.

Every summer, my brother David camps near Roscoe, NY, with his wife, Carol. and his friend Steve Cane and his family. Last week he invited me up, and I got there Saturday at three p.m., after stopping in at The Beaverkill Angler for a couple of size 24 blue winged olives, a size 14 Isonychia, and a sulfur-shaded Cahill, size 16. David had our destinations planned, referring to a map that shows parking and access. Steve would stay behind.

I felt surprised at how narrow the river. Smaller than much of the Farmington in Connecticut. We drove for miles upstream before we found one of the spots. What I saw felt unpleasant, as the stretch accessed by descending a thickly vegetated bank on a narrow trail was muddy with carp visible near the surface. The water barely moved at all, low because of the drought. I assumed carp had muddied it. 

A little non-plussed, I turned back, got in Dave's truck with him ready at the wheel, and from there we rode to the next spot, photographed above. From the bridge, we spotted a smallmouth of about 16 inches--and more carp. At the least, the water wasn't muddy. David wanted me to get the temperature with his thermometer. He knew something was amiss, and he did not want to fish trout if the water was above 65. 

It was 23 Celsius. Way too warm. And why was that when Pepacton Reservoir, I thought, was not far upstream?

We drove on downstream to the next access point where the thermometer read 25 Celsius. The stretch was about a foot deep. Dave spotted a sip riser. I saw it when the fish came up again.

"It's a rainbow. About 11 inches long," he said.  

David had a little blue winged olive tied on, too, and either of us could have casted for the trout, but neither of us was really tempted to.

David had checked the latest fishing report from Hale Eddy, which claimed the water temp was 55 degrees F. That I couldn't wrap my head around, given that I believed the cold water release from the reservoir was upstream, but I wanted to find out what was up as much as David did.

On the way there, we passed by Cannonsville Reservoir, so I figured the East Branch Delaware flowed pretty close to the West Branch at this point. We got to Hale Eddy not very long after, and before I could even get the thermometer in the water, I felt the coolness of the water in the air. I let the thermometer sit a while, not convinced it worked, and then read 12.5 degrees C. About 55 degrees F. It works. And I clearly understood--at last--that of course it's the West Branch flowing from Cannonsville Reservoir. We had been scouting the river where it's not a tailwater, but there are trout up there, as signs nailed to trees indicate, though I'm not altogether sure the trout David saw was a rainbow. I found information from the State of New York only on the stocking of browns up there, the information also stating that a wild brown trout fishery exists.

We walked the bridge and otherwise observed the water, finding no bugs on it, seeing no rises at all. So we fished pheasant tail beadheads, at first about five feet under indicator floats, then freestyle. I took my float off when I approached a couple of big rocks creating slack water and seams where it's shallower but interesting. On my second drift, I felt a knock and reared back on nothing. I drifted that run inside and out about 35 more times and never replicated what I had felt, and I swear I had seen the line jump, too. Maybe I got hit. 

We continued to fish the deeper run, both of us without indicators, but nothing happened. We had pretty much run out of time. I guess we could have tried to dig up another access point, but not only is it clearly evident why fishing the river from a drift boat is advantageous; it proved best we got back to camp when we did. I ended up arriving home in New Jersey just before dark.  

Below Cannonsville Reservoir the West Branch Delaware is a much wider river.

Pepacton Reservoir

Book I'm Writing on Stockers

The Natural World is Always There for You

You begin a long canoe float with the normal anxiety of everyday life, as if that's all the day will amount to. Towards the middle hours, I felt I didn't have it in me to let go, empty myself, and be filled with that equivalent of necessity that moves like aquatic vegetation undulates in the flow. But it happens, inevitably. I had been gone too long for it not to.

My guess? We did about six miles. I met Brenden Kuprel, 9:00 a.m., at the Confluence. There we left his SUV, riding to Neshanic. The road mileage isn't that much, but the river twists and turns, and we got out of the canoe shortly before 4:00. It wasn't a direct float-through, as if we only moved a mile-an-hour. We anchored a lot.

I had doubted we needed the extra 10 pounds! Thankfully, Brenden thought the anchor an OK idea. Without it, we wouldn't have caught nearly as many fish.

The total for the day was 43. My single largemouth (my first fish), my 13 smallmouths, Brenden's 28 smallmouths and his single green sunfish, which he, too, thought might be a warmouth. (I used to confuse them with warmouths, and I still haven't completely clarified the issue for myself.) Brenden often way outdoes me. He's an excellent angler.

The biggest was that 19-incher photographed above. Brenden caught a 16 1/4-incher, and we watched as a 15-incher leapt and shook the hook of his Ned Rig. At least, I think it was a Ned Rig. Earlier on, he used a round-head jig with, I think, a little paddletail. He did well with that, too. I did fish a Ned Rig some, and got hit, too. But I caught all my fish on four-inch Yum Dingers and Senkos rigged Wacky. 

Shadows amounted to many of the fish caught, maybe more than half, but they weren't the only spots where we caught--and saw--bass. Shadows are pretty hard to come by under high-noon sun, but even where the river is otherwise shallow, we often pulled bass as big as 10 inches out of them. I set the hook on one of them, missed that hit, and reeled back towards the boat with the bass following! I stopped the retrieve, the bass swooped on the Senko, I let it swim swiftly a couple of yards and set the hook. I released the 10 incher, and Brenden said, "I think they're revved up because they come from being in ambush mode." It wasn't the only bass that behaved similarly. 

I paid close attention when we floated over long strands of aquatic vegetation swaying back and forth in the current, because I figured there must be some bass hiding in the shadows, not to mention that we saw a lot of baitfish among the greenery, but we never clearly identified any bass, although I saw some fish nine inches long tear out of there as we passed by. Could have been baby suckers. I'm not sure. Tons of vegetation inhabits the lower South Branch. Some of it is attached to bottom six feet down. It gives you a primordial feeling from a river flowing for many thousands of years. 

Otherwise, the river remains rocky, and it's that rock that holds smallmouths, although some will be seen--when the water is as clear as it was yesterday--swimming leisurely through perhaps three of water amounting to a gravel-bottomed, mid-river flat. We saw a couple of them 18 inches long or better doing that. Others were 14 or 15 inches, 13. And although many of the bass we caught wouldn't have measured much longer than seven inches, plenty of them ranged from nine to 13 inches. We caught a lot of fish yesterday, but think of all the bass we passed by!

The amount of deeper water impressed me. Water six feet deep, even as deep as about 10 feet, is common once you get past about the halfway range between Neshanic and the Confluence. Much of the river back there isn't accessible any other way than by floating, and even then, the river is wide enough that you're pretty much limited to fishing one side. (Often enough, one side is the deeper.) Some places move slow enough that, without wind pushing you around, you can paddle across and back upstream.

By the time we approached Studdiford Bridge, I'd got worried about the amount of sun my legs had absorbed without sunblock. It was just a passing concern, but a good one to have heeded. I was in the zone by then--the kind of feeling inviting you to stay forever. It suggests that perhaps some day each of us does leave ordinary life for a good long stay in eternity, although I've always believed--at least, since my 20s when I discovered the possibility--I'll come back, because the earth is always there to let me know it's just as good, if I will only go out to meet it. You don't feel it in the ordinary confines of civilization. 

Besides my legs frying, my wife had expressed concern (via mobile device) about what time I'd get home. Again, like at the shore when I visited Fred Matero the other day, I got the message just as I departed. I had told her I guessed four or five, but she wanted to know for sure. I told her, how can I know that? Just the same, getting back before five felt like a good idea, although nature's intimation had superseded my minor concern for scheduling. As it always will if you do enough to go deeply into nature. 

We passed through a lot of deep water towards the end of the float where, had we anchored at it, we could have caught more fish, though we had caught plenty and big. Soon, we saw the bridge over the North Branch at the Confluence. It's not a sad thing to go back, because you know the natural world is always there for you.   

Nice one maybe a little better than 13.

About 12 inches.

Big enough to make commotion.

Can anyone identify the species?

A better one of the little bass.

This one fought super-hard fought downstream.

Sixteen and a quarter.

North Branch

 

I Still Believed Fish are at a Premium in this Lake

Brian Cronk and I fished yesterday late afternoon and evening, but the post is coming only now because I got up this morning and did a South Branch Raritan float trip with Brenden Kuprel. (The story of that pretty much all-day trip should be out tomorrow.) 

Yesterday, we fished about three and a quarter hours. The weather beautiful, we nevertheless found the fish pretty deep. The lake is about 30 feet deep at best, by what we can tell, having given it a pretty good scan. Brian felt enthused yesterday about the possibility of the lake's getting stocked with trout, but of all the holdover lakes, I think White Lake in Sussex County is the shallowest at--I believe--40 feet. Shepherd Lake in Passaic County is--I believe--45 feet, and is also listed by the state as a holdover lake. 

I'm not so sure trout would holdover in 30 feet of water, but Brian might be correct. I can cite some evidence in his favor. Ever read Round Valley Reservoir reports in The Fisherman during summer? How deep are the rainbow trout? About 30 feet. 

So, maybe.

There is abundant evidence of herring here. The lake's 40 surface acres or so were dappled by nervous schools of them yesterday evening. 

And like last time, we worked shorelines. At least we did at first. I had just a few hits, and Brian might have got his Chatterbait knocked. I fished a Chompers worm on an inset hook. No weight added. For any of you not familiar with my technique, I like to let the worm sink slowly. Most hits come on that initial drop. A fast-sinking worm is just another thing to chase down when bass take it easy during summer. But from yesterday, the hit that stands out in memory came when I slowly began retrieving the worm back to Brian's boat. A distinct knock I believed came from a pickerel. I stopped retrieving, felt the fish on, allowed slack, tightened--and set the hook into nothing!

"Son-of-a-bitch!"

I still believed fish are at a premium in this lake. That's especially why the loss burned. But as things turned out, we fished too shallow, anyway. The worm was getting down 10 feet some of the time, but even that. 

As I say, the weather was beautiful, but we found fish deep despite the moderation in temperature. By trolling. Right when we got started, by departing from a corner to proceed down lake along a weedline, I got hit about 12 feet down. The fish shook off. I caught the 19-incher photographed below further down lake and maybe 14 feet down. Brian hooked a bass I guess would've weighed nearly three pounds. The fish had suspended under a dock floating above 14 feet of water. It gave a clear account of itself by leaping...and throwing the hooks. Brian had tied on a lipless crankbait. I used the standard. A Hot 'n Tot by Storm. That plug gets down 15 feet, probably deeper with enough line out. I missed a couple of other hits about 15 feet down, and had a smallish pickerel--maybe 17 inches--on until it shook off in view along the boat. (The water is pretty clear.)

We had worked that weedline up and down a few times when I said to Brian that perhaps we should work where he wanted to fish next. He said we could follow the shoreline back to the ramp. It's steeper than the side with the weeds, although for less than a hundred yards, there's another weedbed, but the water drops off quicker. Most of the way back towards the ramp, the water drops as quickly to 20 feet as does at Tilcon Lake. 

Brian believes the lake must have once been a sand pit. Makes sense. There's concrete production within earshot. 

So I tried to maneuver us close enough to shore to get our plugs about 14 or 15 feet down, but I couldn't get too close without hanging up on deadfalls. I think I could have been running my plug over bottom 20 feet down, when, approaching another corner, I felt the kind of thump I don't associate with knocking stuff on bottom. I set the hook. The fish started moving--heavy--towards deeper water, and I believed I had hooked a bass that might go five pounds. It was give and take to the boat, some pretty serious weight feeling like a tow, but it proved not to be too serious. At 24 1/2 inches, the pickerel weighed three pounds and something or other. 

I did measure the length. 

We got to Brian's favorite spot with just enough sunlight to make it all possible. Brian had told me they want you out of there at sunset. I took that to mean trailering up.

I had completely forgotten that the particular shoreline does not drop off quickly compared to others, and we had some trouble catching weeds. When we managed to get the right depth, it wasn't a minute before, once again, I hooked a big one. (Three pounds and some.) A pickerel right at 24 inches. I just can't seem to get beyond the vicinity of approaching four pounds with a way to go yet. 

Brian switched to a Hot 'n Tot. He's bought some. 

I've been using the same two for over a decade and have caught on them countless pickerel and bass trolling. I make friends with my plugs. Why not? Starting to look like others are making friends with AI. (I make friends with AI, too, but I think I got off topic...hint, hint.)

Brian hooked up within minutes. A pickerel of about 19 inches leapt, throwing the hooks.

The sun set. The boat's bow met sand. A police vehicle had driven off, but I said, "You never know, it could come back." 

Nineteen or so Inches

Twenty Four Inches

Painted Turtle

Last Time

 

Good Day Forgetting Online Tedium

Nearing exit 67 where I would leave the Garden State Parkway, I got a text. When I got to Fred's house, he was outside awaiting me as he always does. We shook hands and began to catch up. I moved stuff from my car to his Subaru, but I also checked on that message. It was from my wife, telling me she had overlooked getting her car inspected last month. Put me in a tizzy. It took me awhile, but I re-slotted my schedule, all in my head, realizing I can probably get the car inspected in Randolph on Saturday...after I drop my canoe off. Back where I store it in the vicinity. Good thing I had that pinned down, although I didn't think to simply check my mobile device for the inspection station hours so I could be more sure. 

I suffered the four hours or so we fished the jetty, because of the insecurity of so much I have to do. Not just reminded of that, but having to shift plans. Computers are scary to me, because--in my experience--they always go wrong and I'm left to my own devices in setting them right again, until I have to seek professional help to get a computer fixed. The last I did that, the problem got solved in three minutes right at the front desk, and I wasn't charged. I've had bad experiences in the past. 

Right now, I'm stuck in the middle of building the new website, because my cursor became white against a white background in text blocks, so I can't effectively type. It's driving me nuts! I've been back and forth with support services for a week, and I can't imagine how the problem will be solved, besides maybe scrapping all my work and starting a new trial website. But then, will that one present the same problem? For the first week of working on the new site, the cursor worked fine, and I got a lot done.

It's not good for mental health to feel you're screwed by technical issues. I'm not a very technical sort to begin with. I'm a writer, and besides what I do for recreation, and the hobby of photography, I'd rather not do much else. I want to spend my time reading books and writing them. Reading my The Fisherman every month, too. Angler's Journal and The Flyfish Journal when they come. I don't want to wonder why in hell I'm singled out in this universe to have started building a website only to be unable, at least thus far, to complete it. From what the support service tells me, it happens to no one that all the hurdles are leaped and the problem remains. 

I'm one in a million.

So I was happy when Fred came up with the plan of moving on from the jetty at Barnegat Inlet to fish the beach on our way out with jigs for fluke, and then a certain bulkhead for triggerfish, blackfish, any possible sheepshead, and fluke. He had caught a fluke on his first cast on the ocean side of the jetty. Besides that, just a tiny seabass! We've always done well before. 

Fred said he got a hit as we fished the beach, if I remember rightly. When we had walked in, there was a guy doing well on live killies at the end of a groin that cuts across at a 45-degree angle from the end of the jetty. The wind wasn't bad. From the northeast and very light. When we had left the beach and got to that bulkhead, the surface of the water was flat. I caught a little seabass on one of Fred's previously frozen sand fleas and that was it, besides Fred's Gulp jig getting hit once. Someone else fishing there with a Gulp Jerk Shad had caught a keeper fluke.

I finally called it on the fishing. I'd felt better leaning against the rail and getting some interest at least from little fish tapping on that bait, but I got tired of it, nothing of any size intervening. For a moment, I had felt as if I'd rise out of my worries, but I fell into feeling pissed off about pressured fish! It's a weekday, yet the rails were crowded with fisherman, and though I have nothing else against people getting out and fishing, it can be annoying when no keepers seem to exist where they can be reached. I had felt good for about five minutes back on the jetty, when I got it in my head that if I persisted and covered ground, I might catch a sheepshead. But I lost three rigs to the rocks in about as many minutes in the attempt to do that, and it put me off.

Sure enough, not long before we left, someone came from the jetty end, done his morning's fishing, with a keeper bag containing a nice sheepshead and a keeper blackfish, so my intuition wasn't exactly groundless. I just wasn't aligned right to do it today.

"I think a nice cold Coke will do me well," I told Fred.

So we rode to the Neptune Market, got soft drinks, and sat out in front of the store on a bench and talked and talked. I began talking about pressured fish. I think that's how I got started. That led into problems of access, and from that, the pressure radical environmentalists are putting on recreational fishing. Fred mentioned PETA, which got me even more riled up. I'm only outlining what was said. I'm not going to triple the length of my post. But Fred made a really good point about our teeth betraying the fact that we're genetically suited to being omnivorous, and that led me to say something that made eating red meat sound like an exercise in metaphysics.

Just the same, to limit fish to aquaculture and commercial interests, picking on us recreational fishermen because we're somehow not serious, that won't go away. I can get very pessimistic about a dystopian future. 

I felt 100% better. We didn't talk about happy things, but we talked openly, and that lifted the cover off all the garbage stewing in me. My blog, Litton's Fishing Lines, is among the computer problems I mentioned earlier, too, as I really screwed up by offering you guys (and gals) "thin content" and "dodgy links" before I began to learn about Search Engine Optimization. That's when I promptly informed you I had to quit doing that. A lot of people liked those links! But now I have to go back and delete all those unindexed posts, because for the past four months, the Googlebot has not been indexing my new ones! You find them on other browsers and in the blog per se, but not as individually indexed for Google searches. 

We talked all the way back to Fred's house and some there. Turned out to be another good day when I forgot all the tedium of the online world.       

An old Sea Ray in the background.

Miss Barnegat Light

Four Years Ago

 

The Value of Being Out There

This outing I managed to get up for shortly after 5:30 a.m. I had mistakenly set my alarm on p.m., so fortunately I woke up anyway, seven minutes later than intended. I drove some 15 or 20 minutes further than yesterday. By the time I parked, the sun had lifted slightly off the horizon but trees obscured it. I knew both sides of the river, and even the middle, invited my little eighth-ounce topwater plug, and it got hit on the first cast right along the edge between shallows and seven- or eight-foot depth, gravel and rocks on the bottom. I used to think nothing would hit a surface plug over the depths, until Jorge Hildago showed me up by catching a 19 1/4-incher on a Whopper Plopper.

The outing was a lot like yesterday, other than that I didn't need to walk as far. Engrossed in the fishing, it once occurred to me, as I approached my gear set down on exposed gravel--from having made my way downstream and out of sight of it--that "this," my foraging around for the bass, is all that expensive gear will ever be worth. I did find it curious how I concentrate value in things I own, when I can be a little undisciplined about maintaining the value of being out there. I mean, after all, what's my camera really "worth"? I've owned it nearly 10 years, had bought it as a refurbished model to begin with, when that model had been on the market a long time already and had "lost" value. I probably couldn't get $300.00 for it on eBay now if I tried. On the market, it's worth about two dinner meals out with my wife, and that makes you think again of making the best of an event such as fishing the river. Two hours and some there. That is comparable to a dinner out. 

Still, the camera is worth better than 300 bucks to me.

I enjoyed a lot more action than yesterday. It's a curious thing, because a friend had texted me after I had got home and settled, that he had been fishing not far downstream and had made his way to where I began fishing yesterday shortly after I had left, come home, and had to return to that area of Somerville to buy dog food, which I failed to mention yesterday. Had I made myself aware of Loki's need, I could have bought the dog food on the way home. As it turned out, my wife texted me--minutes after I did get home. The friend did really well. That made me want to give it another try, but I didn't want to return to the big river. I'd fish a spot on the South Branch Raritan, instead. Regardless, the value of being there had me in its grip!

I ended up catching a little smallmouth and four little largemouths, all on that eighth-ounce popper. Also a longear sunfish, or so I call whatever species it is, the most common in streams, and a green sunfish. Haven't seen a green sunfish in a long time. Given the choice between a four-inch and five-inch Yum Dinger, I chose one of my five-inch crayfish-colored ones, because that's how I've fished the river successfully for more than a decade. As it turns out, after a couple of other missed hits, I watched as an eight-inch smallmouth pulled that Yum Dinger off the hook and off the O-ring I used to mount that hook, in water a little too deep to wade and try to find that worm. After that I fished a four-incher, and I also drove to a different stretch and fished it there where nothing was doing, but a gal and guy showed up with three more Labradors...which is when I decided to make my exit. Wasn't going to entertain Loki without holding him on his leash. 

Done fishing the South Branch, the sky had begun to cloud over. I stopped at the Lamington River on the way home. I wanted to see if any bass hang out in the pool Trout Scapes LLC created by removing the Burnt Mills Dam. Since the sky was completely clouded over, I went back to fishing topwater, but all I caught was a longear. I also waded across the river, Loki wading across with me, so I could get casts into the big eddy.

Nothing.   

Lamington River

 Bluegill

Attention Paid to the Doing

Old railway stanchion.

Seventy-eight degrees when I left Bedminster at 8:20. Once I got on the Raritan River, where it flows wide at U.S. Highway 206, I started to feel I should have arrived before dawn. I wanted this outing to be the relaxed kind of thing when getting up a little earlier than usual is all that's called for, but wading into the water, I felt the day had already moved along a little too much. 

I did find some shadows, and I began casting to them with my light rod and four-pound test tied to a little eighth-ounce topwater. I cast a good distance into those shadows. Fished them pretty extensively, but all I got in return for my efforts--besides the exercise of exploring the water--was a bounce from a sunfish. 

When I got out of the water to fetch my other rod, I noticed my upper back was in good shape. It's improved since I left the supermarket, and I not only feel younger, I have the kind of free motion that's contrary to age. Instead of being "careful" (distrustful), I leapt off a high bank onto the gravel below and my knees absorbed the weight without any problem. The world's more like a playground again. I have a lot of good things I can say about working for a wage, and the book I hope to get published fairly soon goes into detail from both sides of the issue, but whether you take a good attitude to the job or not, the job's a burden (who would disagree that it's a "job"?). I'm finding that with that burden lifted, I'm starting to come back more into my own, which isn't to say I didn't make my job my own, but you know what I mean. Without it there's space to grow back into, like when you lived free as a teenager.

I had hiked three or four hundred yards upstream with Loki the black Labrador, when I got snagged, broke off, and had to shuffle back downstream in water over my knees to my tackle bag a hundred feet or so. I retied and went back upstream to cast and get snagged again eventually. But in the meantime, I was aware of my outing as if it were someone with us, with Loki and me, offering me the invitation to accept the health this wildness gives...regardless of the brutal fact of pressured fish. 

Yeah...I'm good with that. I accept, but I didn't like it that I had caught only one bass. An average stream smallmouth I didn't even want to photograph. I put the end of my six-pound test under the line keeper on the reel spool after that last breakoff, but I did feel it had been a good morning. To come out here and mess around in the river got me away from everything else. I paid attention only to what I was doing and it felt good. There was nothing to it this time. The two hours passed easily, although I made efforts that others might not. A better outing in that way, compared to the previous, because although I caught a couple of nice largemouths in short order, I didn't feel right in the way I felt right today, and soon my conscience bugged me while I continued to explore that pond...and I left much earlier than I had planned so I could get stuff done. 

I didn't even think about stuff today. 

The smallmouth took a four-inch crayfish-colored Yum Dinger, all except for the yellow tail. Besides that bass, I had a strong tap that might have been another one. Pretty sad results for a river with such beautiful boulders in deep, clear water that gobble up lures, instead of bass you're sure are there gobbling them up. I even saw one I thought was a carp come mosey beside me a few paces distant, and though I put the worm out in front of the fish, and the fish took interest in it, I got no take. Probably 16 inches. I did catch one about that big last September here, although I'm sure there are more and bigger than that.

I doubt it's the heat that's responsible for today's demise, but something is. I fished hard for a couple hours. Enjoyed it, and that's what matters...even though you can't help but want to rack up some bass when it's been awhile since you've done that. 

When the thermometer settled as I drove homeward, it registered 90 degrees. A fast rise in temperature. It's 96 out there now as I write.     

Support for U.S. Highway 206

Last September