Every once in a while you hear something. A rumor, a whisper of something good if you're willing to really willing to work for it. At the end of your journey there will be brookies as long as your arm. Big, corpulent, dumb brookies just waiting for your fly. The stuff that keeps you up nights, keeps you addicted.
Glen started it. He suggested we go back in there, even though it's a death march. "The brookies were 16" last time and that was 3 years ago. Just think how big they must be now!"
We're three years older and the packs feel heavier. We started off through head-high Witchhopple. It was easy going until we hit the deadfalls, boulder jumbles and red spruce thickets. A short hike, an easy hike if there was a trail, took us most of the day. I found myself wishing the V's overhead really were flying monkeys and that a couple of them might take pity and spirit us to our destination. NSL.
Our campsite was as we'd left it last time, unused. Sublime. Once camp was set up we had the evening to fish.
The first one stripped my fly off the leader on the grab. We did manage to land a few nice ones.
The next day Glen shouted 'Big fish!" He never does that. I turned to see his rod tip dive underwater. Then everything went slack. He fired off every four letter word in his arsenal, a couple of which weren't in my vocabulary until then. "I might lie outrageously but I never exaggerate. That was a five pound brookie" were his sanitized sentiments.
The fishing alternated hot and cold, the warm weather not helping. Work intruded, this time tapping Glen on the shoulder instead of me. We slogged out, taking much of the day.
Glen headed for home the next morning and UpstateDave and I hit a favorite pond. It was downright hot out and the fishing was slow. Dave left, I camped and stayed.
The next morning I was up early and headed straight for a bit of shoreline that showed promise the day before. It was red hot until 11:00AM. 19 brookies landed, 9 of them good ones, one of my best days ever. And that was under bright skies in Tee shirt weather. Go figure.
Glen started it. He suggested we go back in there, even though it's a death march. "The brookies were 16" last time and that was 3 years ago. Just think how big they must be now!"
We're three years older and the packs feel heavier. We started off through head-high Witchhopple. It was easy going until we hit the deadfalls, boulder jumbles and red spruce thickets. A short hike, an easy hike if there was a trail, took us most of the day. I found myself wishing the V's overhead really were flying monkeys and that a couple of them might take pity and spirit us to our destination. NSL.
Our campsite was as we'd left it last time, unused. Sublime. Once camp was set up we had the evening to fish.
The first one stripped my fly off the leader on the grab. We did manage to land a few nice ones.
The next day Glen shouted 'Big fish!" He never does that. I turned to see his rod tip dive underwater. Then everything went slack. He fired off every four letter word in his arsenal, a couple of which weren't in my vocabulary until then. "I might lie outrageously but I never exaggerate. That was a five pound brookie" were his sanitized sentiments.
The fishing alternated hot and cold, the warm weather not helping. Work intruded, this time tapping Glen on the shoulder instead of me. We slogged out, taking much of the day.
Glen headed for home the next morning and UpstateDave and I hit a favorite pond. It was downright hot out and the fishing was slow. Dave left, I camped and stayed.
The next morning I was up early and headed straight for a bit of shoreline that showed promise the day before. It was red hot until 11:00AM. 19 brookies landed, 9 of them good ones, one of my best days ever. And that was under bright skies in Tee shirt weather. Go figure.
Aucun commentaire:
Enregistrer un commentaire