Gravity

I followed Rich from his house to the put in. Staring at the raft in the back of his truck reminded me of last year's trip. It had been my first float in the freshwater scene. He and Matt had coached me up during the day as I threw albie flies and Baby Poets at bass, browns and rainbows. I've fished up and down the east coast and the islands and thought that some of those days would never be bested. I was wrong. At the end of that day, exhausted from catching a ton of fish and laughing endlessly like schoolboys, we agreed to make it an annual event.

Over the winter this year's group trip got postponed until later this summer. More on that after it happens. Rich and I had talked about fishing for stripers here on my water this spring but after reading all the information and listening to the "industry experts" leading up to Amendment 7 of the Striped Bass Management Plan, we both, individually, decided to cut back on fishing for stripes this year. For both of us it was a personal decision based on our own observations and history on the water, not meant to incite debate or seek comment.

So, instead we headed to one of his favorite pieces of water. We dropped the boat, shuttled his truck to the take-out and grabbed a coffee and one pound cream cheese muffins on the way back. Stepping into the raft last year was like stepping back in time. It was the same on this trip. Back to my childhood on those days when I was free to leave the house early in the morning on my bike. A green stick shift three-speed Schwinn with motorcycle handlebars and a banana seat with a backrest. A fishing rod tied to the backrest with bailing twine, my grandfathers' army knapsack with a water canteen, peanut butter and cucumber sandwich, Buck knife and a book of matches, I was set for the day. I roamed the lakes, ponds and streams around North Norway in search of adventure until it was time to be home for dinner, keeping track of time by the position of the sun in the sky (yes, that's how we did it in the 70's). Pure freedom.

Being in the boat of one of the best fly tiers in the industry and author of Catching Shadows: Tying Flies for the Toughest Fish and Strategies for Fishing Them, you might assume I'd be fishing his flies. No way, man. I was rigged with one of my favorite albie patterns just like last year. Rich looked at it and said, "Throw it." A few casts into the float and the bass were on it. And then a rainbow. And then more bass.

Photo: Rich Strolis

And so it went for hours, with Rich on the sticks calling out shots at pockets, cuts in the banks and ledges. I skipped the fly in under some overhanging branches and got hit hard. We both saw the take and knew it might be the bass of the day. It would have been for sure, but it popped off just as I wrangled it boatside to the net. Disappointing for a second but we had both watched the whole thing happen. That was enough. 

Photo: Rich Strolis

By noon my arm was spent. I wasn't going to say anything about needing a break. We had both been dealing with elbow and wrist tendonitis and he had a shoulder issue to boot. I knew even after rowing for five hours into the wind he wasn't going to say anything about needing a break. So, I kept casting. Finally, after a few half-assed spaghetti casts and long pauses in between he told me to take a break and we stopped for lunch. While we ate, I asked questions about the bugs in the river and their lifespans and all the stuff I've seen in books and articles but never read. He started flipping rocks over to show me what was going on underwater and how to "read" the bug activity to know what and how to fish a particular stretch of water. More things to add to my "more things to learn list."

While I finished my Strolis River Sandwich he got out a rod and started casting. We joke at times about being born a hundred years too late and that about the only place we feel at ease is as far away from people as we can get on some piece of water just fishing. For the sake of just fishing. After listening to his talk on egg, larva, pupa and adult stages of aquatic bugs and then watching him at work in water that surely runs through his veins as it does the riverbed, I know that he's found his place.

We got back in the raft and continued on. I switched over to a Baby Poet and kept racking up bass. All sizes. It didn't matter. While we drifted along Rich talked about the possibility of a spinner hatch going off at dusk close to the take-out. It would mean staying out until dark, but it might be worth it. This is something I've never fished so I was in. Until then there were more bass to catch.

Photo: Rich Strolis

Late in the afternoon we happened upon a bald eagle. It flew off downriver and joined another one high up in the pines. Rich dropped anchor and we sat there for close to thirty minutes watching them. Two grown men sitting silently in the middle of a river in awe of these two remarkable birds.

It was about then Rich started seeing spinners start to hatch. We picked up the pace and got to the section of river he had had talked about as the sun was sinking in the trees. He rigged a rod with a dry fly, made a few casts to show me the basics and then had me make a few practice casts. In golf it would be the short game. In baseball it would be small ball. All finesse and strategy, a little different than what I'm used to, but I figured what I lacked in experience I could make up for with enthusiasm.

We sat and watched the spinners rising off the water. Every so often there would be a small delicate ripple underneath them. Rich made a few casts in the area of these ripples and picked off a beautiful brown. He handed me the rod and talked me through where and when to cast. After several casts I finally made a somewhat suitable presentation, mended the line and was on, just long enough to know I was on before I was off. More experience, less enthusiasm. Apparently, there's this thing called a trout set. I've heard about it, never used it. Now it's on my list. 

I handed the rod back and told him to have at it. He made some ridiculously long accurate casts and brought to the boat the largest brown trout I've ever seen up close and personal. It was an amazing thing to watch. 

Darkness fell and we floated the rest of the way to the take-out. I was a little skeptical about getting the raft up the bank to the truck, but the winch made short work of it. I collected our gear, set it to the side of the truck and stepped back into the river for one last look. I thought about that old green bike.

In a world that seems increasingly smaller and troubled as each day passes, there are still places here that feel like a different planet. Places where the heartbeat of the sights and sounds and the pulse of a river can transport you to another time. Places that pull on you to return to the more you think about them.

It is a special kind of gravity.

From the field

31 July 2022