Small wonders on the stream
The timing was excellent.
I had just finished repairing a tiny leak in my waders and was going to test the integrity of my fly casting on a nearby stream. The phone rang twice, and a voice from the past was on the other end.
"I figured I owed you a call since you held up your end of the bargain," growled my old friend Frank.
He was referring to an agreement we struck some years ago when we met and he took a shine to me after I described my streamside adventures in southern Wisconsin. Back then he agreed to take me fishing on some of his "secret spots" if I didn't write about the locations and use his real name. You see, Frank is a retired lawman who occasionally worked hand-in-hand with DNR wardens.
"Throw some of those ugly flies into a box, the ones you tied, and meet me by that stream where I took you several years ago," he instructed. "I was there yesterday and the smallmouth went crazy for leech imitators."
It took me two hours to wind my way through traffic and the concrete ribbons, and when I subsequently arrived at the secret location, Frank was already in his waders and fishing vest.
It took two minutes for me to be girded for battle. We stepped into this tiny sliver of slightly stained water west and north of Milwaukee.
"I remember the last time you were here," he prattled. "You were like a kid in a candy store after you caught six smallies with that magic wand fly rod of yours."
He was speaking of the 4-weight, 8-foot stick that was one of Jim Grandt's custom creations. For you non fly-fishers, a 4-weight rod is something akin to using a 5-foot super-ultralight spinning rod with 2-pound test mono.
Frank slowly moved 50-feet downstream while I chose to gently weave my way upstream to a section of willow branches hanging over the water. Frank was into fish immediately. I watched him release a small bass while simultaneously whooping and singing.
My fly pattern is called a bead-head mohair. It looks like a leech, with all of its puffed up black hair. The bead head is a tiny weight affixed to the nose of the hook. I've caught a dozen different fresh water species as well as a half dozen saltwater types using this amazing fly.
On my third 10-foot cast, the fly line straightened out and started moving downstream. The surface water exploded when a smallmouth took to the air with my fly in the upper corner of its mouth. For no other reason, the fish's acrobatics were reason enough to make the drive here. And there was more to come.
Frank had two more bass to his credit by the time I was ready to make another cast. This time I plunked the fly close to the opposite shore and allowed it to be sucked in to a small, slack-water pool. The line tightened again, only this time the fish ran hard and fast. This one didn't jump, but rather acted like a freight train, stripping line from the fly reel. I moved downstream with a wild one on the end of the connection.
I slipped and fell three times but I still managed to hold on to the rod and fish. My pocket scale measured 3 pounds. This is not a bragging fish by any means, but a 3-pounder in a small stream can be considered a good fish in anyone's log book.
We took a break for some hot coffee and reminisced about our escapades in previous years.
"My doc told me I don't have too much time left," Frank disclosed. "He says there's some cancer crawling around in my body that has refused to go away. So, I wanted to make sure I got one more trip with you, and then leave this place for you to enjoy in the future. Please accept this as my gift to you."
I turned my head away from Frank as the moisture from my eyes slid down my face.
"Thanks for a little bit of heaven my friend," I replied, "I'll always treasure these moments and your graciousness."