Worcester: Black Coffee & Youth Fishing memories Pt 2
There were many occasions when my father and I were accompanied by other less than enthusiastic members of our family on a fishing adventure. Usually my younger brother and my maternal grandfather would tag along. This of course meant that our 4AM assembling of perked coffee and fishing gear would instead occur @ 4 PM . But at this hour there would be no coffee, no half hazard placement of our fishing gear in the shadowy trunk. Instead we would pack soda, juice, some sandwiches , a six pack of Ballantine ale and a small pint of Seagram's 7. " To steady grampa's hands, " my father would say.
On these such trips we usually headed for Barre Falls Damn which corrals the Ware river. The damn is wrestled amongst a few central mass towns; Hubbardston, Barre, and Oakham. The entrance takes you high above the damn and parking is also high above the Ware river. I think all stream fishing requires a plodding walk to the stream bank .
There is an area provided for picnicking, trail walking and other non fishing related activities The up- river lays low in an expansive open field area and is about 50 feet wide with no trees to effect how you can cast. With such open space a long back cast is allowed. With little rapids and little movement ,the deep green water invited a dry fly.
On these occasions we would abandon our Mickey Fin streamer flies and still judging the correct fly by how attractive it looked to us, select a dry fly that met out approval. Mimicking the actual stream surface hatch? What are you talking about? A Caddis hatch? Isn't that a character in a Lewis Carroll story?
There is a measurable bend in the river and it was usually at this juncture that we would fish. The river has a small undulating rhythm moving to our left ,as it moves along its low cut banks We gathered the gear- fly rods and reels and for my brother and grandfather, two Zebco Zee Bees 202, tackle box and a can of night crawlers.
A fly fishing tackle box is what my father used to describe as : Quakerish. Nothing fancy just a simple small and compact design to serve a simple purpose- holding your flies. But with shore fishing, we usually brought a tackle box the size of a well…a bread box. Loaded with numerous sized compartments, we have it chock filled with every conceivable hook, bobber, lure, pieces of discarded lines, split shot.
In one compartment there is the dried carcass of a worm that no one dares touch. And it is taking up a badly needed compartment! “I could fit six lures in that space,” someone said. I think every young fisher person has owned one or two Zebco Zee Bee 202 in their lifetime. The distinct “click” sound as you released the casting button is an unmistakable reminder of one’s youth. And the stark “zinging” of the reel as you reel in a fish or try to yank the hook free from something it has caught on to sings.
At the river’s edge there is a large rock, just perfect for my grandfather to sit. I always got him geared to go. The 202 is ready, the hook is on the line, ( with my father’s knot of course,) and I reach into a Maxwell House coffee can which contains the bait. Long, silvery,phlegmatic worms, or since they have the flat tail, nightcrawlers.
I thread the worm’s mouth onto the point, along the bend and onto the shank . Yes, worms do have mouths! I would cast as far up stream as possible to give the worm as much natural float time. My grandfather would hold the rod/reel in one hand and puff on a Lark cigarette with other. My father and brother have walked up stream and I find my special spot and release about 15 feet of line and leader onto the water and pop the rod’s tip up and to my right. I flap my wrist and begin the methodical operation of pulling fly line from the reel.
With back cast after back cast being careful to not allow the line and fly to begin a descent unless over water, I ease the fly onto the water and watch a fine effortless drift begin( like a natural fly I hope.) It is a little upstream. Fortunately, I have achieved a darn good dry fly float. I await the trout’s lips to suck in its dinner. And then become mine!
I should have seen or at least heard my brother approaching. I should have seen the blue rod snap back, positioned for a cast. I didn’t. I guess I was concentrating on my fishing. Suddenly I heard the distinct click of the 202 releasing its line. From over my right shoulder a huge ball of night crawlers the size of a Civil War cannon ball was arching in the air and heading straight for my fly.
Like a drone fired missile, the glob came down directly on my fly. “Thunksh” was its sound. My poor #18 shot up from the water, somersaulted and in slow motion twists and turns and floats into the worm's spinning vortex . Like a like a scene from “Jaws” my fly slowly sank from view. If I had any expectations of catching a fish that day, twelve pounds of nightcrawlers on a #10 hook sealed my fate.
Ironically the only one to catch a fish that day was my brother. A seamless 16” rainbow trout. And here I am 45+ years later with a robust life behind me and I still ask the question: How on God’s green earth did the trout’s snout find its way through the mass of worm to the hook’s point? A true mystery.
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