|
Dry-Fly Fishing
From “Secrets of the Salmon”
By: Edward Ringwood Hewitt
We will now transport
ourselves to a salmon river in late July or early August and see just what will
happen. The time of day will be 11 A.M., the pool, a long one with a ripply run
in it at the top and a deep-water centre and a tail-end, with the bottom of
stones from the size of your hand to two feet in diameter.
We come to the pool at the
top and I stand up in the canoe, and let the guide paddle carefully, not using
his steel-shod pole which scares the fish. We drift down the side of the current
at the top and see no sign of fish. In the centre of the pool are several salmon
in deep water along ledges; as the canoe nears the tail, we draw to one side and
look carefully in a small depression caused by ice or a log jam. Here are six
salmon with their noses pointing up-stream. The water is not over three feet
deep at most and getting gradually shallower toward the land. We carefully back
the canoe and pull it up out of the way and the guide climbs up on a projecting
log where he can see the fish, and tell me if the fly passes over them and what
they do. I get out my ten-foot-six-inch rod with a fourteen-foot leader and a
gray hackle fly and wade into position. I always fish on my feet and wade if
possible. A canoe is very hard to fish from with a dry fly because it scares the
fish and because it is necessary to make a disturbance when you move. In dry-fly
fishing the position of the fly, the leader, and the line are all of them
important and it is hard to judge where to place your self to get a perfect
cast. Taking into consideration the wind and the current, which make a
difference, I always start in well below the fish and to one side so that they
do not see me at all. My position will be about forty feet to the right of the
fish and perhaps fifteen feet below them. I get out my line, casting in the air
and up-stream, along the bank, until I judge that I have the right amount of
line out, so that the fly will light three or four feet upstream from the
nearest fish and directly in line with him. The fly is well oiled with a mixture
of albolene and kerosene in equal parts, and floats well; the leader and line
are carefully greased with deer’s fat and float on the surface. The fly is cast
with a curl in the leader, so that it floats right over the fish. This is best
done by shooting the line through the guides and checking it with the left hand
before the fly lights. This jerks the fly back and causes a curl. A little
practice will soon teach the trick. The salmon seems to pay no attention to the
fly, but his head rises visibly from the bottom. A second cast does not come so
close over him and the guide says the fly is too near to me. I lengthen out the
casts a little and place the fly just right, about two feet in front of him. As
it floats down over him I see him rise and come rather slowly to the surface. As
his head comes up I hear the sucking noise which is made by closing the gill
plates and suddenlyng the mouth, causing the fly to enter. I have been
fishing trout too much this year and strike quickly and pull the fly away before
the fish gets it. It is bad work, and I have to take my punishment by waiting
until the salmon resumes his position in the group. They generally take up
almost the same position as before. I begin by casting again, and in a few casts
the guide says “the fly is passing over him.” This time he does not rise
directly up as before but turns after the fly has passed and gets below it,
rises and takes it with a great rush. There was no missing this rise, and a
lifting of the line sets the fly and the fight is on. He runs a hundred feet or
so and jumps into the air about six feet clear of the water, tumbling over
directly away from me. This kind of leap is very likely to lose the salmon, as
he almost invariably hits the leader with his tail when he jumps. There is a
conviction among guides that the salmon always hits the leader and that he
causes splits in his tail by so doing. The number of splits in his tail
corresponds to the number of jumps. I have generally found this to be the case,
but it may be only a coincidence. The salmon runs up to the head of the pool and
then down to the deep water where he begins to “chug,” as it is called; this is
jerking the head against the pull of the line to loosen the hook. Salmon
generally do this when they are lightly hooked and often get off. I always
dislike to feel it. The only thing to do is to hold them very lightly so they
will not have much strain to work against. They generally soon stop and begin to
run again if they don’t tear out. The fish jumps a second time and makes for the
end of the pool, with the evident intention of going down-stream. I ease the
strain on him as much as possible and run along the bank and get below him; this
turns him up-stream, as they generally fight away from the strain on the line.
Bearing right, to the edges of the swift water, he turns and goes up into the
pool and makes runs, getting shorter and shorter as the strain of the line and
fighting the current gradually tire him out. With the light rod it often takes
quite a time to get a fish close enough to gaff; he makes many short runs as he
sees the guide, but the pull of the line gradually brings him in and at last he
is landed on the beach, a fine fifteen-pound fish. This is all right for a
starter but there are five more fish there. We look and see that the
disturbance of the pool has not caused them to move. Again I get into position
for another cast and put the fly over the next nearest fish. Twenty casts or so
fail to make him move in the least, so I cast a little further over to the next
two fish, which are almost in line with each other; the second one moves upward,
here is another chance for a rise. The fly lights only a few inches in front of
his nose. He turns his head upward and, instead of making a turn to take the
fly, he raises his head vertically upward and pushes his whole body out of water
as far as the back fin, with the fly in his mouth. The strike pulls him over and
he seems astonished as he jumps at once four or five feet clear of the water, a
fine fourteen-pound fish, and off he goes again across the pool directly over
the bunch of fish I had been fishing for. This makes them restless and they take
up entirely new positions. While playing my fish on the line I watched them and
saw one of the fish I had noticed in the deep water swim slowly down out of the
pool and wing into line like a cavalryman taking his position at the ranks. It
often happens while fishing the pool that more fish come into view from the deep
water. One never knows what a salmon will do next. This one just ran out of the
pool and down the rapids so that I had to call for the canoe, as he already had
out over 400 feet of my 600 feet of line. I got in and reeled up as the canoe
rapidly overtook him. We soon passed him and the strain down-stream caused him
to stop and turn up. The current soon tired him out and we brought him to gaff
in a little eddy at the side.
The fishing of this pool is
characteristic of dry-fly fishing in July or August in low water. I could give
various illustrations of endless incidents, but one experience I had this summer
is so much more marked than any others that I shall take time to give it in
full, as it shows the superiority of the dry fly over the wet fly in low clear
water, better than any other story I could give. I have many witnesses to the
facts as stated. The incidents occurred on the 11th, 12th,
and 13th of Jul, 1921, on the upper Restigouche River below Kedgewick
Junction. The water was very clear and low; the most unsatisfactory conditions
in many years. One particularly hot day, when the lower pools of our water were
all empty but one (where I had taken two salmon from the eight in it), I decided
to make a trip and see the fish in the big water below. As I passed the camp I
saw some one on the porch and decided to ask if they were having any luck. Mr.
B. was most polite and offered to show me the fish. He said: “We have not taken
any in three days with four rods.” When he got down to the bank he remarked that
it was a pity that I did not have my tackle, as I might try to and see what I
could do. I replied that I had my rods in my canoe, so he got into his gaspe and
I took my canoe and we paddled down the current to the nearest pool. A brook
comes in at the head of this pool and there were springs in a little slough at
the side. Just abreast this in the cold water was an interesting sight—a school
of salmon lying just below the surface, extending for a space of twenty or
thirty feet wide and perhaps 200 feet long, side by side in solid formation. I
could not estimate the number. In size they seemed to be from twelve to thirty
of forty pounds. It just made me tingle all over. Mr. B. said they would not
take a fly and there was no use fishing for them, so we proceeded to swifter
water entering another pool. The second pool was a very deep basin with a very
smooth run in it at the top. When we arrived the boat scared the salmon from the
upper run and somewhat from the lower run, but I could see several fish under
the current along the edge. It was an ideal place to take them with a dry fly.
This pool had already been fished that morning with a wet fly without result.
The water temperature was seventy-two degrees Fahr. at 5 P.M. I called Mr. B’s
attention to a good fish visible along the current and put a gray hackle dry fly
over him. I remarked, “He will come in a few casts.” Mr. B. seemed very
sceptical. On the third cast the fish rose, but I struck too quickly and missed
him. He moved from his position and a few cast brought him up again, and this
time there was no miss. I could not afford to make mistakes, even if I was
excited. He rose slowly and I gave him plenty of time and hooked him well. As he
ran out I handed the five-ounce rod to Mr. B. and told him to play the fish,
which he did with consummate skill and landed him in ten or fifteen minutes. I
asked whether he wanted any more caught and he remarked in forceful English,
“Give them HELL.” I had three more rods in the boat and began at the upper run,
where the fish had returned by this time. The second cast raised the fish and a
few more hooked one. By this time Mr. B. had landed the first sixteen-pound fish
and I gave him the rod with the second fish. He seemed to be having the time of
his life. These two stirred up the run pretty well but there was an
eighteen-pound fish waiting in the smooth current and he was soon hooked and Mr.
B. was finally converted to the dry fly. I did not feel like imposing further on
a stranger who had been so polite and, as the fish rose slowly, we went back to
camp. On the way as we were passing the great bunch of fish in the spring-water
I asked if I could break off a hook and show him how they could be made to rise,
so that he could catch them later with my type of flies. He told me to “go to
it” and hook all I liked. I felt like a convict released from prison. Looking at
that bunch just made shivers run up and down my back. I got the canoe in
position about sixty feet to the side and placed a nice cast over the edge of
the bunch. What I had expected happened, several fish came at once and they
almost bumped each other, so none got the fly. The second cast was more
successful and a nineteen-pound fish succeeded in beating the others to it.
After one jump I handed the rod to Mr. B. who yelled for me to get another and
called to the guide on the shore to bring Mr. A. down from the camp at once. By
the time he arrived I was just hooking another fourteen-pound fish and Mr. A.
got up to the boat just in time to take the rod and go off down the pool with
the fish. Their two sons were in another boat just behind, so I took another rod
and hooked one for them. It was a great disappointment that the smaller fish
were always quicker than the larger ones, and as they composed the larger
number, they always got the fly first. We hooked only a few fish of twenty
pounds; most of them were fifteen, sixteen, eighteen pounds. But this is good
fishing on light rods. We had three rods going all the time, and as one salmon
was landed the rod was loaded with another fish in a few minutes. I lost all
count but the guides said I had fifty-four rises and hooked fourteen fish, of
which they landed eleven. As this is about the usual proportion of rises to fish
hooked, unless the angler is very lucky and skilful, I think it is probably a
correct estimate. We finally stopped after two hours’ fishing, with eleven fish
on the bank; more than the four rods had taken during the past week. Mr. B.
remarked to Mr. A.: “You’ve been a damn fool and that is bad enough, but to be a
damn fool for thirty years is the limit.”
We parted after a drink
(which still takes place in Canada) the best of friends, and with an urgent
request to return the next morning and bring the Judge, whom I had left at my
camp, and have a great day. We were to be there at nine o’clock but were a
little late and found Mr. B. had gone down the river to the pool we were to
fish. I passed the big fish school with longing eyes and pointed them out to the
Judge, but we were guests and did as we were told. Soldier’s Gulch is rather a
swift run leading into the head of a long pool. It is on a curve, giving an
excellent chance to wade on the inner side of the circle. Mr. B. had fished the
run with three drops down the pool in a big gaspe boat with a wet fly; he had
failed to raise any at all and was glad to see us arrive. Logs lay along the
shore, and I placed the Judge, who had no waders, on one at the head of the run
where he could cast easily over the best water and where I could see many dark
patches below the surface indicating bunches of salmon. I went a little below,
where I could use a dry fly along the edge of the current in the smooth water.
It was not more than a few minutes before the Judge let out a yell for Mr. B. to
come and take his rod and land the fish. I had to get out of the way to let the
fish pass downstream. Before the Judge could get his second rod in action I was
in position again and had a fish hooked, which I handed to one of the boys who
had come along.
At this point I had the best
record in dry-fly fishing I ever hoped to make; three casts and three fish
hooked. Why not? I could see them and there were dozens of them in just the
right spots to take. The circus went on all morning, with three rods in action
nearly all the time. With this light tackle it takes time to land a fish. One of
mine ran 600 feet in one run and another went down nearly half a mile and was
made to come nearly all the way back, by my getting blow him; then there were
logs and foul-hooked fish, and fish where other fish hit the leader and broke it
off. I know I lost five and probably more. I did not care thought, as I was too
excited and there were plenty more. Finally the game ended, with the place all
stirred up and no more rises. Seventeen fish we took back in the boats.
After a most excellent lunch
at the camp, Mr. A. seemed very anxious to join the game and see just how we did
it, so I took him in my boat to the large bunch of fish just below the camp, to
give him a chance. The weather had become dark and a few drops of rain were
falling. I knew that would happen. We got into position with the other two boats
below us, parallel to the bunch of fish, and the show began. Mr. A. was not used
to my single-handed rod and could not place the fly in the proper way to raise
the fish, so both the other boats had fish on before we did, but his light
two-handed rod exactly suited him. He soon hooked a fish with this, leaving in
his own boat to land him and letting me take one for myself, as all the other
rods had fish on. The one which finally got the fly seemed a big one, as it took
the line fast and I could not turn him at all. However, in half an hour or so we
got him up to the beach and found he was a sixteen-pound fish hooked in the
belly with a five-ounce rod on a No. 8 fly hook. I kept this skin for my
Neversink camp.
The next fish on the other
rod ran at least 500 feet before Mr. B. could get up to take him; when 650 feet
had run out, I held rather tight to turn him, and the backing broke at the reel.
It had been on the reel for six years; I never expected to get out so much line.
The line was oiled and floated on top of the water. Mr. B. rushed after it,
picked it up and tied it to the end of his salmon line and reeled the knot down
the guides and, by very skillful work, managed to land the fish and return me my
line and leader. I never had the experience before.
That day’s catch was about
forty fish for the six rods, but we did not have the all together at one time
for a photograph, as the men had put the morning’s catch in the ice-house.
The next day was clear and hot, but
we secured a good catch just the same, of twenty-seven fish. The big bunch of
fish was far more scary and difficult to raise, as the four boats near them kept
them nervous. I have no doubt a single canoe, sixty or seventy feet away at the
side, could have continuously hooked fish, with well-placed flies.
We parted from our new
friends with the most cordial feelings and requests on their part to return
another time. No party could ever have been more generously treated and
entertained and we cannot thank them enough for giving us this opportunity to
test my dry-fly methods where there was an abundance of fish. I have always
thought that catching salmon varies directly with the number of salmon fished
over and if the fishing was properly done over enough fish, they could always be
taken, and there would be no blank days or possibly weeks. My recent experience
has confirmed me in the opinion that the old-fashioned salmon-fishing methods in
low clear water above sixty degrees Fahr. are the worst possible way to take
salmon on a fly.
|
