These are the stories from our guided trip on the White River with guides John Wilson and Jimmy Traylor on February 16, 2008. Johnston Hager (“Stone”), Stuart Noel (“Stu”), Billy Reisner, and I all had a blast and I can safely say this was one of the best days of fishing we will ever encounter.
I don’t want this to be your typical fish story and I know when you start saying things like “best day ever” you run that risk. Thus, to enhance the veracity of the tale that follows, I have inserted pictures in an attempt to document the events of the day. I have taken the liberty of adding some detail for the sake of the spicing up the narrative a bit, but all in all, I have not embellished a great deal of what follows.
I also apologize in advance for my long-windedness but this day really inspired me. In fact, for the past 15 years that I have been fly fishing, I have never once felt the need to memorialize the events of one day on paper. I hope you can enjoy a fraction of what I felt by reading along.
The day began with a headache and a Budweiser to wash away the night. Stone, Stu, Billy, and I had a long night fishing on the Norfork where we caught a few average browns and a ton of rainbows. Keeping warm with nips of Jim Beam, we called it quits around 4 AM to nap before the 8 AM wake-up call.
Wilson and Jimmy T met us at Gene's on the Norfork, per our request a day earlier, so we wouldn’t have to worry about driving home after a few brews on the river. As you might imagine, our trips to Arkansas primarily consist of drinking with a little fishing on the side. Or at least that’s what we claim for those years when we don’t have fish stories to tell.
Stu, Billy, and I reside in STL and we have been coming down to fish the Norfork and White every year for the past 5 or 6 years now. Our fourth man is typically “Big John” but unfortunately Big John's wife was under the weather and he could not join us this year. We all wish her the best. Big John is usually the anchor of our group. He is a motivator, a great fisherman, and keeps the candle burning at both ends to say the least. He was shattered that he couldn’t make it on the trip and we all certainly missed him a ton. In hindsight, his absence may have been a blessing in disguise because now we will most likely be coming down a second time this year.
Filling Big John’s spot was not easy. We had a few candidates in mind but there were strict requirements. Obviously, the guy had to be somewhat proficient with a fly rod and we did not want someone who would spend his days on the phone dealing with a nagging spouse or an overly demanding occupation. The guy also needed to be up for late nights, early mornings, and gluttonous amounts of fishing. Ultimately, all of us came to the same conclusion. Enter Stone, Big John's brother-in-law. Stone is relatively new to the fly fishing gig, but is an excellent spin fisherman and grew up sticking bass the size of your thigh. Needless to say, Stone figured out the long stick pretty quickly and had Wilson saying "that Stone is just fishy" by the end of the day. Here is a shot of the crew:
About Me
- Missouri Trout Stalker
- Saint Louis, Missouri, United States
- I am an attorney in my early thirties with a serious fly fishing problem. I work at a large corporate law firm where things move pretty fast. In the midst of the hustle and bustle of corporate America, I try as often as possible to get away and enjoy a quiet stream. My blog attempts to detail the adventures I have both on and off the water in "My World on the Fly."
Monday, March 3, 2008
A Career Day
From left to right: Stu, Billy, me, Stone.
Well, as I was saying, at 8 AM Jimmy T and Wilson let themselves into our cabin at Gene’s to rustle us out of bed. The first big news of the day, to everyones’ surprise, was that they were not running any water on the White. This meant “fish eyes” were in play and our odds of hooking a hog went up slightly. We loaded our gear and coolers into the car, stopped for more beer on the ride to the White, and discussed our plan of attack.
There is always something interesting about walking in to the quick shop at eight in the morning with a beer in hand and placing more beer on the counter. You certainly get some interesting looks from the cashier. This morning, however, was slightly different. The cashier had a mullet down to the center of his back. He wore cut off sweat pant shorts and a wife beater to hide is 350 lb girlish figure. Without even batting an eye, he rung us up, flashed a toothless smile, and most likely cracked a beer himself shortly after we left.
On the ride over to the White, Stone learned his first lesson in fly fishing: “the wader fart.” He must have laid one down just as he was getting into the ride at the quick shop and when the smell didn’t hit immediately, he thought he got away with one. To his surprise, and per the usual wader marinade process, the stank hit about 15 minutes later when he repositioned himself on the seat. The windows dropped in flash and Wilson nearly had to pull the car over as his eyes were watering from the stench. After the Suburban finally aired out, we were at the river. Thanks for a pleasant ride Stone.
Pulling in to our parking spot and gazing out over the water, we were pleased to see we had a little room to fish. There were probably 5 or 6 other fisherman on the shoal, but it was not too crowded. The 35 degree rainy day was doing a great job keeping people off the water. A real quick side note, where I come from we usually don’t disclose the location of where we catch fish, especially big fish, because when word gets out, local yocals like our friend in the quick shop go bait casting and start sticking trophy browns in their freezers. I don’t know what the policy is on this forum, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. Back to the story.
So we gear up and head to the river. I am lucky enough to be fishing one of two 10 foot Sage Z-axis rods so graciously loaned to Wilson by Cary Marcus. I had the 5wt and Stone had the 4wt. Thanks again Cary. Those rods are sweet! I am definitely in the market now for a 10 footer to add to my collection.
As we hit the river bed, I was very anxious to get started and to get on the board with a brown. I gulped down my remaining Bud, disposed of the can and quickly grabbed the first spot in the tail out of the shoal. Stone set up just above me in the faster water, Stu directly below me, and Billy was the furthest down stream. Jimmy T and Wilson were circulating between the four of us pointing out productive water and spotting fish.
Fishing sow bug patterns, I hooked into my first brown within about 10 minutes. As Wilson netted him, I reached for my camera. The damn thing was out of batteries. We quickly did some shuffling and Stone snapped this shot with the camera he was holding.
The first fish of the day. Hopefully there would be more to come. By the way, the guy in the background (over Wilson’s left shoulder) is not a member of our party.
Now in the past, it has been my experience that I always have the best days when I am either fishing solo or when I forget my camera. Although we had two functional cameras on the water that day other than mine, I felt my dead batteries might be a sign or at least bring some good karma. After a quick kiss and release, I was casting again.
The second fish came within the next 15 or 20 minutes. BAM! Another beautiful brown pushing 20 inches:
I was starting to have fun. I could see fish moving all around the pockets in front of me. Visibility was decent, we found a hot pattern, and the fish were eating. I was also starting to get a little cocky as nobody else in the group had a brown in the net yet.
I yelled down to Stu: “You wanna get a little action for the biggest fish of the day?”
Stu quickly responded: “nice call after landing your first two.” The bet for the day was appropriately set at 50 cents for the biggest fish.
Stu struck next with Jimmy T at his side. I heard the stick come from just below me: “THSIK!” There is nothing like that sound. The sound when your line lifts off the water and comes tight to a fish. You lift, often questioning whether you’ve stuck the bottom or a trout, then you see the fish roll or flash and you know you’re in business. What a feeling. Stu’s fish ran and performed an aerial throwing the hook. Stu let out a high-pitched “F###! That was a good one.” I snickered and we continued casting.
As Billy was putting bow after bow in hand down stream, a larger brown moved in the pocket no more than 15 feet in front of me. Wilson snuck in at my side offering “that fish is easily 30 inches.” My heart rate picked up. It was on. This is what we came down here for. This is White River fishing. I still had the sow bug on that was cleaning up. I figured one good presentation and I would see his mouth open. To my surprise, cast after cast was met with refusals. The fish moved around the pocket. He settled on the far side, then the near side again. He moved further across the river, down stream, then upstream. He was not comfortable and was not eating. Finally, after about 15 minutes of heart pounding disappointment, he made a significant move up stream about 15 yards. I could still see him at this point, but any cast I threw that far up river would have been poaching. This was now Stone’s fish.
Wilson shifted positions to Stone’s side. I continued to cast for smaller fish in front of me, but I was really listening to the coaching coming from up river. As I was pulling in a small bow, I heard that sound: “THSIK!” This time it was followed by “you gott’em Stone. Stay calm.” I immediately backed out of the river. I saw the huge brown silhouette dart down stream as Stone got him on the reel. “This is a twenty pound fish,” Wilson stated in the same breath telling Stone to stay calm. How do you do that, I wondered. 20 lbs and staying calm cannot be used in the same sentence when it comes to fly fishing. Stone played the fish well and started following him down stream. The hog was heading for a log jam. Wilson yelled “back up, back up don’t let him….” Just then the taught line sprang out of the water back to its origin and draped over Stone’s shoulder. He was gone. Stone was dumbfounded. It took about 2 minutes and it was over. “Nice job Stoney,” I exclaimed, “at least you got him to eat.” Needless to say, this did not satisfy Stone’s disappointment. He backed out of the water for a beer and the day continued on.
With the Stoneman taking a breather, I slid up in to the faster water where he was fishing and began plucking a few bows. Stu and Jimmy T shifted up into the water I was fishing, and Billy followed suit taking over Stu’s old spot. Shortly after our shift, Stu laid into a good brown. After a short play, he had this sucker in the net and was on the board with a qualifier. This was the largest fish of the day so far:
“I bet your wishing it was $20 per man now,” I exclaimed. After the release of Stu’s trophy and a few photo ops together, I managed to stick two more great browns out of Stone’s former spot.
I was ready for a “sodey” and a breather. We were now shooting to get everyone on the board with a 20 inch fish. Stone quickly housed his brew, and was ready for his turn. It did not take long. With me and Wilson spectating, Stone threw a nasty 30 foot haul to an old spawning bed on the far bank. He executed Jimmy T’s patented reach mend and put the fly in the kitchen. The lead indicator turned slightly up stream right when the fly was in the wheel house. Stone lifted his rod tip abruptly and sure enough, fish on! With a few strips and a spin of the reel, Stone landed the first twenty inch fish of his life on a fly rod.
Congrats Johnston!
That’s all it took to inspire me again and I think Wilson noticed it. I saw him slide his long landing net in his wading belt and I knew what was up. He was going on a recon mission for a pig. I followed quickly behind graciously offering to give Billy my spot. What a guy I am!
It did not take long to find a pod of really nice fish. Wilson set me up on the low end of the hole and Stu on the high end. Stu put a second hog in the net almost immediately.
I followed shortly thereafter.
I then slid slightly further down stream. Wilson joined me as Stu was pumped to have this honey hole all to himself. That’s when we got our first visual of “Walter.” Glued to the bottom about 20 feet out and just down stream of me was what appeared to be a log with fins. This was Walter. The name comes from a long standing joke, or fish fantasy, I have running with my Dad. We have both been in search of this mythical fish for years. If you’ve seen the movie “On Golden Pond” you’ll understand the reference. “Do you see that Ryan,” Wislon inquired, “do you see the heron scar on that fish’s back?”
Well John, I think I see a fish but I don’t see any scar.” I threw a cast upstream of what I saw and drifted my fly right over the finned log. “You see him,” Wilson remarked, “that’s a big fish. You work him and if he eats give me a yell.”
“Johnny,” I responded, “if I hook that fish, getting your attention won’t be a problem.” My heart raced again as I casted. I heard Stu nail another good brown. “Eat you bastard,” I said to myself with each drift. Something wasn’t right. “Wilson,” I yelled, “I think I need more split shot. This fly isn’t getting down to him.” Little did Stu or Wilson realize, this was simply a ploy to get Wilson's fly box back near me. Wilson snuck back down to Walter and I and pulled out a #10 off-white egg with a florescent orange hot spot. “This is a big fish fly, Ryan,” he remarked, “a lot of big fish have been taken on this pattern.”
I was psyched. We tied up and started casting again. No additional split shot. A few drifts….nothing. Wilson then had me mend to put a little action on the egg. When my cast would hit the water, I threw an initial mend upstream of the hole to align my drift and set up the appropriate presentation. He then had me throw a second smaller mend right as the fly was entering the hole. This, he said, would cause the egg to lift off the bottom and drop into the hole instead of dragging along the bottom into Walter’s lair.
It took me a minute to get this technique down, but I got it. “Good drift Ryan,” Wilson praised, “one more time, just a little shorter.” My fly was drifting just outside Walter’s range. I lifted the line off the water hauling in my back cast, then adding the forward haul and laying the line on the water. I executed my first mend lining up the drift and followed shortly thereafter with the second, smaller mend, dropping the egg into the hole. My indicators drifted past Walter. I knew the egg was following closely behind. I tried to focus on the indicators and not the fish. The lead indicator ducked into the water. I set the hook and there was a pause. One one thousand, two one thousand…was I on the bottom? Just then, Walter moved, my line pulled tight and the rod bent. Holy Sh*t he ate! “Stay calm,” Wilson barked, “get him on the reel.” I fumbled getting my fly line untangled from the hemostats hanging off my rain jacket. Wilson actually stepped in to do this for me as Walter picked up speed and headed up river. I was freaking out!
“He’s on the reel,” I responded to Wilson, “Stu, get out of the way.” Stu didn’t move. He threw another cast. “Stu get the f*ck out of the way!” This time I yelled. Stu realized something was going on now. He quickly reeled up.
Wilson began coaching, “alright Ryan, back up, back up and reel.” I followed his instruction and Walter suddenly changed directions and started a down stream run. I reversed the angle of my rod tip and reeled hard to keep the line taught. I moved down river with the fish as he ran. By now, Wilson had net in hand and was moving below Walter to corral him into shallower water. “Keep backing up Ryan and reel,” Wilson commanded. I abided. The line then suddenly shot out of the water like it was spring loaded. The end of my line was lifeless. Walter had bowed his head toward me and immediately pulled back throwing the fly. I fell to my knees and put my head in my hands. He was gone. I blew it.
As I sulked shouting obscenities, Wilson slowly followed the fish down stream with his net. I thought he was trying to net the fish so we could still claim we got him. “Damn it,” I yelled, “what did I do wrong?”
Wilson retorted, “get off your knees and stop pouting. This fish isn’t done yet. Move down to me quietly and we can get another cast in.”
"That fish will eat again?” No way, I thought.
"Ryan, you’re gonna have to move a little faster than that!” Wilson shouted. I got it in gear and caught up to him. The fish was still backing up slowly into the end of the tail out. The water was getting shallower and shallower. Walter was about 10 feet out and slightly down stream of us. “Alright Ryan,” Wilson instructed calmly with his hybrid Texas/Arkansas drawl, “make a cast.” The fish was so close I couldn’t get enough line out to properly load the rod. I missed the first toss. I missed the second toss and then the third. “Ryan, MAKE A CAST!” Wilson was fired up. I was fired up. I threw again and the drift was right on. Walter did not eat. He backed up again. We followed as I casted. “Don’t cast at him when he’s moving,” Wilson barked, “wait till he’s comfortable. This fish is still calm and he’ll eat again.” Walter backed up even more. By now, he was in such shallow water that his back was breaking the surface and leaving a wake behind him. He had no more room to move. I had to get it done now or he would spook upstream and I would lose him.
I threw my next cast and the fly went right in his face. He didn’t eat. “Throw that mend in Ryan. Move the egg.” The next cast hit the water, I executed the mend, this was the shot. The fly drifted right to the fish’s face. I finally noticed the heron scar on Walter’s back and I took my eyes off my indicators and looked at the fish. His mouth opened. I didn’t know if he was breathing or eating. I guessed and delivered a hook set. “THSIK!” Walter paused as if he were saying “I have something stuck between my teeth. I’d better move now.” He casually began to cruise up stream. My rod flexed and the fly line followed. He was on again.
A second burst of adrenalin ripped through me. I am not losing this fish a second time. Wilson was immediately back on point barking orders: “Get him on the reel. Let him run Ryan, move with him.” I minded every word. Walter took us back up to where the rest of the group was. I applied downstream pressure as the fish continued up stream. He was not budging. I had never felt a fish this strong. Jimmy T yelled “has he got a 30 on John?”
Wilson responded “this fish is spookin’ thirties.” I continued to apply downstream pressure and couldn’t move this fish at all. He was in control. My reel was singing.
After 5 minutes or so of pulling against him trying to control the spin of my reel, I saw a submerged log in Walter’s path. “John, is that a log,” I shouted. By now, Wilson was standing in the middle of the channel in line with the fish with his net in hand. I was on the bank just down stream of the fish trying to coax him away from the log and toward Wilson.
"Yeah,” John responded, “you gotta put the wood to him now Ryan. Back up and lay it on him. LAY IT ON HIM!” I moved quickly backward reeling as I went. Thankfully, Walter decided not to push back too hard. He moved closer and closer to Wilson. Everything was going in slow motion. At any minute I expected the line to come springing out of the water. My wrist was on fire. I was using my left hand to help support the rod when I wasn’t reeling. I kept backing up. I saw Wilson lunge with the net. There was a flash of gold, a tail….we got him!
“Holy #@*$!” I was freaking out. Wilson brought him over to me and I saw the size of this thing. My heart was pounding. My hands were shaking. I met Walter face to face, the heron scar clearly noticeable on his back:
Caught on a 10 ft 5wt Sage Z-axis with Sharkskin line and 5x Rio fluorocarbon tippet. While there were no official measurements taken, Wilson's educated guess was 34 inches long with a 22 inch girth—24.2 lbs. I know this will be debated, but at this point I really don't care. In my mind Walter was a beast. The group took movies, they took pictures. Everyone on the shoal came down to check out this fish. I was on cloud nine.
I gave the fish of my life a kiss on his forehead, gently laid him back in the water, and Walter swam off to grow a little bigger and to be caught another day.
In the aftermath, we took some group shots, shared a few beers, and I made a call to Sara, my girlfriend of almost 5 years who puts up with all my fishing antics and actually supports my addiction by buying me rods and trips to go tarpon fishing (don’t worry, I plan to make an honest woman out of her soon). I called my Dad to tell him I caught Walter. I called Cary to thank him for letting me use the rods. I called Big John and let him know we missed him and wished he was there with us. The smile never left my face. I was done fishing for the day and as it turned out, pretty much the rest of the weekend. What a day! Stu had two twenties, Stone had one, I had Walter, and we hadn’t even had lunch yet.
The second half of the day slowed a bit as the rain picked up, but the fish continued to feed. The day closed with Billy getting on the board with the first twenty inch trout of his fishing career. He had hooked several large fish throughout the day but couldn’t manage to get any in the net. Finally, with the light fading and the game on the line, he brought this beautiful brown in to close out the day.
The entire experience was surreal. Every person in our group caught the biggest fish of his life (except for maybe Stu, but this was definitely the first time he had landed two 20 inchers in the same day). We headed back to Gene’s in a state of nirvana, sharing tales of each fish and wondering if it could get any better. It was a career day for all of us.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
You flossed that big guy, didn't you?
Post a Comment