Squannacook River Sunday
by Ray Gagnon
As I made my way up beyond the big bend pool of the Squannacook at the Bertozzi section, I came upon TU chapter brother, John Metzger, standing shin-deep in lovely, shallow, moving water. The beatific look on his face--glazed eyes, spacey smile--could mean only two things: the fishing had been fun, and he was probably in trouble with his wife. I was right on both counts: he'd had a delightful early-to-mid-morning, and he was still standing in the stream, casting away, over an hour after he'd committed to be home.
We caught up a bit, wished each other well, and I continued upriver.
I'm a relatively recent fly fisher--though terminally addicted now--and these higher pools of the river made no sense at all to me two years ago. ("The water doesn't move; whaddaya s'posed ta do here?") But TU chapter brother and sometimes mentor, Charlie Shadan, ever-generous with his advice and expertise--not to mention the lovely flies he ties by the semi-full--had both invited and challenged me on more than one occasion to see this river as more than a snag-filled, black water canal.
There is nothing like good teaching. Consequently, I was headed for two still slight-bend pools, whose outer curves were totally clogged with dead fall. Last time there, I'd had a thrilling strike on a red quill at the very end of the day so this time I started with that fly . . . then an Adams parachute . . . then I went under with a woolly worm. Though there were intermittent rises up and down, none was anywhere near my fly.
Then it occurred to me: thinking might be helpful. It was fall, balmy winds, over-hanging trees. I'd spooked some grasshoppers on my front walk as I dashed out earlier.
With a large, black cricket tied on, I prepared to cast to a small cove circumscribed by a tangle of dead fall. A short, and for me surprisingly well-executed roll cast and smash! It was a significant strike from which I came away with no fish, but fly still connected to tippet. Another try. Smash! But this time the thrill of life infused my little, 7½-foot, full-flex 4-weight. Then came the wonderful dance. Then, after still more dance, came the largest brown I'd caught in either of the rivers we steward. It was a 14-inch-plus fish with a very pronounced hooked jaw. It was tough to one-hand, but delighted enough to be revived and coached back into his home water.
Casting again seemed a good idea. The cricket again. Near the same sort of dead fall "cove" a little further down the stream. Smash! But this time, no fish, no fly. Back to fly box: no more crickets. "Stay with black color; stay with terrestrial," I thought. Black spider. One more roll cast . . . one more heart-stopping hit! Then again that wonderful pulsation on the little 4-weight, and I brought a second beautiful brown to hand. It was a virtual twin of the first. I released it to thrill again another day.
What I'd just experienced were some of the most exciting moments I'd had on this river. As I released the fish, I straightened and looked about at the beautiful spot I was in as if to imprint the place and what had just happened on my consciousness. It was mid- to late-afternoon, and the thought occurred to cast again, but I quickly dismissed it. I'd let the outing end with this. I'd savor this on the lovely walk out and on the easy ride home. And this would be the perfect way to end a successful Squannacook River Sunday.
-- RG