Hail, November
November 1, 2000 • (0) Comments
What better way is there to celebrate the arrival of November than an hour on quiet water with a good cigar?
I slipped off alone this weekday afternoon and parked behind a ball field at the Polo Grounds in Far Hills. Moments earlier, a police car had chased off a fisherman from the usual parking spot behind the old grandstand, and I didn’t relish getting a ticket for ignoring the “Road Closed” signs that have been up the last month. Thirty feet away, the North Branch seemed lower than a week ago, but I rigged up and tugged on my waders and boots anyway. Another fly-fisherman drove in as I did so, and we exchanged waves.
Ready to go, I set off downstream to the big pool below Route 202. Mental note: your wading boots, bought in anticipation of thick winter socks, are WAY too big. The embankment along both sides of the highway here is steep and, sliding down the opposite side, I very nearly lost my footing in the deep grass. Felt soles offer little traction. I briefly considered the wreckage that would ensue if I’d pitch-poled in my fishing regalia and vowed to research a new approach to the site. Safely at the bottom, I steered my long 5-weight rod through streamside foliage, conscious of snakes but none were apparent. There were no fish rising in the low water either, and very little current around the bridge abutments. I unhooked my leader and cast a tentative offer from the bank, fouling the back-cast on a limb. Rats. This was the reason I’d learned to work from mid-stream at this pool, but I retrieved the fly successfully and got it into the water on the second cast.
Seconds later, a tiny brown hatchery trout was aboard. Putting up little in the way of resistance, I brought him to the bank instantly. He was scarcely seven inches long, but had a marvelous row of bright red spots along his lower flanks. In celebration, I pulled out the cigar that had been the object of this trip and discovered sadly that I’d left my matches in the Mercedes. Oh well. The little fish went back into the stream and I worked out a casting motion that approximately covered the water before me without requiring me to wade in. My third cast found another taker and I quickly landed another miniature brown. Over the next fifteen minutes, I caught and released four more tiny fish, using the same #18 red ant. These fish weren’t easily spooked and I witnessed at least three strikes as I retrieved the fly upstream along the surface. They seemed attracted by the unnatural motion. At one point, fish began feeding lightly at the surface, but the dusky light beneath the bridge and trees made it difficult to determine their prey. I cast my red ant to their rises and caught fish every time, but after about five minutes, the surface activity stopped. Having failed at coaxing up any larger specimen, I took this as a good sign to call it a day and packed up after number six. End-to-end, my time from door to river to door was under an hour.