Where would I even begin?
My bro took me fishing to Bennett Spring something like eight years ago, and every family gathering since, it seems, we say we ought to get back down there. We finally did, and with Dad along as well. They'd fished together some when my brother was in High School, back when I was in such utter rebellion against even having a father that I refused to participate in such activities. So this was my first fishing trip with Dad since he used to take us to the Douglas State Fishing Lake over thirty years ago.
We were going to camp, again, but the forecast was for near freezing lows, and Dad wimped out on even the idea and rented a cabin. I was going to do the camping thing, even brought an extension chord to run my CPAP in the tent, hoping to overwhelm the elements with plentiful inferior gear. I had a close shave with hypothermia on a camping trip a few years back, the only other time I've camped in late October, but I figured with three times the camping gear and without the major dose of whiskey I'd had back then, I'd be okay.
The big thing, though, was to go sight fishing for trout. I detest the casting and reeling and hoping sort of fishing. Especially on the shore of a lake. It's a circle of Hell, I'm pretty sure. But trout in a river is a whole different game. They're smart, for a start. They'll taste your fly and spit it out before you can say 'shit.' You have to watch them approach, and the split-second that fly enters the mouth, yank and set the hook.
It was closing weekend at Bennett (you can catch-and-release through the winter, but I'm a catch-and-eat sort of guy). The weather was gorgeous if cool. The days were perfect, temperatures in the low 60s with gentle breezes if any and lots of sun. The trees wearing their fall colors were basically worth the whole trip.
I wanted to get there and ready to fish at the opening whistle. It seems like last time, all the dumb and hungry fish were caught by the time we hit the water. I think I caught two or three on the last trip, but the limit is four a day and I wanted to hit the limit.
One thing and another, our efforts to get down early Friday evening resulted in our arriving at the cabin at 1:30am Saturday morning. We managed not to hit the deer (and other wildlife), who held a convention along the roadside all the way from Kansas City.
We got up at the 6:00am alarm we'd set, took too long bundling up, then with me buying a fishing rod and me and Bro renting waders, selecting flies and tying them on to our leaders and buying our licenses and tags and so on, we were in the parking lot of the store when the siren went off. I think, actually, I snapped the picture of my snarled up reel around the time the real fishing should have commenced.
We get over to the dam and are wrestling into waders and I notice a couple of people heading to their cars with stringers already loaded up with the whole day's catch.
And I go a little crazy in my head because how could we have failed to cover a quarter mile's distance from the bed to the water in ninety minutes???
A pleasant surprise, though. I used to really get grossed out cleaning a fish. Like having to struggle against my rising gorge. Finally, at 38, I can cut the gills and guts out of a trout and it doesn't bother me. Shocking, I know.
So all that day and evening, I'm adamant that we absolutely have to be there at the siren on Sunday. I was probably even obnoxious about it.
But we had fun fishing. Bro caught the limit eventually. We broke for lunch and claimed a camp site, but basically fished the whole day. Well, I fished the whole day. Bro went and got firewood, set up camp, etc., especially once he was at the limit. Dad caught one. I caught a couple in rapid succession around 10:00am. Tried various flies recommended by those more knowledgeable (which is to say, everyone).
I'd never been in waders before. Turns out, you can rent them for $9 a day, and while they don't keep you warm, they do keep you dry as you wade into the icy water. Gotta be careful, the bottom of a river is a slippery and uneven thing, but I managed to not fall over, flood my waders, ruin the camera I (foolishly) carried along, get hypothermia and generally ruin the weekend.
I tried, with this camera, to get a picture that shows you how many fish there are and how clearly you can see them, but the reflective nature of the surface thwarted me. The water is very clear, and when you're looking, you can kind of adjust your angle of view until you see through rather than seeing the reflection, but the camera seems to get the mirror every time. Here's one you can kind of see what I'm talking about in:
At the end of the day, we went into Lebanon for food and beer. We made a serious of mildly unfortunate decisions: against eating at Applebee's in favor of eating around the camp fire; against taking a pizza back because we'd have to wait on it to be made, in favor of a Wendy's that turned out to be swamped and badly managed, but we got back to the camp in time to have luke-warm fast food around a fire of incredibly sappy oak. washed down with a bit of Sierra Nevada Stout. Which is to say, it was fine that we had fast food that wasn't fast.
The tent I was to camp in turned out to be missing poles. It's a hard tent to pitch in the best of circumstances, and I was so exhausted I bailed on freezing my ass off and slept another night in the cabin. My brother did tough it out up there, and to his credit hardly implied that I was in any way a pussy.
That alarm clock sure seemed early. There had been discussion of whether this was the weekend where we go to Standard Time, fall back an hour. Would have been nice if it were. We could have used the hour of sleep and we might have had less competition for fish at the opening siren if some of our fellows forgot and showed up an hour late.
Being there for the opening siren: if you fish Bennett Spring, this is absolutely not negotiable. For one, all the people waiting in silence, fly rods and ultralight spinners poised, waded out to their special spot, standing on the dam, below the bridge, everywhere, with the mist coming off the water, that was a scene.
For another, unless you're me, it's a great way to actually catch fish.
When the siren blew, I saw my brother cast. I cast my fly, one I'd been assured was great for early morning, a black and yellow marabou (a sort of feathery looking thing ).
The siren still wailing, I here splashing and look over to see my kid brother scooping his first fish. All right, I think. It really does pay to be here at the start, when the fish are hungry and the dumb ones haven't been caught.
And I cast and watched my lure, watched trout come up like they were going to hit and at the last minute turn, lightning fast, as if to say, 'Psych!'
By eight, his stringer had his four fish. That's a half hour, maybe a little less since I heard some fishermen griping that the siren had been seven minutes late.
I keep fishing, getting nothing going on at all. I was blacklisted by the trout as far as I could tell.
My Dad called to me a little while later, and when I asked him how it was going for him, he said, 'Made all the difference. I finally got my fourth. How are you doing?'
I had nothing. Nada. Empty stringer. Not even missing hits.
I tried fishing with my brother's rod and the fly he'd caught his on. I tried the lure my Dad had caught his last three on. See also the lure a fellow gave me off his hat. The spinner the bait shop guy had sold me, and I think one other.
I finally got a fish, around 10:00 on a puff-ball shaped fly that's supposed to look like trout eggs or something. I didn't think it looked like the trout eggs I scooped out of that fish when I cleaned it later, but if it fooled the trout, I'm down with that.
That same fly, I saw a big mother of a trout taste it twice. I was too slow to set the hook both times. This fish was maybe twice as thick as any of the others down there, a real keeper. But he didn't get that big by being dumb enough or slow enough for me to get him with the luck I was having today.
Dad and bro broke camp and checked us out of the room and all that while I struggled on until I got to needing to pee. By the time I cleaned my one fish, found the restrooms and wrestled out of my waders to relieve myself, I wasn't too keen to go back to fishing. I'd gotten to the point where the frustration was starting to overwhelm the fun, it was time to stop.
Still, it was good to get out there, get to spend the time with my brother and Dad, good to catch even the three I did. I'd been needing a change of pace something fierce, and this was made to order. I hope we can make it back before another seven or eight years.
I did forget to bring along my copy of that tome of hippie nonsense, Trout Fishing in America.
