Day of Remembrance

Yesterday Americans remembered the sacrifices of men and women who died in the service of their country. Probably like most Americans, I didn't reflect too long on that sacrifice--Memorial day is for me as for so many a day to relax or catch up on household. I spent a lot of time in my garden over the weekend. But I was very moved by a reflection posted by Josh Marshall on Talking Points Memo about the importance about our connection to the dead, especially to deaths of service members. Thoughts about this came to me again last night when my wife and I went to a brewpub to unwind after the long weekend. A young couple sat down next to us at the bar, the man very lean with a close haircut. My guess that he was a soldier was confirmed when I overheard him saying "IED" or "unit" a couple of times in his conversation with the woman. He could have been one of my students who have been or are overseas in the service. The list of them is growing long. I'm grateful to those who have returned, and I pray for those still there.

May 31st is a different kind of day of remembrance for me. Though explaining this on the heels of the previous paragraph might seem to trivialize what we remembered yesterday, I have wanted to talk about it on the blog for a long time, and this is the day to do it. Plus, I can think of a few veterans who would appreciate the story regardless.

What I have to relate is really just a simple, routine fishermen's tale. But it's one that haunts me. Today marks the anniversary of one of the best--and worst--evenings of fishing I've ever had. If I could choose to relive one fishing event in my life, it would probably be a gray drake spinnerfall that happened twilight on May 31st, 1996, on a small western Michigan creek.

At the time, I'd just finished my first year of PhD study at Michigan State. I was taking a French class to meet a language requirement, but other than that I was doing a lot of reading, writing, and fishing. One day I made plans to head to the west side of the state once I'd finished my class in East Lansing and explore a few creeks named in a trout stream guidebook. By 2 PM I was bridge hopping, driving from one small stream to another to scout out conditions, but I was mostly unimpressed. The creeks were generally too small for fly fishing (claims of my guidebook notwithstanding) or too warm and devoid of cover. A little after four, having driven much farther from home than I'd planned to, I went to look at one more stream, and this one turned out to be a beauty. It was clear with a steady current and plenty of fallen logs for trout to hide among. Tall maples and oaks spread across much of the stream, but left enough space for short overhand or sidearm casts. And almost as soon as I walked to the bank, I saw two rises just downstream.

On went the waders, out came the rod. I couldn't raise the feeder I'd seen, so I tied on an adams and began working upstream. Nothing hit, but I hadn't been fishing long when I saw a steady stream of nymphs drifting by just below the surface. A hatch had to be starting, I thought, and it wasn't long before I saw rings dappling the quiet surface of a long bend pool. No insects were visible on the air or the water, so I wasn't sure what fly to use. When I did see a fly, I couldn't believe my eyes--a slate gray dun around size 14. It looked for all the world like a Hendrickson, but hennies should have been done here long ago. I put a hendrickson dun on anyway, and the game was on. I took three or four browns on it in nearly as many casts, then my fly went ignored though trout kept feeding. The nymphs were still drifting underwater, though; would the fish prefer an emerger? I tied on a hendrickson emerger, walked the bank upstream to get above the trout then swung my fly through the field of rises. First cast, fish on. I caught a couple more before the emerger lost favor, so I went back dowstream, fished the dun, and was back in business. I continued that pattern for a while until the feeding trailed off. I think in the course of that hatch I caught about 15 trout, all from the same bend. I kept a few, since the creek, according to my guide, was primarily a stocker fishery.

After eating the supper I'd packed I returned to the water and fished an assortment of nymphs and attractors, but didn't hook up. Maybe the trout were saving room for the manna about to fall from the sky--large, black spinners that began to cluster over the stream around nine. These flies were unfamiliar to me so I pulled out the mayfly field guide I carried in my vest and compared its pictures to the flies overhead. Gray drakes, I concluded. It was the right time of the season, and nothing else likely to be around then resembled them.

But the absence of gray drakes from my fly box overshadowing the satisfaction of identifying an unfamiliar bug. I'd never fished some place and time where grays were expected, so I'd never bought any. With some brown drake spinners and some brushy hendrickson spinners I figured I could make do, but I was wrong. Spectacularly.

The next half hour brought the first blanket spinnerfall I'd ever seen, and the heaviest concentration of feeding fish I have seen to this day. I started fishing maybe thirty yards below the bend where I'd caught fish earlier and worked to the top of it, rises showing literally bank to bank the entire way. I beat the water with my substitute flies and drew only a couple of short strikes. Going ignored by a handful of selectively rising trout is disappointing; getting the cold shoulder from scores of utterly ravenous fish is shattering, especially when you know exactly what the problem is but can't fix it.

Probably every fly fisherman has a story like that to tell. I could tell of other nights that unfolded similarly. This one stands out in part because of the sheer number of rising fish, but also because I encountered it relatively early in my fly fishing career. I was beginning just my third season with the long rod, and I think this experience impressed on me the intensity of satisfactions it could bring. I drove home frustrated, but also exhilarated by the desire to seek out more such occasions and to succeed where I had failed that night. The idea that failure is only preparation for future success may be true in many instances, but perhaps most so when it comes to fishing. Nothing stokes my determination like a good skunking, and this was the best I ever had.

I remember it every May 31st. And not infrequently the rest of the year.