Read Online Sleep with the Fishes by Brian M. Wiprud - Free Book Online
Authors: Brian M. Wiprud
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up his side of the pond, Sid guessed he’d be able to sneak up on them without the camouflage and also have some room to back cast.
As the fish weren’t rising to the surface for food, Sid reasoned they were feeding underwater. But on what?
He turned over a stone at the pond’s edge. Just some little black sluglike bugs. He reckoned they were nymphs, although he’d never actually seen any before, not in person. So he tied on a #14 Gold-Ribbed Black Nymph and moved from the dam and up along the leafy bank.
It was slow going. For one, the leaves and mud were deeper than he thought. For two, each mucky step spawned a great gray mushroom of mud. At least the current moved most of the murk behind him, toward the dam.
Ripples turned out to be the most difficult element to control. But without too much commotion, Sid got far enough up-pond so that he stood thigh deep and had room to cast without snagging bushes.
False casting, he got out thirty feet of line and let her rip. Nice cast. Nothing. His retrieve was impish little jerks, all the way to about five feet in front of him. Nothing. Another cast, another retrieve. Nothing.
“Psst.”
Sid twisted around. It was Smonig, back by the willow. He was greasy up to the elbow and holding his truck’s distributor. Sid scowled at him.
“Ducks…” Russ began in a stage whisper.
Sid held up an arresting hand and shook his head. No interruptions. Sid turned away.
Snubbed, Russ shrugged. He was just trying to tell Sid that a family of ducks had flown off the pond not fifteen minutes ago. The trout would be spooked from feeding for hours, though they might be tempted with worms or corn. Or maybe a little cheese. These trout were fresh from the stocking pond, and all they knew about food was what Purina put in a pellet. Russ ambled back toward the gaping gray jaws of his truck.
“Ducks. What I wanna hear about ducks? Can’t he see I’m, like, busy?” Sid shook his head, but gave a glance back to see if Smonig was watching. Nope, the jerk was gone. Back to business.
Sid kept moving farther forward with the idea the fish were clustered closer to where the creek entered the pond. Trout always hang out in highly oxygenated water—
Rod & Creel
gospel—and usually that’s where the water’s splashing around, though sometimes it’s where the water’s real cold.
As Sid moved forward, he found himself creeping under the towering canopy of a pin oak. Unbeknownst to Sid, leaves dropped from the pin oak in great number each fall, and they accumulated directly beneath it in quantity. So much so, in fact, that they gave the false impression that the pond was shallower than it was.
In midcast, Sid brought a foot forward onto the oak leaf bottom, and his leg sank steadily into deep mud.
Anticipation swelled as the water topped his hip boot and loaded his leg with thirty pounds of cold brown scum, bubbles of methane filling his nostrils with a horsy stench. The leg kept going down, and the chilly water approached his groin. Reflexively, he raised his arms over his head and started sucking in air, as though that might somehow make him lighter.
Like a bug on flypaper or a mouse on a glue trap, Sid brought the other foot forward to pull the sinking one out.
Chest deep in mud and chin deep in water, it was beginning to dawn on him that there were a lot more angles to this angling business than he’d figured.
There was only one way out. He had to bid farewell to the hip boots, unclip them, slither free, and make like a mudskipper by wallowing to the shore generously slathered in fetid mud. Once free of them, however, Sid couldn’t resist trying to recover his hip boots.
Plastered hat to socks in muck, Sid stomped toward Ballard Cabin, rod in one hand and a lone hip boot in the other. A twist to the spigot knob brought a hose to life, and he rinsed off both himself and his gear. Then he headed for the shower inside.
That’s where Sid learned about the little black “nymphs.”
As the fish weren’t rising to the surface for food, Sid reasoned they were feeding underwater. But on what?
He turned over a stone at the pond’s edge. Just some little black sluglike bugs. He reckoned they were nymphs, although he’d never actually seen any before, not in person. So he tied on a #14 Gold-Ribbed Black Nymph and moved from the dam and up along the leafy bank.
It was slow going. For one, the leaves and mud were deeper than he thought. For two, each mucky step spawned a great gray mushroom of mud. At least the current moved most of the murk behind him, toward the dam.
Ripples turned out to be the most difficult element to control. But without too much commotion, Sid got far enough up-pond so that he stood thigh deep and had room to cast without snagging bushes.
False casting, he got out thirty feet of line and let her rip. Nice cast. Nothing. His retrieve was impish little jerks, all the way to about five feet in front of him. Nothing. Another cast, another retrieve. Nothing.
“Psst.”
Sid twisted around. It was Smonig, back by the willow. He was greasy up to the elbow and holding his truck’s distributor. Sid scowled at him.
“Ducks…” Russ began in a stage whisper.
Sid held up an arresting hand and shook his head. No interruptions. Sid turned away.
Snubbed, Russ shrugged. He was just trying to tell Sid that a family of ducks had flown off the pond not fifteen minutes ago. The trout would be spooked from feeding for hours, though they might be tempted with worms or corn. Or maybe a little cheese. These trout were fresh from the stocking pond, and all they knew about food was what Purina put in a pellet. Russ ambled back toward the gaping gray jaws of his truck.
“Ducks. What I wanna hear about ducks? Can’t he see I’m, like, busy?” Sid shook his head, but gave a glance back to see if Smonig was watching. Nope, the jerk was gone. Back to business.
Sid kept moving farther forward with the idea the fish were clustered closer to where the creek entered the pond. Trout always hang out in highly oxygenated water—
Rod & Creel
gospel—and usually that’s where the water’s splashing around, though sometimes it’s where the water’s real cold.
As Sid moved forward, he found himself creeping under the towering canopy of a pin oak. Unbeknownst to Sid, leaves dropped from the pin oak in great number each fall, and they accumulated directly beneath it in quantity. So much so, in fact, that they gave the false impression that the pond was shallower than it was.
In midcast, Sid brought a foot forward onto the oak leaf bottom, and his leg sank steadily into deep mud.
Anticipation swelled as the water topped his hip boot and loaded his leg with thirty pounds of cold brown scum, bubbles of methane filling his nostrils with a horsy stench. The leg kept going down, and the chilly water approached his groin. Reflexively, he raised his arms over his head and started sucking in air, as though that might somehow make him lighter.
Like a bug on flypaper or a mouse on a glue trap, Sid brought the other foot forward to pull the sinking one out.
Chest deep in mud and chin deep in water, it was beginning to dawn on him that there were a lot more angles to this angling business than he’d figured.
There was only one way out. He had to bid farewell to the hip boots, unclip them, slither free, and make like a mudskipper by wallowing to the shore generously slathered in fetid mud. Once free of them, however, Sid couldn’t resist trying to recover his hip boots.
Plastered hat to socks in muck, Sid stomped toward Ballard Cabin, rod in one hand and a lone hip boot in the other. A twist to the spigot knob brought a hose to life, and he rinsed off both himself and his gear. Then he headed for the shower inside.
That’s where Sid learned about the little black “nymphs.”
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