The quip about doing something over and over again – expecting a different result is insanity – would very well describe me and fishing a certain area. For
months over a year I’ve been sneaking away for a quick half hour of casting early in the morning, or at dusk, searching for gold – only to come away with broken rigs and lost flies.
Fueled by tales from other anglers though, I keep going back to this spot – hoping that someday the treasure is found. That someday was yesterday. A friend had posted a picture of an adult stonefly in the Town Water – so I decided to tie up a box of stones and try to strike gold once more.
The wind was fierce, and snow was spitting intermittently, but undeterred I walked down to the familiar bank, towards the rumored gold mine, and strained a cast into the wind… and another… and another. Around the fourth cast or so, my line went taught and a sluggish tug was at the end of the line – my friend the whitefish. I was still happy to hook a fish, and the catch kept me casting.
The wind died down momentarily – and I was able to get a good cast and mend my line for a great drift. One of those drifts you feel is in the zone, a drift that if your bobber doesn’t dance a bit – then you mutter expletives to the wind. And then it stopped, and I set up, and it was most definitely not a whitefish. The fight was lovely in the driving snow and wind, my body felt electric – that rush felt when finally figuring out a puzzle – the rush of finding gold.
The balance of the hour was magical. Another brown to hand, a few hooked and fought and lost, and even another whitefish for good measure. All of them enticed by the stone fly nymph I had just tied.
The sun came out, and the wind died down, and the fish grew wise to my ways. I waded back to the bank, and had to sit and admire the river for a bit – and let the experience steep into my mind – as a reminder that insanity is a wonderful thing.