So Chris stumbles back into the northeast fresh off a multi-year stint of flyfishing/skiing in the Jackson Hole area and I've been itching to get him on the water. Last Friday night appeared to be a sure thing after several failed attempts in the previous weeks. I ended up with a full day off on Friday at the last minute and Chris' plans to fish the Presumpscot also fizzled. Earlier departure? Consider it done.
It had been 90+ degrees for three days straight leading up to last Friday, so while I was fired up to hit the water, I forced back any high expectations. The flow had doubled from the previous day (to a better flow) but this too had me cautiously optimistic.
We chased away the early afternoon hours putting six fish on the board in the upper stretch of the river; a mix of Brookies and Salmon from 12-16". Certainly not a bad start given the conditions.
Around 3 pm we retired to the 4runner, opened a cooler full of ice cold Buds & PBR's and sat, content to watch an hour or more pass as we shot the shit, caught up, and exchanged stories of heroism. We ended up talking with two guys in their 60's for an hour, great conversation but that is foder for a future post.
At 5p.m with a decent beer buzz keeping our spirits high, we trudged downstream in hopes of an evening session worthy of past trips on this fine stretch of water.
Not much happening was the word; limited hatches and small fish. As the sun set we fished 50 yards apart with Chris dredging downstream but within eyesight. A rumbling expletive echoed through the early waves of darkness as I saw a distraught BFC alum doubled over continuing to curse at a lower decibel level; he had just lost a beauty. A few moments later I went tight while skittering a hornberg across the surface of a wide run; the fish missed twice, connected on the third shot and went hell bent for leather all over the river. As it turned to come in my direction (thinking it had come off) I cursed the mosquito filled twilight and suddenly realized as I took up the line that the fish had covered some 60 feet of water in an instant and held in a pocket less than a rod length in front of me. I could feel the heavy fish holding strong and was hesitant to put the screws to it at such close range. No matter, the fish turned its head, hardly pulled, and my goddamn hornberg emerged from the water and drifted into the air....more explitives
Night fell, headlamps turned off, Kelly Gallop's finest tied on, and the moment we had longed for all day kicked off. It didn't take long....
Morrell lost his virginity soon after
A 4lb 1oz pig, the largest Brookie he had landed in the last decade, and the largest he had ever taken on moving water or on a fly rod.
atta boy morrell! welcome home.
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