Words: Josh Edwards Photos: Austin Trayser 2016-12-16 15:00:36
As if these fish weren’t hard enough to catch already, now we’d have to deal with the impossible opacity of sludge. The flow ripped at a speed that would make our heaviest sinking line perform like a floater. I’m not sure if we can all be classified as mentally ill, but we went fishing. We were wet and must have looked stranded. The barber working in the window waved our crew into his parlor. The gentleman bending strings on a 1928 Gibson banjo didn’t look up from his position in the middle of the room. He was playing “Foggy Mountain Breakdown.” The shop walls were covered with old newspaper clippings and the back of the room resembled a bluegrass emporium, with stacks of guitar, banjo and mandolin cases. A shrine of instruments hung along the back wall. None of the patrons spoke a word until the picker successfully melted everyone’s face with his instrument’s unique twang. “Mikey, you keep sounding better and better,” someone said and then the focus in the room shifted and we were fielding questions. “Where y’all from?” “Montana and North Carolina.” “Well ain’t that somethin’. What y’all doing out here in the rain?” “Fishing.” “Fishing!? For what?” “Musky.” “Musky?” “Yes, sir. And so far, we’ve gotten our ass kicked by the weather and the fish.” We spent the next few hours dodging heavy winds and rain in the confines of the finest barbershop east of the Mississippi, instructed on all the finer points of the local fishery and bluegrass music from a local that made obsidian flint knives “up by the lake.” The stop was a much-needed break from the trials and tribulations of our quest for Muskellunge on the Ohio River watershed in West Virginia. This wasn’t the fishing and camping experience we were accustomed to, but the bite and chill of the November cold didn’t matter. It never does. From the put-in we rowed through Appalachian chocolate milk, surrounded by banks draped in rhododendron. Hours later, we had yet to witness even a sign of aquatic life. I fished a seam between a cliff and a partially exposed boulder. I hit the bank at 55 feet and watched my fly sink like a submarine. I pulsed it with intent, just as I had done for the first two hours. On a strip halfway between the boat and the cliff, my fly stopped. I buried the hook and was met by the fiercest tug I’ve ever experienced. I hammered the rod, stripping line and began to gain some ground. Just as I applied more pressure to lift the fish, I saw its wide shoulders. Time stood still, the rain and wind muffled to silence. The green tiger stripes on its side broke the water’s surface. Time regained speed and I was met by a series of thrashes and rolls I had only witnessed on Shark Week. Just as I yelled to the other boat, I watched my fly eject midroll and three feet of teeth, piss and vinegar swam back to the depths. I was questioned about my hook set, my lack of pressure, the rubber hooks I’d been using and was I sure it wasn’t “just another log.” My angling ability was under harsh scrutiny. I had to shut up and row. Hours passed and the only action was pumping rainwater from the boat. We pulled over above a procession of logjams lining the bank and discussed flies and fly colors. I had a box of flies I’d spent days working on—designs that were labeled “mediocre at best” by my fishing partners. I convinced Brody to switch flies. I recommended a purple fly I was very fond of. Instead he chose a bright pink and white tie, snapping it into his swivel. Kent, who was tired of the olives, blacks, oranges and yellows he had been throwing all morning asked for one of the “purps.” I obliged with a smile, knowing he was skeptical but desperate. We ceded the other boat the first set of logs and began pushing to the end of the structure. As soon as we hit the middle of the river, their boat erupted behind us. We turned to look—violent thrashes and an 11-weight bent to the cork. Even from a hundred yards away we could tell this was no hammer handle. Kent buried the hook into the fish as he pulled away from the logs. The boat worked as a team, pressuring the fish from different directions to avoid the snags extending from the logjam. The fish took several sprints for every snag and boulder within 50 feet of the boat. After a few profane exchanges, all 45 inches of mythical beast were scooped into the net. We took photos and gave a quick moment of thanks to the river gods. As the prehistoric monster was released, it swam close to the surface, his dorsal and tail mocking us as if waving a middle finger. Later that night we found refuge in a massive spread of smoked brisket, pulled pork, hush puppies, slaw and baked beans, sourced from a shack down the road dubbed “Down South.” We spent the next few hours in a circle surrounding a pile of hair, tubing, feathers and hooks. We passed around a quart jar of liquid that would have passed for water aside from the bubbles and the lightning-like burn. The rain muffled our moans in the bitter morning when the alarm rang. I logged on to the streamflow graph. The river had gone from 4,800 CFS to 23,000 overnight. At the boat launch the water was the color and consistency of a cardboard box. As if these fish weren’t hard enough to catch already, now we’d have to deal with the impossible opacity of sludge. The flow ripped at a speed that would make our heaviest sinking line perform like a floater. I’m not sure if we can all be classified as mentally ill, but we went fishing. We had traveled 1,500 miles to fish for these toothy bastards and no way were we going to throw in the towel. The next three days consisted of cast after cast, strip after strip and fly change after fly change—all for nothing. Had we had a follow from a fish, we wouldn’t have known. Each hour that passed marked another score for our opponent. As we approached the last mile on the final day, Brody asked for a “purp.” After 30 casts, he stripped his fly to within an oar’s length. Just as the collection of feathers stopped dead and undulated back to life, it vanished into a row of teeth.
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Difficult as Advertised
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