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. stranded. The barber working in the win -dow 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 clip-pings 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 instru-ment’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 d 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 W e were wet and must have looked our quest for Muskellunge on the Ohio River water-shed 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 ex-posed 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 sur-face. 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 vin-egar swam back to the depths. I was questioned about my hook set, my lack of pres-sure, 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 rain-water 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 084 APPALACHIA
The Flyfish Journal Volume Eight, Issue Two: Page 84
