Chomp

     I remember - I was probably around nine years old- my father took me fishing on a deep sea party boat in the East River and Long Island Sound.  This was partly driven by the fact that my favorite move was (arguably, still is) Jaws and I just had to fish the ocean, and he knew it. Great Whites were not the target of the day but there was always that youthful wish. So, we departed New Rochelle and spent the day dropping diamond jigs for bluefish.  Oh, what an impact that day had.  I remember one blue in particular, likely about twelve pounds came up and over the rail.  The fish immediately puked up a pile of half eaten mullet onto itself and then bit Dad bloody as he stuffed it into the burlap sack.  As if that wasn't enough, once in the bag it still didn't stop- I could see the outline of its mouth and I'm telling you it had every intention of latching onto Dad's calf muscle before it expired.  I respect the hell out of that fish to this day and I learned to understand and appreciate, the predator.

     Fast forward a few decades and I somehow morphed into a fly fisherman.  I recently bought my first mini pack of grizzly hackle and you should have seen how giddy I was the other night, when the house was asleep, as I churned out several size 20 parachute adams to prepare for last-chance blue winged olives this season.  I was in the zone at the vise and relatively speaking, I was pumped up at the results, under the only lamp on in the house.  Boy, those trout are gonna sip these babies right under when they see them!

     But you can't take the piano wire out of my pursuit.  I still like things with teeth; things like that meat.

     All of a sudden, fall is upon us and finally, the rain came.  I immediately thought of what trout stream to make time for but then it hit me like a ton of tungsten beads... I'm all but out of chances at the local lake.  It won't be long before it's a non-option and that actually has me a little sad because I have enjoyed the hell out of it this year.  Through the wind and an inch-and-a-half of rain, I gave it a go for what might be the last time this year.

     It gave me a chance to debut a new streamer that I tied up.  Unweighted, save for 7mm doll eyes, three glass beads at the articulation joint, and a duo of #2 Gamakatsu B10S stingers, this conglomeration of palmered marabou and rabbit strips teased up a pair of pickerel on this day.  A white streamer gives the angler the gift of sight during the retrieve- no accident by yours truly.  In both instances, the green log deftly appeared out of its hiding after the breathing baitfish and then, in a sudden bolt, snapped its grill around my fly with intent to kill.

     I'll say it again.  All due respect to the dry fly fishers of the world who enjoy the rise-and it is cool-- there is no better rush in the sport than when your strip-strip-strip of a streamer is violently interrupted.  The rod tip, buried in the surface film, comes ripping up high and bent, the line tightens, sprays, and squeaks under your finger, and the endorphins pump.  

     I just want to pay a little homage, to the hunters.