The Michelin Man Goes Fishing

Going against all sports couth I abandoned pro football Sunday, a pleasant, sunny day in the low 40s, and went fishing. Somehow the idea of another afternoon lost in the depths of my supremely ugly Salvation Army chair staring at the television was just too repulsive.

It took forever to assemble all the component parts of my winter fishing costume. It was cold, but not frigid, which called for one particular set of long underwear. It was sunny, but there was a breeze, and that called for a particular hat that has pull-down earflaps.

And of course I had to remember which set of waders wasn’t currently leaking.

One of the most annoying things about wearing waders is having your pants ride up your... ankles. Most of the time, just tucking them into your socks works, for a while, but I have a much better solution in the form of moleskin breeks.

Plus-fours. Knickerbockers. Wool pants that end about 6 inches up from the ankle.

They’re warm and they don’t crawl up your leg. They’re roomy enough to accomodate long johns. And they get you stared at in the supermarket, by people wearing sideways baseball caps, oversized T-shirts bearing the legend "I’m With Stupid," and sweatpants with the words "bling bling" written on the fanny in Gothic letters.

And they think I look funny in my breeks.

Anyway, with silk long johns, breeks, silk sock liners plus thick wool socks, a chamois shirt plus sweater, and my waders, I looked like an earth-toned Michelin Man.

I decided to fish the Blackberry in North Canaan, partly because it’s close, partly because it’s easy, and partly because I was curious to see what kind of big trout might have come up from the Housatonic for spawning purposes, taken a look at the neighborhood, and decided to stick around.

The Blackberry is a poor cousin of streams around here. Managed as a put-and-take fishery, it receives large consignments of bewildered hatchery trout two or three times a year, and suffers accordingly from high angling pressure and empty beer cans.

In the summer, the water warms up and whatever trout are still around either go down as deep as they can and stay there or hightail it to the Housy for the duration. (On the plus side, there’s a good chance of latching into a smallmouth at this time.)

I fished Sunday at the big dam, by Beckley Furnace. There’s a big pool where the water comes over and there are any number of hidey holes for trout. The pool is also easy to get to, which means that: a) it gets the large consignments mentioned above and b) sometimes guys are shoulder-to-shoulder, trying to catch those wily, delicious hatchery fish.

Not on the first Sunday in December, though. A family group pulled in as I was suiting up, and I got to chatting with one of them, who said he could see a 2-pound trout under the bridge.

I couldn’t see it, even with my special polarized X-Ray Fishing Specs, but spotting fish has never been my specialty.

Anyway, they left for the NFL kickoff and I had the place to myself.

Using a big attractor fly, I worked the big pool beneath the dam for about 45 minutes, getting nothing but cold until the fly sank and there was a brief tug. I saw a quick flash of a trout’s belly in the murk and that was all.

If fly-fishing demands patience in general that goes triple for the colder months. In winter, fishing everything slows way down, except my desire to catch a couple of fish, which, coupled with an equally intense desire to get out of the cold, makes me clumsier than usual. I can figure on casting for three hours and maybe getting two or three strikes.

I gave up on the big dam and made my way downstream to the small, tumble-down dam. Beneath this is a rapid where the water has carved round holes into the soft rock, and if you can figure out a way to get your fly down in these holes, there are fish to be caught.

Not on Sunday, though. I abandoned the big attractor and went with a series of progressively smaller, drabber flies. "Medium-sized brown one, okay, nothing doing, now let’s try the small green one."

Nothing.

By this time I was getting fairly sick of the entire exercise, so I went back up to the bridge to have a shot at the alleged 2-pounder.

I didn’t see him, but in a riffle 20 yards upstream from the bridge I hooked a brown of about 12 inches on a nondescript gray nymph, size 16 or so. I was also disentangling myself from the pricker bushes with these absolutely massive thorns at the time, so the trout’s entrance into my consciousness was startling and in duration brief.

I yanked with the rod, the fish tugged back and easily escaped, the fly and leader flew back into the pricker bushes, the line somehow wrapped itself around my hat, my left sweater arm was smack dab in the middle of the thorns, and I lost my balance a bit, which caused me to sit down rather suddenly on a pointy rock singularly unsuited for the purpose. This action resulted in a sharp pain in the left portion of my fundament.

Did I mention I lost the fish?

There it is, winter fishing in a nutshell: three hours of work, one brief moment of action, and 10 minutes of perching on a pointy rock in the middle of the pricker bushes, with an aching backside, picking thorns out of your clothes.

Until it snows and things ice up, our smaller streams are completely fishable and almost completely abandoned by all but the biggest idiots. (Meaning me.) Plus, with the foliage out of the way, areas that are hopelessly squirrelly most of the year are suddenly accessible, so a little tramping around is worthwhile.

One caution: It is also hunting season, and if your fishing plans take you more than a few steps from a highway, I advise wearing something with blaze orange on it. I have one of those lightweight mesh vests used by joggers.

Dress in layers, and if you can’t feel your feet, get out of the water. Hypothermia is no joke, and if you have hiked to a remote spot you could be in trouble.

Serious bug men will probably disagree, but I don’t think there’s any magic fly pattern this time of year. Placement is everything, trying to find that moment when a sluggish, cold trout decides to bestir himself for one last snack before the long winter really sets in. That means taking the time to read the water and look for the high percentage spots. With the foliage down, there is much less cover, and fish will be more inclined than ever to burrow in, away from the prying eyes of predators.