From specks to hairy mayflies, it’s a mad fishing world

I hit the Housatonic late afternoon on Monday, Sept. 15, at a stretch called “Push ’Em Up,” which has a long, slow, big pool and, usually, three or four guys doing the usual “I will stand here with my strike indicator and Prince nymph until I catch the big one” routine.

Honestly, some of the anglers I observe could get jobs in physics laboratories as Immovable Objects.

But for some reason the spot was deserted that evening. And fish were feeding on the surface.

To my disgust, I determined they were feeding on specks. “Speck” is my derisive term for itty bitty little flies. Anything size 20 and smaller is a speck.

I hate specks. I can’t see them to tie on, never mind the fussy, delicate tippets.

But I soldiered on.

The thing about the Housatonic in a transitional month like September is this: You never know what’s on the other end of the line. It could be a pike. It could be a smallmouth. It could be a chub. It could be a member of the state Legislature, shilling for votes. (“Vote for Snodgrass — He’s not afraid to get wet!”)

So I caught a smallmouth first, on an Isonychia nymph. Then I threw some specks around, but my heart wasn’t in it. 

Then I saw a big, hairy mayfly coming out of the water and tied on a size 12 Adams Wulff. Working this through some riffles, I was rewarded by a strong take and a vigorous fight.

It was a chub. Grrr.

A heron was watching this. He noticed me noticing him, and flew away. I would have gladly tossed him the chub.

I sat on a rock and smoked a cigar for a while, watching. Little, light-colored bugs were starting to come up, and the sips of the smallies were turning into slurps in the faster, broken water.

So I did something I almost never do anymore. I fished a lone dry fly, the smallest Light Cahill in the box (size 16) with about a 12-foot leader tapered to 4x.

A few minutes later, I had a genuinely big brown in the net. In the photo, of course, it looks like nothing special, but it was at least 20 inches.

Not long after that, a somewhat smaller but no less vigorous rainbow came to the net. I celebrated this by dropping the point-and-shoot camera into the water. (That’s the second one I’ve killed this season.)

The action continued until about 7:15 p.m., when my lower back lodged a formal protest.

As  I write this on Sept. 23, the river has dropped to 231 cubic feet per second below the dam in Falls Village, and it’s getting a little silly.

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