The Fate of Skeptics

Clear Creek. A new boot scraper at the trailhead.

I go to see what's upstream. I make my way to some old bridge abutments.

The current is slow and deep.

I swing a newly-tied fly. A woolly bugger with lots of flash.

A spicebush swallowtail keeps pace with me as I fish.

The bugger gets some rises and follows. A pumpkinseed nabs it.

Then a flash and a grab. A smallmouth. Still a baby but bigger than the last one.

I fish my way downstream. Good-looking water. Should be big smallmouth in there. But there aren't.

Back at the riffle I wade out and around.

I find a rock firmly captured by sycamore roots.

I cross over to the fishermen's trail.

On the gravel bar I see something white and round. At first I think it's a geode.

No, it's what's left of a young raccoon.

I get ready to fish the riffles and runs ahead.

I switch to another new tie. I've seen small sunfish on their nests. They flash orange as they dart through the current.

I'm fishing through the riffles. I'm looking for geodes. I come to this deep slot. The fly swings behind the submerged rocks. I'm reaching down to pick up a rock. All hell breaks loose.

It's a smallmouth. Has to be. It's big and strong and in a hurry to get downstream. It breaks me off and is gone. Just like that.

Earlier I was fishing with a 2X tippet. That would have handled him, I think. Then I switched to 4X. Why?

Because I was catching small fish. And as much as I wanted to believe that there were big smallmouth in this stream, I was still, somewhere deep down, a skeptic. The fate of skeptics is to be unprepared when the impossible happens.

You gotta believe.

I fish on down to the tailout and pool. More sunfish.

A chub.

I turn back upstream and hike out.

I'm a skeptic no more.