Gone But Not Forgotten

I was back on the covered bridge at Sugar Creek looking to see if I could make out any fish holding in the current below. I couldn't; it was raining too hard.

I went out the far end and walked down to the water.

I wanted to thoroughly cover the deeper water under the bridges.

I got some swings in, but I soon realized I was on the wrong side of the river to get maximum coverage.

I waded upstream and crossed, dapping the pocket water as I went.

On the other side I hiked on upstream to see what I could find.

The rain had stopped, and mist was rising. The brilliant colors of fallen leaves pierced the gloom.

The river widened out and slowed down. I waded as far up and out as I could and began fishing my way back downstream.

Under the highway bridge the current picked up and the bottom slanted down into a wide run. I was on the right side this time. I began making long, deep swings with the fly.

I was paying particular attention to rocks and other structure. As the fly swung in front of an outcropping it stopped. It wasn't the first time the fly had stopped; a fly--at least mine--will often hang up in the rocks. But this time, when I pulled the fly loose I thought I felt something pull back. I went back to the same spot, and this time when the fly stopped, it was in the jaws of a smallmouth.

It was a breakthrough: my first Indiana smallmouth.

On down the same run I got a couple of tugs, and then hooked up on another one. It seemed to be smallmouth weather.

The light was going and the mist was thickening. When I got to the end of the bridge run I hurried downstream--as much as you can hurry on cobble.

I had wanted to fish the fast runs coming off some rocks and boulders. When I got to the long slick ahead of them, I got a bump. I stopped and fished it carefully.

I got some more bumps and a pull, then hooked up.

There were fish holding all along there. I worked it over as dusk settled in.

One more fish came to the net.

It had been a good afternoon. These smallies were strong and fought hard. I tried to revive them before release--my trout instincts--but not a one of them needed reviving. They were off like a shot--and pissed off about being held up, too.

Sugar Creek is said to hold a good proportion of twenty-inch fish. I was thinking of that when I got one last tug up by the rock garden at the foot of the slick. I'm sure it was a much harder tug than any I had gotten all day. I went back again, and a few more times for good measure, but that fish was gone.

But not forgotten.