We were up on the special regulations section of West Canada Creek.
I couldn’t tell you how many trout we caught, but we had a good evening, landing a number of browns, including some pretty nice ones.
It was getting dark – although that never stops me if the fish are still rising and the moon gives the slightest bit of light – and we were getting reading to pack it in when a guy on a pontoon rig appeared around the bend above us. He parked across from a deep corner hole, very quickly got into a very nice fish, played it well, and landed it.
A minute later he had drifted down abreast of me, up against the opposite bank, far enough away that I couldn’t really make out his face in the gloom. I’m sure I didn’t know him anyway.
“How big was that fish?” I hollered.
“About 22 inches,” he said.
“Wow! What did you get him on? I asked.”
He waited a beat.
“A brown fly,” he replied.
He said it out of the corner of his mouth, drawing it out, wise-guy style.
“Oh,” I said. “Oh. A brown fly. Thanks.”
Not a specific brown fly, or any other fly. Not a Coffin Fly or some kind of caddis or a Stimulator. Just a brown fly.
He slid away down the river, and I thought, “What a jerk.”
The guy obviously didn’t want me to know what fly he was using. Why? Beats me. There were and are scores and scores of trout in that 200-yard run we were fishing, many of them of very nice size. We couldn’t possibly fish to or catch more than a few of them. I wasn’t going to immediately tie on a “brown fly.” I wasn’t going to spoil his fun, and he was on his way out, anyway.
I didn’t get it, and I still don’t, four or five years later.
On the other hand:
We were fishing the West Branch of the Delaware, with the drift boat anchored while we worked on a pod of fish in a long run. There were several guys wading above us, and one kid hooked a beast. The fish headed downstream, and he had to go with it. We pulled in our lines, and let him work his way around us.
At one point, the fish was right under the boat, about six feet down, and I could see it clear as a bell.
“That’s a two-footer,” I said.
My partners didn’t agree, so maybe it wasn’t, but it was a really big brown.
The kid netted the fish a ways below us, then waded back up.
“How big was it?” I asked as he came by the boat.
“About 22 inches,” he said.
Not a two-footer, but pretty close. I’d take it.
“What did you get it on?” I asked.
He didn’t say, “A brown fly.” He did say some kind of emerger, I’ve forgotten which, size 18 or 20.
Hey, okay. Then … he clipped the fly off and gave it to me. I have never used that fly, but it is in one of my boxes somewhere. The angler? I don’t know who he was or where he was from, and I don’t recall what he looked like except he was a strongly built kid in his 20s. I do know I’d fish with him eight days a week before I’d spend a minute with that other guy.
What difference does it make to you about telling what fly or lure you are using? If I’m catching bass on a gold and black Rapala, I’m going to tell you so. If I’m doing well on Hendricksons, same deal. It takes absolutely nothing away from me, and unless we are in a tournament, they aren’t going to hand you a sack full of money if you catch a bigger fish than I do.
That is not to say there is not a place for secrecy or discretion in fishing. It’s one thing to share information about big water – Oneida Lake, Lake Ontario, big rivers – and another about ponds and streams and the like. Or you share it in a different way. I will tell you I caught a big trout on Oriskany Creek, and I’ll tell you it was a ways up or down from this or that bridge. I’ll tell you what I caught it on, the time of the day, the weather, the water temperature, and just about anything else you want to know, but unless you are a good friend, I’m not likely to tell you it’s right by where an old barn backs up to the creek on such and such road.
Why?
There are very few “secret” spots, but there are a lot of spots that don’t get hit hard and that you might have found by accident, or by ranging widely and testing things out, or because a good friend clued you in. And, by the way, even your good friends might not tell you their very best spots. If you broadcast it, you can be sure others will go there, and they will tell others, and then it will no longer be a “secret” spot, at least for a while.
As an example, a bunch of years ago a local writer did a story for a national magazine about a creek I frequent. It is a well-known place, but very challenging to say the least, for a lot of reasons, so it was lightly fished. That summer, there were cars all up and down it, and the grass on the banks was beat flat.
Most of those people who turned out must not have done well, because the next year things were back to normal. Thankfully.
Do you think that is hypocritical? Getting mad about a guy not telling me what fly he used, and yet keeping a good spot to myself? Well, I don’t.
In any case, maybe I’m judging the guy up on the West Canada too harshly. Maybe it really was a “brown fly” and he thought that would help me out. But who would you rather fish with? Him, or the kid on the Delaware?
Write to John Pitarresi at 60 Pearl Street, New Hartford, N.Y. 13413 or jcpitarresi41@gmail.com or call him at 315-724-5266.
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