by Jim Mize
My kitchen table looked like stuffed animals had staged an MMA fight and none had fared well. Fur, feathers, and synthetics lay in clumps where we had littered the surface with fly-tying materials. This way, we could sort through them and easily pick out what we needed.
I sat staring at a pack of Awesome Possum dubbing, trying to imagine what the possum had done to earn this title. It must be hard to be awesome when you’re a possum.
Beanpole was focused on his vise, trying to get rubber legs in just the right spot on a hopper. Out of the blue, he launched a question that landed with the impact of a grenade.
“Do you want to buy my fly rod?”
I looked over at him focused on tying the hopper and tried to guess what was going through his mind. The odds of me doing that were somewhere between winning the lottery and being struck by lightning.
“You buying another one?” I asked.
“Not exactly.”
I had learned over the years that Beanpole’s mind was complex to the average person.
Clearly, there was more to this response, so I thought about the usual progression of questions I had to ask to get something out of Beanpole when he didn’t want to tell me. So, I jumped ahead about five questions and got to what I really wanted to know.
“Tell me what happened.”
Beanpole looked up sheepishly realizing I had guessed right. There was a story behind the question and I wouldn’t leave him alone until he shared it. We had done this dance before and the song always ended the same way.
The trout were on the bottom, but occasionally one would take a nymph.
“Well, I went fishing last week on Humility Creek. It was still cold, the trout were on the bottom, but I was picking up one now and then on weighted nymphs drifted under an indicator.”
Beanpole took a sip of his Cheerwine as if he needed some liquid courage. Then, he proceeded with the story.
Two geese were on the opposite bank and they started honking.
“You know that big hole where the creek turns? I was almost to the bend when two Canada geese started honking at me. Not your normal honk, but faster and more aggressive. I figured they were going to nest there, so I tried to give them plenty of room.”
“Good decision,” I interjected.
“Yeah, you know I had been buzzed by a goose in a similar situation. Had to fend him off with my fly rod. Thought I was going to die.”
Beanpole gazed into space as if remembering the event, then came back to finish his story.
That was when the geese started getting more excited.
“Anyway, the geese were getting more and more excited and finally one took off. I braced to defend myself, but it just flew down the creek. That left one goose on the bank. It was still honking, but not quite as much.
“I thought I was in the clear then, so I went back to fishing. After every few casts, I would ease a couple steps downstream and keep drifting those nymphs, watching the indicator for any sign of a bite. That’s when it happened.”
Beanpole paused as if I might let the story end at this point. He always did this and I wondered if he was checking to see that I was paying attention. So, I asked the obvious question.
“What happened?”
Beanpole looked me in the eye to tell me the next part.
“The goose flew off the bank straight at me. I braced for a flogging, but instead, it swooped down and tried to grab my indicator. I think someone had been feeding the goose and my white indicator probably looked like food. Anyway, the goose tried to grab it.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“It was like a reflex. I yanked the indicator away, but the line must have run between the wing feathers on the goose. Next thing I know, I’ve hooked it.
“Well, the goose didn’t respond well to that. It honked like crazy and I’m in the creek with a goose on a four-weight. It’s trying to take off and I’m trying to get unhooked. It’s flapping like crazy, I’m trying to sort out the line, water is splashing everywhere, I’m backing up to get away, the goose is half in the water and half in the air, and it was just a total mess. That was when I realized it.”
“Realized what?”
“You can’t land a goose on a four-weight.”
“What did you do then?” I asked.
“I just grabbed my line and pulled it loose. It’s also impossible to land a goose on a size 18 pheasant tail and 4X tippet.
“And that’s why I want to sell my four-weight,” added Beanpole.
“So, you’re giving up fly fishing just because you hooked a goose?” I asked incredulously.
“No, but if I’m going to hook geese I’m going to need a heavier rod.”
If you hook a goose, it’s better to have a heavier rod.
If you hook a goose, it’s better to have a heavier rod.
I stared at Beanpole across the table, tying flies, preparing for the coming season, and thought to myself that in his world this was the logical conclusion.
“What kind of rod do you plan to buy?” I asked, letting him share exactly where his thoughts had brought him to.
“Probably an Ugly Stick.”
I nodded and went back to tying flies. Maybe he was right.
Jim Mize thinks some of Beanpole’s ideas are good; it’s just hard to figure out which ones. You can read more Beanpole stories in Jim’s award-winning book, Fishing With Beanpole, available online or you can purchase autographed copies at www.acreektricklesthroughit.com.
