By Mike Watts
The last remnants of a clear, sky-blue, late-winter day were fading. As the sun dropped, so did the temperature. It was completing its’ daily duty in solemn grandeur as darkness took over.
Winter nights on the lake can be cold, but peaceful. We would be alone out here tonight. Not many fools would challenge Mother Nature this time of year to catch a fish. It was a surreal, dark, and lonely setting, but every cold evening fishing trip brought with it a sense of high anticipation and excitement.
Two other boats were at the ramp, taking their boats out as we were putting ours in. Blank stares of disbelief from them followed as we settled in for a cold boat ride. Easing slowly from the landing into open water, a slight northwest breeze pushed small waves against the hull and splashed. The wind would subside soon, and the lake world would again be silent and still. Regardless of the season, I have always liked cruising the glass-like lake at dusk when the waters lay flat. I can’t help but yield a reverence for the tranquilness. Looking back towards the stern, I could see my boat’s wakes trailing behind.
Leaving the dock at dusk provided ample time to cruise to our first fishing spot without the use of electronics. Making the first five-mile trek was easier while we could still visibly follow the shoreline. Leaving the boat ramp, my two fishing buddies, Sally and Kurt, were heavily dressed for the ride, looking like bundles of goose down, and facing backwards to keep the wind from their faces.
The fly rods were already rigged with sinking and sink-tip lines showcasing a rabbit-fur streamer about four inches long. That particular fly had served me well for years, and I saw no reason to change now. Besides, I had tied a bucketful for this adventure and needed to use it up. It’s no different than buying five to six dozen minnows when you probably only needed two dozen. More is better. If they didn’t bite that fly, then the fish weren’t biting at all, and we all probably should have stayed home.
Memories of cruising the miles of big water near the Hartwell Dam on a moonless night made it hard to distinguish where the lake ended and the night sky began. Looking across the open expanse of water, the stars’ reflections mirrored in the serene surface, enveloping the boat in a giant constellation. I felt like I could reach over the starboard side gunwale and grab a star, creating ripples of twinkling aberrations. I eerily imagined driving the boat directly into the Milky Way on this extremely dark evening.
House lights flickered on as we cruised by. It was the end of a workday for most. A time for folks to settle in front of the television and fireplace to relax, and a time for us to fish. The sound of a fly reel drag screaming and a bent fly rod arched with a pulling fish would keep us warm.
Nearing our destination and patiently waiting for the fish to bite, we stopped and idled the boat, ate a quick fast-food dinner, sipped coffee, and shared stories about the last trip. Even though we have pictures as proof, everyone’s fish seemed to grow larger in their stories, and the effort to land each one caused a bit of frustration. Boat fishing with this crowd has never been for the faint of heart or the overly sensitive. For example, I might be ridiculed for not netting a fish quickly enough, not tying a good knot on the fly, using too heavy a tippet, running out of white rabbit fur flies, or not telling them how cold it’s going to be before they leave the house. If they miss a fish, I usually get verbal abuse. It’s always my fault. And of course, if they didn’t eat their hamburger in the truck and it’s now cold, it’s my fault then too.
Most of the dock lights we planned to fish by were on timers. As they started to flip on automatically, patience shifted into anticipation. It was our time. We could see white or green aquatic halos ascending from the depths below like UFOs, almost cosmic in appearance. What surprise fish would we catch tonight? Could it be stripers, hybrid bass, spotted bass, or largemouth, or would we smell the scent of being skunked?
Watching fish cruise happily in a circle above the submerged lights, chasing bait, can be nerve-wracking. You can see them swimming, but it’s what you don’t see that always surprises everyone. Cast, let it sink out of sight, strip the fly slowly back, and then do it again—except let it sink a little longer. All the while, watching their piscatorial brethren swim and laugh at you.
Flyfishing in a boat at night can be dangerous and challenging. Having someone casting on each side of me, with both casting at the same time, is not for the faint of heart. All casting took place from the bow and stern platforms. Everyone was instructed to make a false cast outside the boat, which, in theor,y provides some degree of safety from a size two hook. To protect myself, I crouched behind the center console and controlled the trolling motor remotely.
Initially, we had a rotation system for fishing, so everyone could fish without complaints. For example, when Sally or Kurt caught a fish, they moved from the casting decks down to the center console to wait. Their job was to net the next fish and take pictures. This plan worked well except in two cases – when the fish weren’t biting or the catching was fast and furious. I would net and unhook their fish, and they would jump back up without hesitation and start casting again. The rotation plan lasted two trips.
There have been many wonderful memories during the years of night fishing. We quietly approached one particular light using the trolling motor; we could see the cruising fish everywhere. Everyone frantically tried to grab a fly rod and shake their “first fish syndrome” and “to get the skunk off “ the boat quickly. And there it was.
Staring at the circle of glowing water, we watched it slowly emerge from the darkness into the pale green light of the dock. The water was about twenty feet deep, making it hard to tell what we were witnessing. The only thing we knew was that it was huge. As this fish swam right over the top of the dock light, its size darkened the water as if someone had flipped a switch. Fully focused and in awe, all we could do was stare. Speechless, the three of us sat down in utter disbelief. As if there was nothing else intelligent to say at that moment, three different exclamations of “Did you see that?” burst from our lips at the same time.
I couldn’t help myself, and looking at my fishing partners, I asked, “Do you all think we just saw the aquatic version of Sasquatch swimming underneath the boat?”
Sally and Kurt started laughing, and Kurt replied, “I might think twice about swimming in here now.” Of course, I kept calling it a Saquatch fish in response to everything they said.
“Maybe it was a large catfish,” Sally rationalized.
Attempting to rationalize this experience, Kurt tried to describe the monster of the light and how it resembled a large fish. “The shadowy head was much larger at first, which made me think it was a catfish,” he said in a justifying tone.
“Nope,” Sally replied. “That was only a beaver swimming through the light.”
“Beavers don’t eat bait fish,” I stated. “It was a Sasquatch fish, period. If it shows back up again, we are heading in.”
“That’s a good idea,” Kurt answered, his voice expressing a hint of the pucker factor. “We don’t want to be dessert.”
Everyone tightened their life jackets as we eased back to the light, ready to regroup and fish.
After seeing this massive creature of the deep, fishing slowed down for a while. Not focusing on the “catching” made us realize how cold it was getting. Lows that evening were predicted to reach the mid-twenties, and it felt every bit of that.
Being here in the dark, we were captivated by the surroundings above and on the lake. The lake breeze had subsided; now the water was completely smooth and still. It wasn’t that the fishing was always so good, but the camaraderie, peacefulness, and spirit of adventure we shared each evening made for wonderful memories.
Winter or early spring fly fishing near the dock lights can be a cold, frustrating experience, but it can also be very rewarding. The thermos of hot apple cider goes down quickly, and the boat rides can be bitter. Even though you see the fish swimming around the light, it doesn’t mean they will open their mouths to the offering. But the payoff is worth it when they do. I never grow tired of watching fish. They don’t always feed or bite when I want them to, but isn’t that what keeps us coming back anyway?
And who knows, you might catch a glimpse of the enormous Sasquatch fish swimming beneath you, separated only by a thin sheet of fiberglass or aluminum.
Mike Watts is a freelance writer who lives in Simpsonville and is the Publisher of riversandfeathers.com and author of two books: “Pond Fishing with Papa” and “Riverbank Memories.”
Several photos by noted photographer, David Armstrong, http://www.ddaphotos.com/
