When a Big Fish Bites

I never met a fish I didn’t like. Sneaking brookies out from under hemlock branches on a small Adams tickles my ribs. Watching a Humpy disappear in a riffle causes a reaction that pops mist off my tippet like a fog, creating rainbows on a sunny day. At least, in my mind’s eye, water droplets hover like musical notes and it makes me grin.

The thought of a big brown will get me out of bed in the morning.

Day-in and day-out, however, big browns will get me up early or make me stay up late, fine-tuning leaders and tying creatures that fall into creeks. They make me creep into shadows, lurk in dark places, and study water from a distance before I cast. I have thought about this affliction for some time, and decided I’m addicted to their bite.

Often, when a big brown bites, it doesn’t rush off in a screaming tear or make a little kerplop on the surface. The bite from a big brown is like a firm handshake, one where two hands come together, and for a moment, neither one budges.

Typically, this sort of strike is more prevalent on a deep bite, where a nymph or streamer had the misfortune to be chucked into deep cover. The fly drifts, tumbles, and just stops. I remember such a bite on a stream just a few years back.

The river ran high and dingy that day. A cold, overcast sky predicted sleet or snow. Wading in, the water pushed against me like a sumo wrestler. Knowing I’d have to get my fly deep, I tied on a tungsten Clouser and started casting upstream to let it settle.

I found some slow seams on my side and bounced that Clouser against the rocky bottom until it had a headache. It was a hybrid technique between nymphing and jigging, but it wasn’t long before a fish reached out and gave my hand a shake. After that, we arm-wrestled.

If you’ve ever been connected to one of these browns, you know what happens afterwards. The bulldogging, the trickery around submerged obstacles, the use of current to pick up speed. On a good day, it ends with a net, and on other days it ends with you searching for more tippet and a fresh fly.

On this particular day, all that bit were browns. Working that seam, I fished alongside the current, launching the heavy streamer, letting it sink, and setting the hook when it stopped.

Each one was an above-average fish for this stream. In total, four chomped down on the Clouser that afternoon. The smallest measured 16 inches, and the largest reached about 21 inches, with the other two falling between. All of them clamped down and hardly budged on the hook set. And I had no bites that I missed on this afternoon, not so much my doing as it was the certainty with which they fed.

Shallow-water bites are a little different. In mountain streams, when the water drops, I find good fish out on the edges where shadows and undercut banks hide them. On occasion, they will tip you off, sipping a midge in a dimple, or flashing golden to feed on a nymph.

Summer browns may sip midges, but they chomp on terrestrials.

A couple summers ago, on a stream maybe twenty feet at its widest, I was resting on a boulder watching midges disappear. The sun had reached its pinnacle and only a few shadows remained. I had an inchworm on, so I decided it might be worth a drift before adding finer tippet and a fly I’d have to hold to the sky to thread.

Creeping in, I laid the inchworm just above the previous dimples and the strike was immediate. I was met not by the streaking run of a rainbow, but surprisingly, by that firm handshake.

He was a lanky old fish, having grown up wild and surviving better predators than me. So, he put on a show with all he had learned. The first two laps used up the perimeter of the hole. He swam as if searching for some old exit, a log to go under, or a boulder to pass on the far side. His head rubbed against the sand and rock on the bottom as if the hook was some itch he had to scratch. More likely, he was looking for a hold to pull it loose.

The commotion brought my daughter and her husband upstream to watch. The fight lasted long enough to let them close the gap and enjoy the show. After all the bulldogging, the scraping of the fly against the bottom, and the search for a good deadfall to run through, he glided in with one attempt to dip his head and swim under my net. But I kept him above the lip of the net, and he folded when I lifted it.

My son-in-law commented while my daughter snapped a photo, “Any fish that sags in the middle is a good one.” This one did just that, his belly sagging between my hands as if the length between those two supports was too much to bear.

To be fair, fish sizes should be judged relative to the size of the stream.

Everyone has their own definition of what big is to them. It may be a personal best or a set length. I use a different metric, as I feel the water defines the fish. So for me, a fish whose length is ten percent of the stream width is a monster. I guessed this one might have been close.

The one time I’ve found big browns to bite differently is in late summer when they are looking up for hoppers. The bite can be violent. Maybe they have been fooled before, with hoppers getting away. I’ve heard fishermen say the same thing about fishing a mouse on the surface, using terms like “explosion” or “toilet flushing” to describe the water around the bug.

The odd thing about these bites is how often they come up empty. One September morning, I drifted a hopper in a seam against broken rocks, every two feet a potential lie. On cue, the toilet flushed under my bug and I set the hook to nothing. I’m not sure what hand gesture he gave me, but it wasn’t a shake.

On the same creek, a half mile downstream, the water flattens into a slow glide through hemlocks. Higher water has carved out the right bank under the trees and browns hide under it. It’s a place I wade wet this time of year and go to when the sun gets above the ridge line.

The water is unforgiving. My leader has to be extended to at least twelve feet and almost too fine to turn over a terrestrial. My cast comes down to a sidearm throw to reach under the outstretched limbs of hemlocks. And I wade more slowly than time moves to minimize my ripples.

Where the browns hide, the question is often, “Will it be this cast?”

When you cast to places you know fish like, with flies you know they eat, the anticipation is different. You don’t ask, “Will they bite?” Instead, the question becomes, “Will it be this cast?”

So, when that fly gets sucked in with water rushing through gills and a big head shows, you set the hook and greet him with your half of the handshake, knowing all along he would show up, like an old friend who just arrived on schedule.

This glide usually holds two or three browns large enough to give credence to their being carnivores. I am more likely to see and admire these fish than fool them on a clear day, yet their younger brothers tend to oblige.

Still, on random occasions, a cast will go just right, the hopper flying beneath the hemlock branches as if the bug’s wings worked, and the splash will be just the right size. Perfection is not so much splash to spook a big fish, yet noisy enough to ring his dinner bell. His bite will be that solid one I’ve come to know.

I will keep sneaking through hemlocks to flip Adams to brookies and will wade the riffles to fool rainbows on Humpies. These fish make me smile. But they don’t set my jaw in determination or cause me to extend my hand in fellowship; that credit goes to a big brown. Solid on the other end, driving a jolt through the rod to my hand, these big fish thump with a strike that has become a craving.

I’m addicted to the moment when a big fish bites.

~~~

Jim Mize likes the attitude of a big brown trout. Many of his favorite fishing stories may be found in his award-winning collection for fly fishermen titled, A Creek Trickles Through It. You can find his books online, or order autographed copies at www.acreektricklesthroughit.com.