The rains in Connecticut finally gave way to a weekend of sunshine, and of course, that can only mean one thing – crawl out of bed with the rising sun, gurgle down a glass of OJ, contemplate whether to take the dog or not, and finally sneak out the door with my 9yr old in tow in search of a stream. To her credit, Lina has never given me the evil eye when I wake her from a deep sleep with a gentle tug and whisper “you up for some fishing?” We’ve both been itching to get wet, shore side casting just not doing it for us this season and the “what boat honey, I’m not looking to buy a boat?” fishing boat not yet in the driveway.
I took a mental health day last week and finally got the nerve up to do some fishing in a clandestine part of Latimer Brook right off I95 that’s been an itch for the past 5 years. By right off I95, I mean throw the wheel a hard right and off into the wood line, ignore the ‘no parking anytime’ sign because it doesn’t really apply to me since I’m fishing, not parking, and slip into a pair of neoprene waders (now I know what my hot dogs feel like) while morning rush hour traffic buzzes by, some latte snorting workers looking over with strange looks, while one gave me the knowing nod.
What I found after technically not going over any fencing since all the fencing has over the years been pushed down by other fisherman, is the soothing sound of rushing water and the most amazing stream I’ve seen in some time. Enclosed by a cathedral of trees, orchestrated by the randomness of mother boulders placed there some time around the last ice age, and filtering God light, I find myself smiling from ear to ear. “Wow,” escapes my mouth as I scurry down the embankment, look left and right and don’t see a soul. After having fished the overcrowded Farmington last season, this is an amazing sight of solitude and soon the rushing buzz of I95 vanishes and all I hear is the sound of water and feel the crispness of the air.
My enthusiasm got the best of me and I did the equivalent of shouting in a library, caring little as I waded up to my waist and cast about like a kid in a toy store trying to reach for everything all at once. All this time, the brookies lay six feet away refusing to pay any mind to my flies, letting me know the gig was up. I did manage to land one about six inches long, and a little brookie that really had some fight in him. As noon approached a couple of DEP men came into sight downstream, heaving buckets full of fish they were seeding along the edges of the stream. I waved at one and he ignored me, which I took to be a sign that he didn’t really want to see me and that I’d better call it a day.
Then this weekend, Lina, in her Oaki gear, got a taste of wading up near Falls River, around a bend that had all the teachable wading points in one spot, included safety lesson on wading – “dada, it looks like you’re getting too deep,” she yells over as I inch forward trying to untangle my fly from an overhanging branch I got too close to, the water already up to my chest, inches from flooding in. Now who is teaching who? We didn’t catch anything, but Lina got a chance show her casting skills to two little girls who rode up on kick scooters, I’m sure their first encounter with a girl casting a fly in the middle of a river. We cut our wet time short, as I couldn’t get a good read on what was hatching and the fish seemed to be picky about breakfast. A little league game was about to begin at the adjacent field; the noise of SUVs and hordes of kids and parents broke the magic that is the passing of water all around us. Three dads stood off to the side of the river, their mouths wide open the way I’ve found myself in the past watching other men casting flies. I waved and they asked how the fishing was, which, while I gave polite responses to, finally deadened my ear to the water all about me and the fish that surely would rise if only the noise could be stilled.
