The Jahntastic Angler

New Deal

2010-06-30T11:10:00.008-04:00

Beginning in 2007, three years following our mother’s death, my brother Cole decided the two of us should annually go fishing for a week each summer. The motion proceeded to pass unopposed, becoming law. In fact, during pre-marriage proceedings Cole utilized his unrivaled contract negotiation skills, persuading The Boss into agreeing to abide by The Fishing Pact of ’07* (see disclaimer). Article I, section I states: The Jahnman shall be permitted one (1) seven (7) day long fishing excursion every year forward. Additionally:

a. Said excursion shall be devoid of standard guilt trip encompassing week-long absence from betrothed
b. Phone calls from Jahnman will be granted cellular signal strength allowing—though not exceeding one (1) call per day
c. Betrothed acknowledges annual excursions shall be replete with alcohol and tobacco products
d. Location of excursion is subject to change annually
e. Jahnman agrees to resume all everyday responsibilities without question upon return from said annual excursions.

The inaugural trip’s plans were cemented before winter’s end that year. The stage was now set for years of unbridled sibling angling rivalry. Months of anticipation were spent pondering the fish to be caught at the first venue: Lady Evelyn Lake—specifically the outpost of Island 10, (http://www.island10.com/)

Set just over 300 miles north of Toronto, and accessible only by seaplane or boat ferried over the Montreal River then portaged over a small island before finally finding the lake, Lady Evelyn is the quintessential northern Ontario fishing outpost. Decades ago, the lake was filled with loggers trying to make a living removing outlying timber from the surrounding forest. They’d float the titanic trees down the lake to the channel (now dammed) leading to the Montreal River, and in turn downriver to mills for lumber and paper production. Many trees lay submerged, waterlogged and adorned with at least a dozen Rapalas of mine.

Scattered about the lake’s expanse are small summer cottages, old ranger stations no longer in use, and four outfitter’s camps. Having only visited Island 10, there is no telling what the other camps were like, but from the looks outside I’d say we chose wisely.

Ken Byberg and his wife Bev purchased the island, where a camp had already existed years ago but not in the grand fashion they wished. The Bybergs restored, and in some cases removed existing structures, ending up with ten rustic log cabins, (possibly the root of Island 10’s nomer) a central meeting house for community-style breakfasts and dinners every morning and evening, (also where they slept, upstairs) and a separate lodging area for employees. All dwellings came complete with wood fireplaces, running water, a simple yet amazingly genius septic system, and working electricity every day from 7am until 11pm. Being able to turn off the generators for eight hours per day saved them a great deal in fuel costs. Here we were, over 300 miles from major civilization, roughing it. Right.

All new campers for the week were to meet at a dock on the Montreal River in the morning. After being ferried across the river and given a history lesson of the area by Ken in his makeshift barge, we all portaged on the aforementioned island for a minute before being loaded into separate speed boats and taken from one side of the lake to the other, where Island 10 sat. Everyone formed an assembly line and unloaded luggage, fishing gear, and palates of Molson, Moosehead, and Labatt's from the boats to dry land before being assigned their group’s cabin for the duration.

We scored cabin 10.

The island is small; all the cabins are in close proximity, but not close enough that you can hear one another’s conversations, at least until the booze comes out. We walked up the trail from the docks to the cabins and saw our address posted on the back of the second one we came to. Home sweet home.

Fishing report to follow.

*I married a wonderful and understanding woman who never gave a second thought to me leaving her for an entire week to spend time fishing with my brother. Though part (e) of The Fishing Pact of ’07 is entirely true, all other parts may be slightly embellished for testosterone retention purposes.

Rainy Day Record Rock

2010-05-18T15:42:00.003-04:00

I avoided my cell phone’s alarm from 4:30 this morning until my wife’s alarm clock joined the fight, forcing me out of bed at 5:00. She was off to the gym for some cardio while I chose a simpler workout focusing on strengthening my right arm. After taking a meteorological look out the window I loaded the pockets of my rain jacket with clippers, pliers, a mini tape measure, and a few extra soft baits and lures. With no available yaking companion, this adventure was to be a light and quick old school fishing trip at the banks of 14th Street.

Happy to see only one vehicle already parked at the Mayo Bridge’s lot, I walked out into the cool and damp Richmond morning, rod in hand, down the familiar path to the James’ fall line. I staked my claim just above the unmistakable rock landmark used for shad season, as the earlier bird had taken roost closer to the rapids several yards west.

“What’s up man?” I asked, having recognized the familiar face from last year’s striper run.

“Oh, hey! How you doin?” The face responded, recognizing me in turn.

Neither fisherman could remember the other’s name, but made friendly small talk while casting blind lines into the river against a slight north wind. A light blue and red reflection from the illuminated Bank of America building’s logo glowed on the river’s surface, providing the only source of light in the darkest minutes before the dawn.

A short time later the sun began making an effort to start the day, and my companion hooked into the first striper of the morning. When the brief fight came to an end the fish was held up against the gray sky. Its silhouette revealed an eighteen-and-a-half inch keeper.

“Nice fish man.” I said, happy to know the rockfish were in here.

“I’m halfway to getting out of here real quick.” The earliest bird responded, referencing the two fish limit.

While he was still busy attaching his catch to a stringer, I hooked up.

At first the fish didn’t offer much of a fight. He swam upriver masking any sort of size. Though my line was taught, I felt nothing more than a few minuscule head twitches. As the fish turned right heading north out of the current and away from me, I got a feeling he was bigger than initially thought. My reel had read my mind and verbally told me I was correct. The contraption buzzed as the striper opposite my end stripped line into the James. I composed myself and braced my feet against the rocks below me for maximum fighting stance efficiency.

Not really.

The surprise made me giddy, forcing me to fight not only the fish, but my desire to horse it in to see just how big it was. I reeled when I had the chance, getting as many as several feet of line back at a time between short runs. When the striper was within ten feet of me, its dorsal and tail fins broke the surface parallel to my position, allowing for a sneak peak. I liked what I saw. Even more important, I knew The Boss would like it more—especially with a nice parmesan-pecan crust. The behemoth again turned and made a final run north and east downriver. From my peripheral, I noticed another fisherman approaching me from the right.

“Looks like a nice one.” The newcomer said.

“I think so man.” I grunted, not altogether happy with the unexpected intrusion causing me to momentarily lose focus.

I regained my bearings and brought the fish in close enough to grab the line with my left hand while my right held the rod, guiding the rockfish onto a shallow rock in front of me.

“WOOHOO!” I yelled, reaching down and grasping the lower lip of my catch, then holding it up for the other two fishermen to see.

My former acquaintance showed little intrigue as my fish was much larger than his, while the latter, most recent offered a “Nice fish!” as he encroached on my location.

“Looks like a nice twenty-five incher.” He added.

I reached for the mini tape measure in my pocket to confirm. Wrong. TWENTY-SEVEN!

I caught and released three smaller fish before the rain set in and three additional late risers emerged on the scene. Happily, I picked up my keeper from the rocks where I’d laid him, walked back to the truck, and drove home.

With my personal record striper in one hand and rod in the other, I was greeted at the door by Casino and The Boss, who’d just returned from the gym. Both parties’ eyes grew large at the sight of our unexpected dinner guest.

Excellent start to the day.

A Swim in the James River

2010-05-13T09:31:00.002-04:00

A kayak trip was planned upon the River James
On a beautiful April fifth morning,
Through none of the four acquaintances could a man find rightful blame
Save one for that day not heeding the high water’s forewarning

The Jahnman had toted a great deal of gear with him
In his crate three spinning rods and a five weight fly in stood tall,
Most of the options were for the shad; the chance for striper slim
Though with the possibility, he thought, “Why not bring all?”

This only being the Jahnman’s second trip upon the river,
His choice of anchor: a ten pound dumbbell
To which his fishing companions that day gave a shiver
And said, “That so-called anchor’s gonna give you hell.”

“I used it once already and it worked just fine.”
The boastful Jahnman decreed
“You worry about yours, let me worry about mine.”
He added, though there was no need

Our hero paddled out from Ancarrow’s
With a severe air of arrogance
He’d nary paddled past I-95 where the river narrows,
Though denied any possibility of danger saying simply, “There’s no chance.”

The four men fought the current’s force,
Paddled upstream a-ways before finally stopping
Past I-95, now there was truly no recourse
As on the river’s surface they heard the shad a-flopping

All of the fisherman had caught at least one fish
All except the impatient Jahnman that is,
Who paddled farther upstream with the wish
Of finding the ultimate shad hole to call his

Just past the railroad bridge we went
Before dropping his dumbbell into the abyss
His companions all eventually followed with energy all but spent
With the hopes of ensuing shad bliss

After a short time of catching nothing still
The Jahnman again grew irritated,
And decided to move away from the hill
Nearest the floodwall, deeming it now overrated

Downstream upon the James floated many a vessel
Filled with accountants, doctors and at least one banker,
Keen eyes began to watch the Jahnman wrestle
The ten pound dumbbell he called an anchor

Our champion heeded no Youtube advice on proper anchor readying
He began to pull the line swiftly through the water
His boat turned sideways to the current resulting in unsteadying
Though he pulled and pulled the line much tauter

The Jahnman fought the current all the way to the rope’s end
Where his dumbbell laid stuck just below his yak
He said to himself, “Just one more hefty pull will send,
This dumbbell out of its fixture and back.”

With not one fish yet caught the Jahnman’s yak was tossed
Unpreparedness had led to our poor hero’s demise
The real shock emerged upon realizing everything aboard was lost;
Embarrassingly witnessed by many, many eyes

Well not everything, as the Jahnman is still alive and so is his boat
For which to God, PFD and friend Darren’s tow, he is truly grateful
Heed this warning for those that feel the need to gloat:
The more cocky, tragically, always the more fateful.

A Most Anticipated Season

2010-03-31T14:44:00.007-04:00

In January my brother-in-law Henry gave me a book from his library entitled The Founding Fish by The New Yorker staff writer, John McPhee. This, during the winter months when I was not equipped with the proper gear nor testicular fortitude to brave the barely unfrozen waters around me to hoist the yak about the Honda to go fishing. Reading was safer and would heed little or no squabble from The Boss, lest I leave it on the island in the kitchen, bathroom sink, couch. The book had an illustration of an American shad on its cover—just enough of a motivator for me to begin reading.

The fever I caught just hearing about the sublimity of shad season last year before I’d even caught one, came back in force. Before the end of the first chapter, McPhee melted my brain with a recounting of an American he’d fought for over two hours. Regardless of the truthfulness of his account, my hands began to shake as my brain burned; a common symptom propagated by the anticipation of getting back onto the James in search of the poor man’s tarpon. In a daze I laid the book down, unaware that its placement was in an aforementioned prohibited location; for which I’d get an earful later while pleading shad delirium as my defense. I searched high and low in a medicine cabinet, pantry, nightstand, and utility closet for something to break the fever. Nothing. Contrary to what could be construed as good judgment, I operated heavy machinery…all the way to Bass Pro.

Just looking at shad darts, spoons, Tommy Torpedoes and clouser minnows cooled my nervous system. For additional treatment I managed coherent conversation for a bit with the same crew I became acquainted with last year, this time reminiscing about leaps from mighty hickorys and Americans, the fish that got off right at the shore where I stood, and the Infamous Day of 53. I began to feel much better after making some small purchases. Homeward bound with sound mind I went, only to repeat the process in the following weeks with the conclusion of every third chapter. I’m not a fast reader.

I blamed John McPhee for any damage done to our checking account over the next two months; enough so that the man be inclined to take cover if he ever meets The Boss. Two weeks ago, in the middle of March in an attempt to ward off the onset of another episode, I opted for homeopathic treatment. I put our battery powered turkey thermometer in my pocket and Casino in the Honda to make the once familiar trip down to the Mayo Bridge. With my temperature running high, I hoped to transfer some of it to the James, whose surface was reading a bleak 48. Two days later—53. Five days after that—57. And this time the cormorants were back, good news for sure. I had to tell someone the shad were on their way.

“You used the thermometer to do what?!” The Boss asked after I’d stupidly implicated myself in a culinary crime.

“I washed it.” Was all I could offer.

Eyes rolled.

It wouldn’t be long now.

Aquatic 4x4

2010-03-22T17:34:00.012-04:00

I have spent the shad offseason exploring new fishing opportunities in my portable rock; to coin John McPhee.

Summer 2009—I had been vying for the purchase of a fishing kayak for the past few months, amazingly to no avail. My friend Brendan had posited the idea in my head, an act for which he was promptly thrown under the bus when my appeal’s origination was brought under scrutiny by the boss, Jamie. The initial request had been significantly lessened from a Boston Whaler to a Carolina Skiff, to anything center console, before finally accepting defeat with the realization that something motorized was officially out of the question. A self-propelled craft would have to do. By the fall, my wife woefully agreed that before completing the round trip from Blacksburg following a Tech football game, we should finally bring to Richmond her Old Towne canoe. For the previous five-or-so years the green Discovery 178, abandoned by its rightful owners following their move east, laid on its gunwales in a gravel garden at Bj Lafon’s mother’s house on Brush Mountain. Other than the less than a handful of day trips when being borrowed from one local friend or another, the once majestic ship had spent most of its sad days collecting sun rays, storm runoff, cobwebs, and a transient mouse’s nest. After half a decade my conscience couldn’t take it any longer. The canoe deserved better. I deserved a boat. Not being terribly thrilled about transporting it on top of the family sedan for 220 miles, or the limited storage options back at the urban ranch, Jamie finally gave in after being promised the incessant I want a boat banter would cease following my reunification with the vessel; the canoe being much better than nothing. Positioned atop the Accord’s roof—sitting on special Yakima pads designed for such conveyance, then secured with borrowed ratchet straps, the four of us (dog Casino included) went home. Peaches and Herb played softly in the background.

But don’t go getting all misty-eyed. Thanks to craigslist and a fishing kayak owning family man in Virginia Beach, the moment was fleeting.

Long winded story abbreviated:

About a week later I found a posting on aforementioned site, stating the owner of a sit-on-top fishing kayak was willing to sell his boat or trade it for a canoe (preferably an Old Towne) in good condition. The boss o.k.’d the transaction. Following a round of emails complete with detailed pictures of each respective craft, a verbal agreement of barter was made. That same day, the Discovery 178 found its way back on top of the Honda sedan en route this time to greener pastures, or waters as it were. Now in my possession: a beautiful yellow Ocean Kayak Prowler 13. Best trade ever.

I have since taken my portable rock to a friend’s private pond for some crappie and largemouth, Swift Creek Reservoir for a nice paddle but no fish, Rudee Inlet for the same, and twice to the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel for some delicious striped bass. Next is the mighty James for the shad revival.

Some Days Are Diamonds, Some Days Are Rocks

2010-01-04T10:38:00.010-05:00

Casino had reclaimed her post to the right of me, again keenly staring at the moving water in front of her. I made sure she was clear of my feet before winding up my body for another catapulting cast into the frenzy going on across the James. This time I landed square onto my target like a perfectly punted football going end-first into the ground, or water as it were. My diamond jig had made no splash at all—just the cast I was hoping for as I figured this way, the lure would not spook the fish. I closed my bail and began reeling, anticipating a good game of tug-o-war to begin abruptly. When my invitation was turned down and I’d reeled my jig all the way back to shore, I grew confused. The rockfish were still splashing around so I hadn’t spooked them, plus they were obviously still hungry. What was wrong with that last presentation? The next cast flew as perfectly as the previous one; right on target, barely displacing the water’s surface. Nothing again.

I took a thirty-second timeout and pondered the situation, when out of nowhere a metaphorical Newtonesque apple fell on my head. I should change my presentation entirely, offering the converse of my previous two casts. I coiled up and let fly the jig once more. But this time before the missile found its target I abruptly closed the bail, jerking the lure into a position parallel with the water so it created an easily visible splash adding to the existing surface commotion. The slack had barely been reeled in when fish number two came on the scene. Again my right bicep flexed, pitting a new striped bass against my lackluster, but steady strength. As I brought the fish closer my dog’s ears stood erect as if she could hear my catch nearing her. Casino’s tail began to wag as she got up off her perch and walked eagerly, though yet again cautiously to see another specimen beached on the rocks. This one measured 21 inches and wasn’t quite as built as his predecessor. He’d offered a great fight nonetheless, and was rewarded by photographic recognition before being released.

Next cast, fish number three. Then four. I was having the striper fishing experience of my life. This day seemed to be nature’s way of making up for all the skunked days in New England as a kid.

The more disorder I could get my diamond jig to make, the better my chances of enticing a rock to bite it became. After several more casts fish number five emerged. Following said fish, my unfit arm needed a rest. I laid my rod down to Casino’s impatient dismay who looked at me as if to say:
“What’s your deal man? There are fish all around you. Stop crying and catch more. How often do you experience a day like this?”
I disregarded her questioning glance and continued with my break.

Having been so caught up in the frenzy, I’d failed to notice the two new fishermen on my immediate right, the furthest of which was my new friend Charles. He caught my wandering eyes and smiled while nodding his head.
“Looks like you’re into em’ today.” He stated.
“Man I’ve never had a day like this in my life!” I said.
“Keep after em’ man. They ain’t gonna be around here for too long.” Charles added.
“I will Charles, just need to rest the arm for a minute.” I retorted while rubbing my right upper arm with my left hand.
“That means it’s a good day.” Charles laughed as he threw another cast into the river, but not into the ongoing frenzy.

The other fisherman closest to me looked as if he was skipping work; a guy in his late thirties, wearing khakis and a tucked in shirt with some company’s logo on it, casting a medium/light rod not nearly far enough into the current to entice even an errant leftover shad.
“Hey man, why don’t you take a couple of casts with this?” I questioned, offering the stranger my rod.
“Eh. No, that’s alright.” He responded hesitantly.
“Seriously, I need a break just try it out. You’re not gonna get to where the fish are with that.” I said, motioning to his rod.
“Well…alright, if you’re sure.” He said.
“Yeah man really, go for it. I told him.
“My name’s Mark.” He said.

Turns out I was right; Mark was skipping work. After our introductions, I handed him the Shakespeare and gave up the ghost—showing him exactly where the fish were splashing the surface.
“Cast right into that frenzy, and make sure you close the bail right before the jig hits the water, believe me.” I instructed.

Mark followed my instructions without question and on his second cast was rewarded with a nice 22 incher that he horsed in, more so than enjoying the fight.
“Man that was great.” He said with subdued excitement. He seemed awkward using another fisherman’s equipment, though he had no reason to be.
“Get another one man. It’s fun isn’t it?” I asked.
“That’s the biggest fish I’ve caught in this river for sure. Yeah it was awesome, but here, take your rod back.” He told me.
“No way man. I already have five. Get some more.” I refuted.
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”

Mark ended up catching three or four more inside of ten minutes. Each new fish brought Mark further out of his shell. After that last fish, he ended my break with a sincere thank you while handing my rod back. He stuck around for a little while to watch me fish, knowing for sure he couldn’t possibly catch anything with his rig. I caught several more in the 20 inch range before my largest, though not longest catch of the day arrived.

“That’s a big boy you got there!” Charles yelled to me. He’d kept an eye on my progress while he remained camped out on the right of us, content catching an occasional straggling 12-18 inch schoolie outside of the main current the big ones were hiding at. I nodded while focusing on the beast pulling my arm. I could tell this fish was different, but tried not to get myself too excited about it’s projected size before making visual confirmation. This striper was experienced in the art of war, knowing just when and how to align itself parallel to the current for maximum drag, as it swam away from the force pulling it.
“Man, that’s gotta be the nicest one yet.” Mark said, eagerly awaiting a glimpse of my catch.
“Yeah.” I grunted. “It’d be nice to see it before it has a chance to get off.”
I continued to nervously fight the fish; reeling meticulously when allowed to, permitting line to be taken back off the reel when ordered to. I don’t remember feeling any soreness in my arm this time; the adrenaline must have masked the fatigue.
“Almost. Got. Him.” I struggled to say before bringing the fish in close and shallow enough for a first look.

Charles' intrigue got the best of him. He decided to walk over for an official inspection. Mark traversed the path above and behind me to get his own view. Casino performed her now usual routine. I stopped reeling and walked backwards as the fish got closer to the rocks until it was properly landed.
“That is a beauty.” Charles slowly remarked in perfect simplicity, before retreating back to his spot.
I laughed and jumped eagerly over my excited, but still cautious dog to claim my prize. This bass, I believe my ninth of the day, measured 23 inches, and weighed six or seven pounds as far as I could tell. Mark offered to take a picture of it for me and I obliged. I was still not fathoming how amazing this day was; as seen in the goofy picture of me looking like a kid after catching his first fish. That may be the best thing about the sport; no problems in the world exist when you’re out there fishing. Catching just brings excitement to the serenity.

Before leaving to get back to work, Mark vowed to return in days following with his kids and a proper set-up. He thanked me again and walked up the path, back to the grind.

Charles and I kept at it for a little while longer. He eventually got into the frenzy and caught some nice ones--bigger than he’d been catching, before it died out.
“This was a great day man. The most successful striper day I have ever had.” I told him while packing up.
“How many did you get?” He asked.
“Altogether, fourteen.” I said, probably rather immodestly, not having to take a second to tally my total.
“Every now and again you’ll get a day like this.” Charles said. “Makes for some good stories.” He smiled his usual smile. We parted ways as we’d been accustomed to doing in the past few weeks of shad and striper season.

I went out to the Mayo Bridge at 14th Street once or twice more that last spring, catching one or two small leftover schoolies; they were still fun. I’ll always remember that day in May, those fourteen fish caught in two euphoric hours, the cut up fingers and thumbs I sustained from fishing line, lures, and the fish themselves. I wore that scotch tape with pride. As it’s now January, all I can think about are the future spring shad and striper seasons in Richmond; who I’ll meet, what I will or won’t catch. Let’s be serious, me not catch something? Happy New Year, new stories on the way.

Rocky VII

2009-11-11T12:42:00.004-05:00

I’d never had much luck with this surf rod in the past so I had no idea how heavy it quickly got with a five-pound fish and a river pulling against it. I held the rod at the reel base between my right middle and ring fingers while bracing the butt against my forearm for extra support. I felt like Sly Stalone in Over the Top, engaged in the arm wrestling match of my life.
I swung the rod to my left pitting the fish against the current hoping to tire him out, while retrieving line every chance I got when the monster wasn’t paying attention. My out-of-shape bicep, tricep and forearm began to burn, but I kept that rod tip high. My prey made a sudden move towards me, out of the direct line of fast moving water, permitting a significant percentage of what remained of the 50 yard cast to be re-spooled. He was now hugging the bottom near the bank close to my position, tired and ready to concede. I gently pulled my prize to the surface to see a beautiful striped bass turned on his side, now submitting to the decade old Shakespeare.
Casino had been keenly observing the fight from the front row, and now stood with tail wagging, and walked over to the rocks where the losing party had been beached. I laid the rod down and jumped over my dog to behold my first James River striped bass, which incidentally was the largest fish my veteran rod had caught. I clasped onto the fish’s bottom lip with my left thumb and index fingers while removing the single hook from the diamond jig with my opposite hand’s digits, and lifted it for a better viewing.
“Ha ha! Look at this girl!” I said to my four-legged companion who was keeping a safe distance from the foreign animal while trying to catch a whiff of its scent. I pulled out my pocket tape measure and laid it and the fish down for a quick measurement and picture. The catch measured 23 inches and was stout; not fat, but didn’t appear to have missed a recent meal.
I had made enough noise laughing and woo-hooing to overmatch the noise of the rapids and draw the attention of the two other fishermen in my vicinity. The man upstream showed little interest following a brief sight of my catch, and kept casting into the Fall Line. The angler downstream at the bridge was a bit more intrigued.
“Nice fish!” The man yelled as he waved at me.
“Thanks!” I returned.
Luckily they both held tight in their current spots instead of moving closer to me. They still hadn’t noticed the water continuing to churn.
I re-clasped the fish by its lower lip and lowered it back into the James while brushing off the small pebbles stuck to his slimy striped sides. He was happy to be back in his element; an inference proven by the unexpected burst of energy he’d mustered to dart back to the river’s bottom and out into the current to fight another day.
As excited and thankful as I was to have caught this fish, I knew there were many more still out there, waiting for a delicious looking two-ounce piece of shiny metal to fall in front of them. I brushed the striper marinade from my hands onto my shorts, picked up my rod, and went looking for another fight.

A Living Rock

2009-10-28T11:34:00.000-04:00

It was finally a nice May afternoon in Richmond. The temperature was in the upper 70’s, no clouds blocked the sun, humidity was at a bearable level, and a slight breeze blew from the southwest. It was about 1:45pm when I arrived on the scene at the top of the hill at the Mayo Bridge. I looked down the path to see two other fishermen on the opposite extreme ends of the bank; one fishing the water under the bridge, the other fishing the rapids of the Fall Line. My spot behind the big rock was vacant, so that’s where Casino and I headed.
Because of her fascination with watching the river, I decided Cas would be fine unleashed. I set her free and she took a seat right next to my feet to stare at the water. I then laid my smaller rod down out of our way and took my tackle bag off my shoulder; placing it on a tall rock closer to me should I need it in a hurry. I reached up to unhook the two-ounce diamond jig from the third guide on my surf rod in preparation for casting when I noticed something I’d only read about in fishing literature, and seen on youtube videos.
About 40 yards directly out from the big rock in front of me I saw the water churn. I adjusted my eyes to make sure I wasn’t just seeing the current strike a rock I’d never noticed before, or a tree limb washed downstream with one end stuck to the river’s floor and another end projecting up to the surface creating a riffle. The churning moved slightly up, then downriver, starting and stopping abruptly with intermittent large splashes. This was no inanimate rock, or branch. It was a striper, or several of them, it had to be. I took a few deep breaths and looked around to see if the other fishermen on either side of me had seen what I had. Nope. I opened my mouth to yell for them to look out in front of me, but I couldn’t speak. I was dumbfounded for a good few moments. I tried talking again, this time opting to share my exuberance with my dog.

“Cas, did you see that girl?!”
She looked up at me with a face that said, “Yeah idiot, what are you doing just standing there? Throw your damn lure out and get some!”
I took her advice and steadied my shaking casting arm and nervous index finger holding the line from my spinning rod, aimed slightly upriver from where the water boiled, twisted my torso 180 degrees away from the water, and uncoiled, launching my offering at whatever it was that frenzied in front of me. The cast landed too far left and just short of the mark. I reeled in fast and cast out again. Same spot.
“Focus Zach, FOCUS.” I told myself in nervous anticipation of landing my lure in the correct location, and uncertainty of what to do should I succeed in hooking something. I had spent many childhood days casting a rod just like this, with a lure just like the one I was currently using, up on the shores of Cape Cod, Plum Island, and Plymouth, Massachusetts, to no avail. I had no idea what it was like to catch a striped bass from the surf, or bank as it were. My luck had to change today.
I reared back again for another cast, holding everything more steady this time. As I turned my body from the bank to the river and released the line from my index finger I took a step forward, allowing more power into the rod which guided my two-ounce diamond jig like a piece of small artillery at high speed in a perfect arc. The arc ended slightly left and behind the still churning water with a small splash; a 9.5 had my diamond jig been in a diving competition.
I quickly reeled in the slack from my 50 yard cast so the line was taut. Not two seconds later, the line I’d just returned to my reel was heading back out into the water.

A Rocky Beginning

2009-10-27T10:14:00.000-04:00

A couple of weeks had gone by since the infamous day of 53 as it had come to be known, at least in my mind. The shad were few and far between having now either traveled far upstream to lay their eggs, or having completed their spawning mission, were now on the way back downriver to the Chesapeake.
Small herring remained in the area and white perch began to show up in good number. Cormorants still hung around but not as thick as they had been when the normally brown water ran silver with shad. Above the river’s surface, blue heron and ospreys continued to feast heavily on wayward baitfish. But below, new predators stirred up the river during feeding frenzies, eating anything they could fit in their mouths.
There were new kings of the food chain in the James—striped bass, or striper, or rockfish depending on one’s latitudinal demarcation. According to several nameless locals and the Virginia Department of Game and Inland Fisheries, (VDGIF) striper follow the shad’s lead, weeks later, into tidal tributaries to spawn; feasting on their predecessors and really anything in the way. In the James River, the striper made the 80-or-so mile trip from the Chesapeake to the James’ Fall Line where they dispersed their progeny and chased herring and white perch with reckless abandon.
A rainy May 1, signified the official first day of striper season in Virginia. Schoolies, (small young striper) had began showing up here and there in the river weeks earlier, but the talk down at 14th Street centered on the anticipation of when the moms, dads, and grandparents would make their journey back to the River City. During the first two weeks of the season, only fish over 32” could be kept, officially deeming this the Trophy Season. The rain lasted a full week making fishing impossible for the most part since the James was at an early flood stage. Once the water had cleared and its level subsided enough to make fishing realistic, May 15th had already arrived. Though I wouldn’t mount a fish and keep it on my dresser with my old hockey awards, I decided I wouldn’t mind a trophy striper, so I set out to the Mayo Bridge at 14th Street with a new bag of tackle.
I kept one heavier freshwater rod with me just in case, while my med/light rod stayed on the bench. A sub entered the game in its place—standing at nine-feet tall and weighing at least seven ounces…coming out of a tackle shop in Sunset Beach, North Carolina, a medium action surf rod by Shaaaaaaaaakespeare! And the crowd goes wild. I’d purchased the rod 11 years ago, somehow still hung onto it. I figured this rod was my best bet for casting my late mother and step-father’s heavier Cape Cod striper gear across the river close to the James’ opposite bank. Rod in hand, gear strapped around my shoulder, and dog (Casino) on leash, I embarked on my first river-striper adventure.

There's a New Shadmaster in Town

2009-06-17T16:01:00.000-04:00

My rod bent and I felt the now familiar tug on it. I watched a shad with a barely noticeable orange dart in its mouth hurdle out of the river one-hundred feet in front of me. He landed with a sizeable splash, also seen by Charles.
“There you go!” Charles shouted from downriver. I smiled while adjusting my drag to facilitate a prolonged fight from the fish. It was more fun to allow the poor man’s tarpon some running room rather than horse him in quickly to be added to the growing tally.
“There will be more.” I told myself. “If he gets off, he gets off.”
As I brought the slightly-larger-than-average fish to within feet of me he made one final run upriver instead of down, which would have been more beneficial to saving his energy while expending mine—causing him to tire out and concede the fight. I set my rod down while the fish flopped about my feet. While being unhooked, the shad sent scales flying, many of which landed on my bare legs and feet as I was wearing shorts and flip-flops. I disregarded the adornments and gently dropped him back in the water where I was thanked with a splash of river water in both eyes courtesy of the shad’s strong tail.
In just under an hour the count was now up to nine. I repeated nine, nine, nine, in my head so I wouldn’t forget what the tally was at and risk losing a possible record to a miscount. I chose wipe the shad juice that was saturating my hands all over my shirt instead of rinsing them in the river, then reached for my rod.
Three consecutive casts produced as many fish. Twelve, twelve, twelve.
I turned around to see another fisherman making his way down the path towards Charles and me. In the seconds it took him to walk down to our location I had another fish on. The new fisherman, an older man, scrutinized my catch for species confirmation from a short distance away and decided to stay close, roosting on the upstream side of me.
Fish 15-18 came quickly and before I knew what was going on, the new fisherman was standing feet away from me, now on the downstream side between me and Charles.
“Boy you really found the hole didn’t you?” The stranger asked.
“Yeah I guess so. I don’t know for how long though.” I said, hoping the stranger would take the hint provided by the tone of my voice that I didn’t appreciate being encroached upon. Common sense and etiquette eluded him.
I had number 19 on when the stranger decided to introduce himself—a step in the right direction following blatant fishing hole infringement.
“If I’m gonna be fishing next to you guys I should probably know your names.” He announced, loud enough for Charles to hear downstream. “I’m Thomas.”
“I’m Zach,” I said, “And Charles is on your right.” Number 19 got off.
“Charles,” he said turning to Charles who nodded, “And Zach.” He said turning to me. “Nice to meet you both.”
“You too Thomas.” I replied nonchalantly.
The new number 19 made his way onto the end of my line. After a few nice jumps to show off, he was successfully landed, recorded, and released. I noticed Charles had one on as well. I took a short break to watch his fight and congratulated him after it was over and the shad was back in the water.
“Nice fish man!” I yelled.
“I have about a dozen to go to catch up with you!” Charles yelled back, smiling.
Thomas interrupted our banter, “Charles I’ll keep those if you don’t want em.’ That roe is too good to throw away.”
“Oh I usually keep a few too. That was one too small though.” Charles noted. I didn’t know that he ever kept any fish, but it seemed as if he would today just to keep his catch from the infringing fisherman who was now also a moocher.
“That goes for you too Zach.” Thomas informed me. “If you don’t want em,’ I’ll gladly take em’ off your hands.”
“Okay, sure.” I said half-heartedly. Taking a shad’s life for the sole purpose of eating only its eggs bothered me. I don’t really have a tendency to keep anything outside of the realm of walleye, flounder, or striped bass. Even then it’s difficult for me to actually kill the fish at first; however I always get over the trauma once my prey emits a heavenly aroma after being grilled and lemon-peppered.
Record tying number 20 hit with the force of a shark. I chuckled loud enough for Thomas to take notice of my bent rod, and looked over to see Charles smiling back at me.
“Man you got the lucky stick today.” Charles yelled.
“I guess so.” I acknowledged, while taking the whole scene in. Many times I had witnessed one guy amongst a crowd catching fish like it was his job while everyone else including me, caught none. There were days when no matter what I threw at the fish or how I fished those lures, I couldn’t entice a single hit. Today I had the right lures at the right spot. Sure an occasional fish was caught by Charles, and now even Thomas had one on, but I truly had the lucky stick.
I snapped out of my shad-induced euphoric daze. Just under two hours had gone by since my arrival this morning, when I released number 20. Record breaking number 21 came on the next cast and before I could celebrate being the new title holder, numbers 22-24 followed. Nearly every cast was producing beautiful 13-18 inch silver sided hickory shad. While unhooking them I made sure to fumble around with the fish so it could fall back into the water safely, free from Thomas’ roe-coveting greed. With each new fish Charles looked over and shook his head while laughing.
“This is ridiculous.” He said. “I’ve never seen anyone pull them in like this before.”
By now Thomas had begun to cast right in my spot, it wasn’t enough for him to just be standing on top of me.
“He has the gift today Charles, you’re right about that.” Thomas said.
I asked Charles to come closer and fish where we were. I respected him and would rather he catch a share of the shad that seemed to be destined for me rather than Thomas having them. After some goading he agreed to come slightly closer which, in turn, improved his catch-to-cast ratio.
I ended up surrendering to Thomas a few fish that looked particularly ill from fighting the current and other shad. These several unlucky female hickorys had gashes new and old around their sides and backs, looking as if they might not make it upstream to discard their payload of eggs. I didn’t necessarily agree that I should be the one to decide their journey was over, however I reasoned that if Thomas were to eat their eggs, I would take their carcasses home to freeze for eventual use as cut bait for surf fishing in North Carolina’s outer banks this summer. The lives of the shad would not be taken in vain, and I could still sleep at night. We all won, sort of.
My number was soon up to thirty when I texted B, politely telling him his record had been obliterated and the count was still rising. I didn’t receive a response, go figure.
Eventually the dart stopped working; at least I felt it had after a ten minute lull in the action. I switched to the rod with the gold spoon already rigged up and relocated the hickorys. With each new fish came new laughs and feelings of disbelief. I have been told the sun shines on a dog’s ass every now and again. Today I got to be the dog’s ass.
I decided just before 3:00pm that I shouldn’t be greedy. Allowing new fishermen (who began to show up in good numbers) to enjoy some of the good fortune the day had brought to me and those around me would give me good karma. I packed up the few shad I’d kept for future use (sans roe) into a small water cooler I’d brought down for refreshments, said a quick good-bye to Thomas, secretly hoping he and I wouldn’t cross paths again, and made my way over to Charles who looked like he was calling it a day too.
“How’d you end up man?” I asked my new friend.
“About twenty-something.” Charles said. “Great day for me and monumental day for you huh? You had to have beaten your buddy’s record pretty badly.”
I smiled modestly as possible and said, “Yeah man. Fifty-three altogher in five hours.”
Charles shook his head and laughed. “Fifty-three. Good day. Good day. Hey I’ll email you the pictures from that gar you started the morning with.”
“Yeah, thanks man. I almost forgot about that.” I said, having truly almost forgotten about the sea monster I’d snagged four hours prior to putting on a shad clinic, had it not been for the camera hanging on Charles’ neck.
“Well it was great to meet you Zach.” Charles said as he held out his hand for another shake.
“You too Charles.” I said, before shaking the hand of my new fishing buddy. “I’m sure I’ll see you out here again.”
“Oh sure. I’ll be around all the time now that I know how good it can get.” He said.
We exchanged phone numbers and emails for future fishing purposes and so I could receive the pictures of my gar, and then parted ways.
As I walked back up the hill on the path I looked back to the river and smiled, still in shock really. I’d figured I had it in me to beat 20, but two-and-a-half times that, probably not. As Charles said, “It was a good day.” I couldn’t put it any better.

A Gar-rulous Introduction

2009-06-09T15:31:00.000-04:00

The following Monday came and went with little fanfare. I failed to make it out during the day like I’d hoped to, and B had a previous engagement after work, (quite possibly the threat of separation) so I traversed Richmond City from my home to the Mayo and fished alone. With four or five other fishermen present, I caught my routine dozen hickorys, no Americans this time. I stayed about twenty minutes past sun-down and got back to the parking lot just in time to catch a call from my wife telling me to “Come home now. You know 14th Street isn’t the safest place after dark.” I told her I’d read her mind, “I’m already in the car honey.”
I got home and reflected on the great fishing B and I’d been fortunate enough to experience in the past week. I was overjoyed to finally be catching what I’d set out to catch, in pretty good number too. I felt like an accomplished angler for the first time in a while, but complete shad nirvana eluded me. Trying my best not to look a gift shad in the mouth, I decided I just wasn’t completely satisfied. B held the record for most caught in one trip—twenty. The closest I’d gotten to that record was fourteen landed with about five getting off; the latter of course didn’t count.
In fact, we came to an agreement that a confirmed catch was defined as a fish that was brought to rest on the rocks, if only for a short while. If the creature broke free of the hook at this time, it was okay. Conversely, having never completely removed the fish from its element before losing it was considered a null catch.
B and I began to enjoy the shad unhooking themselves following catch confirmation due to their extreme pungent odor and the gifts of scales, blood, and often spawning fluid, they’d frequently discard on our clothes and persons when handled.
“Man I went home after my record night and Krista (wifey) thought I’d been digging through the garbage and cut myself. I smelled horrible and had so much shad [expletive] on me I had to take a shower.” B told me.
I didn’t feel as adamantly repulsed by the creature’s byproducts, as I’d always been happy to come home smelling like fish; the odor indicated a productive day on the water. Though contact with one shad was enough to smell like one-hundred, and I was getting tired of doing laundry after every outing, so the more fish that could unhook themselves and bounce back into the river, the better. The fewer dirty looks I received after getting home the better as well. “I know, I know. I’m changing,” became the standard response after walking through the door whether the looks were acknowledged or not.
My better (smelling) half and I share a sedan. The following day I decided to drive her to work so I could switch up my regular routine and fish in the morning. I now got a dirty look for my rods crowding her space as she entered the vehicle, and yet another when dropping her off to work all day while I fished.
“I love you honey.” She told me complete with smile showing no hint of sarcasm, before closing the passenger side door. I waved at her through the glass to provoke just a little more steam to emerge from her ears before she turned away in disgust. Giggling to myself, but knowing I’d eventually pay dearly for my smart-assery, I headed down to the Mayo hoping to achieve the highest level of shad wisdom.
After parking and making my way to the water from atop the hill on the walkway, I observed only two other fishermen on the river, both on the favorable left side of the bridge; one fishing for striped bass (stories to follow) at the Fall Line, the other fishing for shad between my rock marker and the bridge. I descended the path making a bee-line for the special spot next to the rock.
Cormorants floated on the surface in good number just outside of casting distance, sharing their fishing grounds with the three of us on the bank. Every few seconds several of the jet black birds would take turns diving, flying underwater now, disappearing from sight for up to a minute while furiously chasing small shad and herring underwater. The talented masters of sea and air emerged with fish flopping side to side clutched tightly in their curved beaks. The prey reflecting the bright sun off of their convulsing silver sides before being shaken parallel by their predator’s bill and swallowed whole, head first. Some birds got greedy, figuratively biting more than they could chew, reluctantly releasing their injured catch back to the water before returning for a smaller meal.
I set my rod equipped with the gold spoon to the side and unhooked an orange dart from a guide on the rod in my possession, arming it for the first cast. Jerk and reel, jerk and reel, nothing. Good. All my previous experiences with catching a fish on the first cast meant no fish would follow, no matter how long I stayed out. The curse of the first case would not apply today.
Of the following five casts, three produced magnificent acrobatic hickorys, one of which was in the two-pound range. It seemed I had picked the right time to come out. Could this be the day I’d become the record holder? I had to strike while the iron, or dart was hot. Ten more casts produced five more fish.
“The count’s up to eight.” I told myself.
Cast. Jerk, reel, jerk, reel, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz went my reel as line escaped. I panicked. Was this a striper? What’s going on? The man between me and the bridge heard my reel scream and noticed my rod doubled over. Being a courteous fisherman, I say him hastily reel in his cast to alleviate the possibility of entangling his line with whatever was at the end of mine.
“You got something nice on there huh?” He yelled.
“Yeah I think so man.” I nervously yelled back. “I don’t know what it is, but it hit pretty hard and took off pretty quickly.”
“Could be a big striper.” He shouted.
“Yeah I heard they were in here right now. Whatever it is I hope it doesn’t break my line before I at least get a glimpse of him.” I muttered while stumbling over rocks as I walked downstream towards the man, lead by the giant on the end of my line. I continued to hope he didn’t make a break for the bridge. “Sorry to get in your way like this.” I said, now right next to the fisherman.
“Don’t worry about me, just get that thing in.” The friendly stranger responded.
“I’m gonna try.” I squeezed out while keeping tension on my line as I finished my walk to a nice flat section where canoes and kayaks could put-in, about seventy-five yards from where I started, now dangerously close to the bridge.
Several minutes had passed with me gaining ground on the fish only to have my hard work lost just when I thought he’d given up, but continued making run after run out towards a channel leading under the bridge.
“He just doesn’t seem to want to be caught.” I said. The man just smiled. He didn’t hear me now that I was farther downstream from him and he was able to concentrate on fishing again. I get a bit chatty when I’m excited, and my talkative nature was not requited so much at the moment. As I had months before at the tackle store, I again took the hint.
Finally I thought I had him beat as I’d gotten the creature within ten feet of me, with just enough time to see his tail turn in my direction and scurry back off to deeper water. It wasn’t a striper. Having only seen a spotted tail like this in a Bass Pro Shops aquarium before, I wasn’t completely sure of my catch, but believed it to be a longnose gar. I’d witnessed the prehistoric looking monster stick his nose out of the water almost like a porpoise on several previous trips to the Mayo, so I knew he, or she was in here, but had never caught it or one like it in my life. I was excited to add a new species to my angling repertoire, as I wondered how its razor sharp rows of teeth in its elongated mouth hadn’t snapped my line. I must be a better fisherman that I’d thought.
After one final burst of energy, the fish succumbed to my ten-pound test line, medium action rod, and incredibly sore right arm, turning its head towards me and the shore, allowed me to beach it. Sure enough it was a gar, and the largest freshwater fish I’d ever caught—sort of caught.
My angling prowess was not quite as good as I’d presumed during the fight. The gar’s teeth never snapped my line because the fish never made an attempt to eat the shad dart I was jerking and reeling through the water. The fish was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught the dart right in the side, past the gill plate, above the right pectoral fin. I eased the small hook out of a particularly meaty area of gar and held it up as the friendly fisherman came over to view my catch, camera at the ready.
“Woo hoo! Look at this nasty thing.” I proudly said, probably smiling like an overgrown child on a sugar high.
“Man. That’s a healthy, mean lookin’ gar you got there. Can I get a picture of it?” He asked.
“Yeah man, that’d be great.” I told him. “I left my camera in the car. Can you get a few and maybe email them to me later?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure.” He said a bit hesitantly.
After measuring the fish against my rod for a future accurate follow-up measurement with a proper tool, (she would measure an even 38”) my catch and I posed for some pictures. Despite what I’d thought would be a fierce disposition due to its ferocious looking demeanor, the gar was very tame—photogenic if you will, it must have been female; because she was full of eggs of course. After some Kodak moments, I released her back to the wild where she swam slowly away back to the depths.
“Man that was awesome! Thanks for letting me get by…and taking the pictures.” I said. “I’m Zach by the way.”
“No problem man, it was fun to watch. I’ve never seen one of those things up close like that. I’m Charles.” He said.
“Charles, nice to meet you.” I said offering my hand for a shake.
“You too Zach.” Charles replied meeting my hand with his. “I’ll get your email before you or I leave today and send you those pictures.”
“Thanks man, that’d be great. I don’t think anyone would believe this catch without proper documentation.” I said, provoking a laugh from my new friend. “Back to the shad I guess right?” I half-stated, half-asked.
“Yeah I noticed you were on quite a streak before that gar.” Charles said. I acknowledged his statement with a nod and a modest smile.
“A buddy of mine caught twenty the other night. I came out to beat his record this morning. They seem pretty thick right now, hopefully I can do it.” I stated.
“Get after em’ while they’re here.” Charles said.
That’s what I intended to do as I made my way back to my spot where my other rod lay staking my claim. The day was off to an uncannily amazing start. It could only get better. Cast. Jerk, reel, jerk, reel.

Shadtastic fishing amidst the crowds

2009-06-04T15:13:00.001-04:00

The weekend was now over. I was having dinner at my in-laws the following evening, so after work B set out for the bridge by himself. I received a call from him right after we’d sat down, but excused myself to answer the phone despite looking impolite—this was serious business.
“Hey man what’s up?” I asked.
“I got down here about ten minutes ago” he said anxiously.
“Yeah…” I interrupted, knowing from his tone of voice that something very important was going to follow.
“I went down the trail to the left this time because only a few people were there.”
“Yeah…” I once again interjected.
“It’s high tide and there’s this rock about ten feet off the bank that’s almost completely under water, so I decided to stand on the bank behind it to cast out and bring it in behind the eddy.” He said running out of breath. “I’ve caught four so far.” He added.
“What?!” I shouted, much too loud that I was overheard by my wife who was already irritated that I was putting my and B’s shad fishing saga ahead of dinner with our relatives.
“Yeah man it’s awesome!” He chuckled.
“Oh man. We had to come over for dinner tonight.” I sighed sarcastically more to myself than anyone else.
“Yeah, sorry man.” B said apathetically.
“What have you gotten them on?” I asked.
“I went out and bought some more of those orange darts, and got some spoons too. I’m using the dart that guy gave us the other night right now.” He replied.
“Man, nice.” I said.
“Yeah, there are actually about five of us out here catching them, but this spot I’m in is paying off the best.”
“Damn dinner!” I muttered, so as not to be heard this time.
“Oh yeah. Man I forgot, I actually had one jump a couple times way out from me, then when I’d gotten him about fifteen feet away he jumped right onto the rocks.” B said chuckling.
“What? From fifteen feet away?” I asked in complete fisherman disbelief.
“Yeah. Seriously. It was ridiculous. The guys around me said they’d never seen anything like it before. It was awesome.” Abruptly he added, “Alright, well, I’m gonna try to get some more. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Yeah, good luck man, let me know.” I said. I closed and pocketed my phone and headed back to the dinner table.
Not ten minutes later my pocket beeped sounding the receipt of a text message. B had sent me notice his count was up to nine. The grimace in my face was picked up by my wife who shot me a glance that told me to keep my mouth shut, enjoy dinner, and get over it. Twenty minutes later the count was up to fourteen. The final message of the night set the bar at twenty.
We could barely catch one shad the day before, now B had landed twenty at dusk in just over an hour. It seemed the evening hours might be the optimal time to go fishing from now on, so that’s what we did.
Usually after dinner, but in some cases not, (which we’d pay for) our wives became fishermen’s widows every evening for the next week or so. After he left work, B would come by and pick me up, parking right in the middle of the road with his hazard lights blinking for as long as it took me to load my pair of non-broken down, two-piece rods through the back passenger side door. His rod would already be sitting there on the back seat facing forward stretching all the way to the dashboard when my two made their way in to accompany. I'd previously readied mine for battle so as not to lose time when we arrived on the scene; one equipped with an eighth-ounce orange dart, the other with a gold spoon. His rod would have one or the other of the same lures tied on and attached to a middle guide. Rarely would we deviate from either of the two guaranteed weapons. We would frequent the same spot he fished by the big rock ten feet off the bank on the trail to the left just under the rapids of the Fall Line. The spoons would be for use earlier in the evening before the sun completed its decent upriver, with the darts coming into play at the onset of twilight. Occasionally the service of the orange dart was called into employment earlier than sundown, as the shad would begin to ignore the spoons, but for the most part protocol indicated spoons first, darts second.
It became normal for us each to tally a dozen fish in an evening; mostly hickory shad, but the errant, rare and larger American would make its way to the end of our lines now and again. The shad were certainly running thick, many of them allowing us the privilege of experiencing their fights. I hadn’t yet gotten one to jump fifteen feet away from me onto the rocks at my feet, but I’d been having a great time with them nonetheless.
That weekend brought a good deal of people to the banks of the James at the Mayo Bridge in search of the shad’s eggs, or roe, what we’d been told was quite a delicacy in these parts. The shad craze began to make more sense. It wasn’t simply the amazing fight the fish gave, it was the eggs they carried that made Richmonders and many others in the central Virginia and Tidewater areas covet the anadromous creatures. Not being a fan of caviar, I had no desire to eat any shad roe. Though I learned that if one was to partake, sautéing the egg sacks in garlic butter for a short time over low heat produced quite the treat. No thanks.
Buckets and buckets of female shad were filled by fishermen removing the animals from their spawning grounds to now be taken to angler’s homes where they’d have their stomachs carefully slit open, egg sacks removed, and carcasses discarded into the trash. The cycle of life I guess.
What I failed to comprehend was the need for an overwhelming majority of these particular fishermen to stand directly next to me or B, and cast right where we were casting for the same fish. With the great expanse of river surrounding us there was no need to crowd one another. Our frustration grew immensely from Saturday to Sunday when regardless of what time of day we were out, everyone else with a rod in Richmond seemed to be out as well. This was not a new concept as we’d seen fishermen en masse since B’s discovery of the area weeks before, though the concept of the discourteous angler was new and not welcomed. We decided that on weekends we’d leave the James and its shad alone, they had enough problems to deal with.
I was content fishing in the evenings, but not content with B having the record for most fish in an outing. It was time for me to take advantage of not being stranded behind a desk during the day and make my mark on the 09 shad season solo.

A lost phone and the shad Oracle

2009-05-27T19:31:00.000-04:00

On B’s advice, he and I decided that fly fishing probably wasn’t the best choice of technique for the newfound spot de la spot. Fishing from the bank, there would be little room behind us for a forward cast and a roll cast wouldn’t get out as far as B witnessed the fish being caught during his reconnaissance mission. The two of us nixed the gear we had spent a good deal of money on, instead favoring the seasons-old multiple spin casting rods and reels, tackle boxes full of lures mainly for bass, the shad flies we’d tied, and some "sure-fire" lures, (in case the flies didn't work) called shad darts, which I'd purchased a 3-pack of during my most recent trip to the tackle shop. Being superstitious fishermen, B and I decided we needed an addition to our party to offset the bad luck the two of us magnified. Enter Joey.
The three of us set out towards 14th Street with high hopes for tight lines. Upon arrival at the Mayo Bridge we discovered all the fishermen in the greater Richmond area had the same idea as us. Being a nice day, we expected a crowd like B had seen the day before, but not a fishing gala. The bridge was lined nearly elbow-to-elbow with anglers on the hunt for poor man’s tarpon. What was so good about these fish that people came out in droves seeking its sustenance? We parked and B led us to the trail he had discovered. To the left of the bridge below the rapids of the James’ Fall Line, (above which the James River is no longer tidal) the banks were equally as crowded as the bridge itself, so we took a right—going under the bridge and onto the trail not so heavily traveled. Our group took it as a sign that fewer people fished the bank on this calmer side of the bridge, but having no choice/standing room in the matter, we found an empty spot outside of the casting range of those on the bridge and climbed down the rocks to the river’s edge. Joey took the far right downstream position while I stood between him and B, who decided to stay closer to the bridge and the eddies it created.
The shad didn’t seem to like Rapalas, rooster tails, buzzbaits, or Carolina rigged worms. The fish also didn’t like the Tommy’s Torpedoes or Crazy Charlies B and I tied for the purpose of fly fishing, but now used on our spinning gear; at least not the way we were fishing them. I tried using the sure-fire shad darts too, but they weren't working either. Having no topographic knowledge of what lied under the river’s surface, and the fact that it was low tide, initially we all lost several lures to snags. However we all improved our snag retrieving ability, enduring fewer losses as the day progressed.
Looking under the bridge to the left of our position, we saw fishermen and women, young and old, having no problems catching the silver sided wonders. The shad did indeed leap several feet into the air, some repeatedly. They looked fun to catch, I wanted one. I wanted ten. At least we knew the fish were here, or there, under the bridge. Though, without knowing how to catch them we might as well have been fishing in the Dead Sea.
“This guy’s got one” Joey announced, speaking of the gentleman on his right, even farther downstream. Now the shad were on either side of us; we had no excuse for failure.
“What’s he using?” I asked Joey.
“It looks like a little spoon or something” Joey responded, not having gotten a good look at the lure.
I dug through my tackle box in search of something spoon-like. All I found was a three inch Mooselook lure I used for walleye in Canada, but I tied it on anyways. Cast, nothing. Cast, nothing. Cast, nothing.
“That guy’s got another one” Joey chirped, again. “Oh,” he paused, “His buddy has one too.”
I looked at B with clenched teeth. His face reddened as he realized that our trio was the only group on the river getting skunked.
“He’s got another one” Joey superfluously alerted.
Just then a barrel-chested, white haired, though younger looking man than his hair suggested, descended from the trail onto the rocks heading towards us, rod in hand. He stopped ten feet shy of the river and began scouring the rocks intently. I instantly recognized the man as local Richmond barbecue celebrity, “Buzz” having seen him on the Food Network channel on several occasions. After several minutes of searching, B inquired what the search was for.
“I lost my cell phone down here last night and figured I might get really lucky and find it today” un-introduced Buzz said sarcastically as he smiled, knowing he had no chance of finding his lost phone.
“You all catching everything in the river?” He asked, not having seen the lures we were using which would have answered his question.
“Not a thing man” B responded as he reeled in his cast and set his rod down to join in the investigation. I joined in as well, allowing Joey and everyone else to have a chance to catch some fish while we explored under the rocks.
“So did you at least catch a few when you were down here last night?” I asked him.
“Yeah man, caught seven” Buzz replied.
“Right in this very spot?” I asked.
“Yep.”
Not being the least bit ashamed of admitting I had no idea what I was doing, I asked what he was using when he’d caught the supposed seven glorious shad the night before.
“Got em’ all on this shad dart” he said as he unhooked the lure he was referring to from the lowest guide on his rod.
His dart was much like the one I'd tried using. The lures resembled distorted jellybeans, his was colored black for the first quarter of its body, the remainder colored bright orange. Mine was red and chartreuse respectively. They're tapered—fat to skinny from the flat, angled head, to the bend of the hook where the body ends.
“I guess it’s supposed to look like a bug or somethin’, I don’t know. They love em’ though. It’s all I use” he added.
As we continued the search we talked more about shad darts: favorite colors to use, techniques to use when retrieving, the affects of adding an orange bead to the line above the dart, as Buzz had; more of the same types of questions I’d asked repeatedly at the fly fishing section of the tackle shop months earlier.
“You just gotta jerk and reel, jerk and reel” Buzz said while demonstrating the motion he employed for shad catching success. I had been simply reeling the lure in. “Sometimes you gotta slow it down, sometimes speed it up, but never stop jerkin’ that thing in.” Eureka!
As Joey fished, B and I became co-Alexanders to Buzz’s Aristotle, memorizing every tactic necessary for defeating the shad in future battles. For some reason I believed him more than the guys from the tackle store; it must have been his sage-like white hair, coupled with the fact I was familiar with the deliciousness of his famous pork ribs—sheer brilliance.
The search came to an end as Buzz grew tired of looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack, or maybe he was just tired of fielding our questions.
“Here” he said, cutting the leader his dart and bead were attached to from the swivel separating the leader from his line, “I’m not gonna fish tonight and I have tons of these at home, you guys take this one.”
“Are you sure?” B and I asked almost in unison.
“Yeah, I really have a bunch of em.’ I’d probably snag this one anyways” he said smiling again. “You gotta remember: jerk and reel, jerk and reel” he added, once again demonstrating the exact motion.
We thanked him for the gifts of the lure and knowledge, and he turned and went slowly back up the rock, head down, still searching for the M.I.A. phone. B tied on the dart.
“He’s got another one” Joey echoed, bringing our mindset back to the battlefield. “What was the deal with that guy?” He asked.
“He lost his phone last night” I told my half-interested friend.
“He’s not gonna find that” Joey stated as he reeled in his last cast and attached whatever it was he was using to a middle guide on his rod, then reeling in the slack until his rod tip bent. He picked up his tackle box with his spare hand. “Well I’m outta here.”
With little fanfare, Joey gave up and made his way back up the rocks to the trail.
“Let me know if you guys get anything.” Joey yelled. “I won’t be expecting any calls” he had to add.
I looked back to see Buzz now standing atop the trail dozens of yards away, uselessly scanning under the rocks in his vicinity. He happened to look up, making eye contact with me, and began demonstrating the magical dart technique for the third time. I smiled and waved at him, nodding my understanding. I decided to retry the chartreuse 1/4 ounce dart I'd been using earlier to no avail, now that I'd been enlightened with the knowledge of its proper use.

Cast; jerk and reel, jerk and reel. Cast; jerk and reel, jerk and reel. Cast, jerk and BIG jerk back causing my rod to bend in half. Finally! I had something on the end of my line and figured it could only be my first shad. My inference was proven correct as the beautiful fish shot two feet out of his element and into mine landing side-first, creating a magnificent splash. B looked up from the water in front of him, as surprised as I was, happy that at least one of us had a stroke of luck. Not wanting to lose the creature, I horsed him in rather quickly as if he was the last fish needed for the livewell in a B.A.S.S. sanctioned tournament, caught just in time for weigh-in. As he was brought to within several feet of me he made one final vigorous run, taking a few yards of line off my reel. I grew nervous thinking he'd get off, but kept my line taught and brought him in all this way this time from the water to the rocks where I stood. The fish's body convulsed as it struggled to bounce off the foreign objects back to its home. I set my rod down and reached over to pick up my trophy.

A more slippery and pungent smelling fish I have never before beheld. Scales fell off the shad as he slithered out of my grip and back to the rocks. I again picked him up; from the toothless lip this time like a bass, and unhooked him from the dart, holding him up for B to see. I was all smiles.

"Check it out man." I told my friend. Without thinking about my next statement before it was stated I told him, "Man you gotta get one of these. That was awesome!"

He acknowledged my words with minimal sarcasm showing through in his face, saying, "Yeah man. Good work."

I gratefully nodded and placed the fish back into the water as I thanked him, or her, for the great fight and the ability to add a shad to my list of species caught. B and I fished for a little while longer, he with Buzz's dart, me with mine, catching no additional fish, but it didn't matter. One fish was enought for today. The stage was set. B and I were destined for shad mastery.

The Shadventure Continues

2009-05-14T17:53:00.001-04:00

That night I got a call from B, one of my fellow participants in the shad initiation fiasco. After being dropped off at home, his frustration had apparently been at a higher level than mine, (sans torn waders) or it might have been that he was just more persistent than I felt like being at the moment. Whatever the trait may have been, he said he’d decided to scout the city for a new potential spot several restless hours later. Without rod or reel, but with much determination, he set out to prove first and foremost to himself that there were fish in the James River. This is his story.
It was now early evening as B drove determined through the desolate streets of Shockoe Slip not knowing where he was heading, using only his recently discovered shad sense as his guide. That very shad sense told him to turn right on 14th Street and continue towards the Mayo Bridge, on the way to the famous floodwall erected to protect Richmond from the mighty James during its angry flood stages.
Onward he pressed, disregarding cautious yellow stoplights that ripened to a halting red before he had the slightest chance of scurrying under their commanding presence. He didn’t care. He drove—drove like a man possessed by the power of an empty hook void of a fish’s mouth; a man possessed by a straight rod standing unbent by a fish’s fight. Over cobblestone and railroad tracks he drove, straight towards the Mayo Bridge.
His shad sense suddenly began to calm his strained nerves as his eyes scanned the curbs lining the bridge’s four foot walls. His right foot rose off the gas pedal and the car decelerated to a mild jog. Fishermen. His pupils dilated, his hands twitched, and he began to salivate like a Pavlovian canine. Dozens of fishermen. They stood upon the sidewalk running parallel to 14th Street atop the very bridge he was crossing casting from high on their perch to the river yards below them. “Where there are fishermen, there’s got to be fish” he said aloud to himself. Feeling as giddy as a child overdosed on Pixie Sticks, he snapped out of his daze and reintroduced the gas pedal to the floorboard of his Altima. Racing across the bridge he frantically scanned the area for available parking. “LEFT!” His shad sense thundered in his head, as he turned to find a questionably legal patch of gravel to park in next to an abandoned Southern States warehouse.
Overly excited, B neglected a safe method of stopping; thoughtlessly hurling the car dangerously close to peril as his right hand yanked the emergency brake like a parachute’s rip cord. Having ignored the floor brake altogether, the Altima’s wheels locked, sending the sedan skidding recklessly over the loose rocks before coming to a jarring stop in cloud of dust and smoke from the burnt tires, inches in front of the warehouse. Not even comprehending the potential harm he’d almost caused to himself and his car, B hastily twisted the keys out of the ignition with one hand while simultaneously opening his door with the other. He leaped out of the vehicle in a single bound and ran towards the bridge. Across what used to be 14th, now Hull Street on this unexplored side of city and river, he found a path leading down to the banks of the James.
Standing even with it’s height, but west of the Mayo Bridge, B looked down to see the path twisting from left to right and left again as dirt replaced pavement and the trail leveled out even with the river. Here more fishermen stood mere feet apart from one another casting off the bank into the churning water. Rods bent in half as men leaned back using their staffs to leverage themselves between the fish they’d hooked and the currents the fish were using against their predators. Brilliant silver sided fish jumped feet into the air. “I was right. There are fish here!” B chuckled to himself. Choosing not to take the latter left, B stayed on the paved path taking him under the bridge then up a mild incline between boulders lining the bank of the James on one side and the wall on the other.

Here he saw more of the same; fishermen doing what fishermen were supposed to do—catch fish. Only knowing what a shad looked like based on internet research, B could only assume that was precisely the species he was witnessing due to their marvelously acrobatic moves. After spectating as long as he could take it, (not having his equipment to join in the catching) B walked proudly back to his car calling me in the process to relay his discovery.
…
“Who was that?” My wife the runner asked after my conversation with B was over. She could see I was getting riled up.
“It was B” I happily announced. “He said there were guys all around the Mayo Bridge downtown catching all sorts of stuff, probably shad! He said something about a trail running the length of the river down there and you can fish right off of it!”
“You never listen to me” she said.
I was dumbfounded, as I’d expected a more positive, albeit most likely sarcastically positive, “Really? That’s great honey.”
“What does this have to do with me not listening to you?” I asked.
“I’ve been running that trail for two years now. I told you about it at least a dozen times.”
Needless to say, at least for this past month I have listened more closely to my wife.

Running with the Shad on the James River

2009-05-13T12:29:00.000-04:00

Relentlessly rainy April came to Richmond.
I had been frequenting a local tackle conglomerate for two months now, enough that my face was well known in the fly fishing section of the store. While shopping for more and more superfluous tying materials, I’d ask about shad fishing techniques: flies the fish had been known to attack, whether sinking line was better than floating line, speed of retrieve, and the list went ruthlessly on—and on again with each repeat visit; same questions. I had begun to suspect that storewide APB’s were sent in code to warn the sector’s employees of my presence, giving them enough of a warning from the time it took me to walk from the front door to their sector that they could find a way to escape my imminent barrage of repetitive questions. I’m almost certain the announcement on the store’s PA system of, “Jerk baits line 4” meant I was on the premises. By now employees had become too busy to talk and I took the hint. Enough talk. I’d heard through the grapevine that the much anticipated shad run was now full on in the James River anyways. Though, unless the fish are on the end of my line they don’t exist.
So I scrounged up some fishing buddies and set out with all of my new fly gear; reels with both floating and sinking line, dozens of Tommy’s Torpedo variants I’d been told to tie by my friends at the tackle warehouse, a fresh out of the box pair of waders and a vest a size too small. I imagine other fishermen on the river would have seen me as the typical city boy trying his best to look like the cover of the spring L.L. Bean catalogue, while possessing the fly fishing skill of a day-trader on his first trip to the outdoors. I felt like a fat-man-in-a-little-vest. When had the river all to ourselves, which should have told me something.
Due to the river’s height after the incessant rain I could barely get safely far enough off the bank to accomplish a full forward cast, but at least my sinking line was getting down in the strong current. My hope for landing a nice hickory or American shad on my 8’6 Sage ran as high as the river. Also called poor man’s tarpon, shad, I’d heard were some of the best fighting fish for their size; putting up an acrobatic fight, jumping feet into the air similar to their larger relatives, and never giving up until they were in the net or on the bank. Cast after cast I made in this hole and that, behind that eddy and under those branches. But, after spending the greater part of a day walking up and down a two mile span of river I thought would be great shad habitat, I’d had not so much as a snag. The luck of my fishing buddies was equal to mine. Shad-1, Determined anglers who didn’t want to admit defeat-0. My group and I irritably threw in the towel.
I actually needed that towel to dry off my right leg after taking a rock to the knee of my new waders and tearing a hole in them just big enough to soak my right foot with cold river water. Kick me when I’m down. After dropping my buddies off I continued home with a cold and wet right foot, now emanating the pungency of athlete’s foot fungus into my nostrils. Not the best day. Frustrated that all the research I’d done to prepare for my first shad outing had gotten us nowhere, I began to wonder if we were even fishing in the right place…