Remind me to add some form of prosthetic device to my spinners, as these eyes ain’t what they once were. Perhaps a move to Alaska is in the cards, as my buddies mentioned the mosquitoes are as big as Honda Civics, and carry off farm animals and small children. That I may be able to see.

I had a couple reasons for sustained abuse, a new Sharkskin line from Scientific Anglers arrived in the mail, and the “rain” that was to dominate this weekend failed to materialize.

In either case, I figured a couple hours on the Little Stinking was in order, far away from humans in case my sudden switch from Double-Taper to Weight-Forward rendered my casting uncontrollable.

I headed up to the Conservancy stretch figuring to scare up some fish and arrived in time for the morning spinner fall. I’m counting how many cigars I brought with me and comparing it to the clouds of spinners, and I’m woefully outgunned.

I’m thankful that mayflies live no more than eight or nine days as adults, figuring none of this horde will recognize me as the cigar chomping Torturer of Things Smaller than Him, from last week. They didn’t, instead I was forcibly recruited as an “aircraft carrier” for the many squadrons comprising the Mayfly Strategic Bomber Command.

Fish were rising all over, anything that had fins was out in the middle of the river sucking down as many spinners as fast as possible. Fish didn’t even bother to submerge fully, they were running neither silent nor deep, dorsal and shoulder areas exposed, setting in the current with mouth open.

I’m listening to the inner demon who insists I throw a nymph, despite all the evidence to the contrary. It’s just fear, as I can’t remember whether I stuffed that pinch of spinners in my nymph box like I was supposed to …

They were there, and I was resolved to land my first trash fish on a dry fly.

The will was there, but the vision wasn’t – reality is a harsh mistress, I realized I’m the “old hunting dog contentedly licking his nuts by the fire,” and when the Boss reaches for the shotgun, the desire is there, but youth is gone.

I’m reduced to an area effect strike, hoping that the dimple I saw was my fly, rather than the four hundred million naturals next to it. It works well enough on greedy fish, less effective on selective less voracious beasts.

If there was any doubt about Pikeminnow and dry flies, it’s been dispelled. Ditto for anything else with fins, including smallmouth.

There was one broad shouldered brute under a cane canopy that defied me, he made sucking noises like a freckled kid finishing a milk shake – naturally I took offense. I managed to drop the spinner into a clear area that fed his protective lair, and was rewarded with an explosive battle, line screaming off the reel, aerial antics, and the thrill that comes once in a lifetime, trophy Pikeminnow.

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