I’ve never caught a fish enough times to name it, I always thought the practice was proof the angler needed to fish somewhere’s else. Old angling cartoons first acquainted me with the practice, usually with some big city swell telling some kid to put the big SOB back before “Old TackleBuster” expired.

If I was the kid, I would’ve kicked Mr. Aberchrombie and Fitch in the nuts, then taken off running, but I always was an insensitive little brute..

I was supposed to go Christmas shopping and when no one was looking snuck the rod in the back of the truck instead – figuring two hours of fishing and an hour of shopping technically qualifies. If you are lucky enough to have water nearby, Christmas is the perfect subterfuge – you scuff  the ground with your toe and claim it’s her present you’re shopping for – otherwise you’d be thrilled at spending the afternoon shopping for Aunt WhatsHerName and her idjit children.

That’s not insensitive, that’s practical.

It’s getting cold in the morning, and even the fish were huddled for warmth. I hit two or three spots and had little success – figuring the bite may pick up with additional sun on the water.

The beaver had completed the dam on the “Hatchery” stretch, raising the water level by two feet. Industrious fellow, I would love to see a time lapse photography of how he managed to get all that brush and timber into the creek. It’s a two phase build method, they plunk all the branches into the water then go upstream and uproot as much weed as they can, the branches catch it all and make a perfect watertight wall.

I had tested Curly’s Nondescript nymphs here last week, and remembering that big smallmouth that cracked me off, I had another six Nondescript Blacks to tempt him. I didn’t figure he would be fool enough to eat another one, I was hoping some of his relatives might.

The fourth cast into the brush pile was perfect, the fly was in the branches above his hiding spot and I let the current pull it off and drop it in his living room. I gave it one tug and then all hell broke loose, water flying, fish airborne, and me standing there with an unlit cigar and a foolish grin.

I got as far as “Son of a…” before the line went slack. “Old Nondescript” had busted me off a second time, and now he had two flies in his face. I can only hope they’re at opposite ends of his jaw so he still swims straight…

Nice fish, and with the extra two foot of water depth he’s likely to get a lot bigger. Addiction to Nondescript nymphs should prove his undoing, as I’m the only “dealer” in the area, I’ll be sure to make him pose.

Technorati Tags: brownlining, smallmouth bass, Old Nondescript