I spent the last couple of weekends Shad fishing – and like many of my trips, spent more time tying flies and losing them then putting them to good use.

I’m close enough to see them though, and it’s enough to make the predawn outing worthwhile. Seeing some other fellow get some fish is enough boost to know your turn’s coming.

It makes up for the #8 beaded headed monstrosity that caught an updraft earlier. A couple of turns of 7X to close the wound, splash a little pond water to make the surgery antiseptic – and off to the next hole.

Last weekend it was the pram across from me, and today it was the small male someone had left on the bottom dead. Just enough affirmation to continue hurling bead-headed-sharp-stuff into a headwind.

I see a parallel to drinking, about the third “stiff one” you’re bulletproof and invulnerable, and the sight of your quarry lifeless imparts an irrational sense of pending victory, allowing you to pound water for another 50 minutes, despite everyone else leaving in disgust.

I did meet the “Goose Whisperer” – some young lass that belted out an eerie cry from the bank. It’s the “shock and awe” of urban fishing, odd rituals performed at dawn, with only the river as witness.

I was mid-river and distant, and watched as every feathered creature for miles swam up to the lady, surrounding her and clamoring for attention. She was dispensing bread and seemed content to ensure every gosling got its due, including every mallard, teal, and puddle duck within proximity.

I was summoning up the courage to ask her what she’d charge for calling Shad, but thought better of it.

I did manage to foul hook something ponderous. Thinking it was a tree branch I drew the line tight to bust the fly off – when it moved upstream smartly. It ignored my 8 weight and 3X and showed no sign that it knew I was attached. We parted company shortly thereafter, thankfully.

I’ll try again tomorrow. If you hear some bloodcurdling cry from the bank and some moron emptying goldfish flakes into the river – give a wave.

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