It’s one of those luxuries we’ve all enjoyed, parking within proximity to a thriving business and leisurely gearing up as all the fishermen within either burst into tears, or shake their fist at you.
Yesterday was Veteran’s Day, and I had a pocket full of experimentals to try out – overcast and clouds present but high enough not to threaten me with much moisture.
“Fatty” intercepted the second Matuka with a vengeance, I had to marvel at his grit, exactly what is a six inch fish going to do with a four inch minnow? It’s sitting down to a five foot long hero sandwich; you may be really hungry – but outside of dribbling meat and tomato slices down your shirt front – what’s the point?
The “transitional crayfish” were well received. I’d mixed a strand of Orange and a strand of Olive on the LSO – giving it some color reminiscent of the red crawdads. As red hasn’t claimed a victim, the question, “is it the color or the size?” remains unanswered.
I hit a half dozen nice fish on the Olive and Orange mixture, implying the color is acceptable.
This suggests the red version should have no issue, but it’s size may be offputting.
I’d brought a Magnum Little Stinking Olive, tied on the same hook the red uses – both flies are identical in size, and only colors differ.
The Magnum had the identical reception as it’s smaller cousin. I tied the dry bug on and flipped it at a rock on the far bank, it sank smartly despite my removing half the lead. I gave it one twitch and five pounds of Pikeminnow leaps out of the water with the Magnum down its gut.
I guess “size does matter” – as I’ve fished through this stretch a dozen times without laying eyes on this monster. Pikeminnow are long thin fish, and this fellow is about five pounds, and nearly 27″ long.
With only a single Giant Olive, I fish really carefully from then on.
The stretch below yielded another Pikeminnow of nearly the same size and a half dozen nice bass – making me wonder whether the two species aren’t fighting over the darn crawdads.
I didn’t have the courage to try the big red, husbanding the sole Olive flavor until the rain interrupted both me and the fellow shaking his fist from the gravel conveyer up above.
He must’ve been shouting encouragement – or bemoaning his lack of vacation day.
I was introduced to Bob Quigley’s “cripples” years ago when he lived near Fall River, one of those rare fly tiers whose creations are both graceful and practical, flies that fool fish rather than fishermen.