It really didn't hit home until I regularly caught big fish that fought
hard, threatening lines, hooks, even rods. As spring smallmouths on Winnepesaukee came into the venue,
this lesson started to resonate. The hard soundings and frantic leaps
of the big May bronzebacks required a cushion or something would give. The
first October bluefish that cuisinart'ed my live-lined foot long pogie
further re-enforced the notion that a reciprocating approach to retrieval was
the only way. The fly rod emphatically drove this lesson home, and after a dozen blissful years of salmonids in the pacific
northwest the scream of the drag and the reluctant approach of the prized
fish often brought the mantra to my lips: "don't pull... OK now pull! ooops,
don't pull...", all with a large grin of course.
This is rule #1 in my "fishing rules hall of fame", up there
with "place rods on the hood, NEVER the roof" and "don't set the hook on
a surface take until you feel it in the wrist" or "carry the rod pointing
backwards when bushwacking", etc. In fact I've already passed the pull/no
pull rule on to
my son when reeling in a 23 pound chinook salmon at 8 years old. He recently landed a 36" striper with his grandpa's
guide buddy, and I am sure these words came to mind. In fact as he fought
his first fly-caught keeper on a sunny Monomoy flat, I coached "when it
pulls...".
A few years back during the awesome fall run of stripers on the cape kept me mumbling such anecdotes.
Albeit the ratio of stripers that really scream the drag like a steelhead are relatively low, there's an abundance of tough schoolies
between keepers and the rule certainly applies. Once day that autumn I hooked a large
striper that did the typical big-fish routine of emptying the basket on the
first run, but then continued to take almost all of my fly line on a beeline
to Nantucket. I wanted to see this fish bad and had to remind myself to be
patient as I began to wrestle it to within sighting distance.
My
friend Greg (an accomplished photographer) hustled over, volunteering to man
the camera. Because I wear a neck loop for the shades, a hat keeper strap, a
hooded jacket, and a vest in and around my camera neck strap - Greg was
trying hard to get the thing untangled from my neck as the fish resisted the
close encounter. As the behemoth loomed into polarized viewing range, I saw
it was among the biggest striper of the season for me, if not the biggest.
It
had a dark, gun-metal blue/gray back and a ghostly image of stripes and white
fins to confirm it's girth and bulk. Suddenly I wanted this picture
soooooo bad I could already see it hanging (enlarged and framed) in my office, and for
once this season I actually caught a nice striper when there was someone
to snap a photo. (Most are solo shots like the one at top). As the fish seemed to settle down, I gave my
attention for an instant to reach back and unsnap said apparatus and free
the camera to secure the photo op... but at this mere instant of
slack line the big bruiser bass made a 5-gallon head shake and spit the
big barbless fly like a flavorless wad of used chewing gum, proceeding
to non-chalantly swim away like it was all just a hallucination,
gliding over the rippled sand bottom into the oblivion from whence it
came.
The 20 or 30 'short' stripers Greg and I landed that day suddenly felt like
a consolation prize to me - the free french fries in the million
dollar monopoly sweepstakes; the peck on the cheek and the "thank you" on
the fifth date; the five dollar lottery winner, etc. I sighed a big
sigh and recognized that this feeling was the same one I got from
each steelhead I had lost over the years while fiddling to get a
camera ready (and there were too many).
Greg, who was still holding
the camera on the strap around my neck, let the camera drop, and we broke into
laughter. I looked off into the horizon where the big striper disappeared and
felt a pang of loss, like the feeling I get from the waning of the season.
Indeed the day was great, and the fish we caught were grand. I wouldn't
want to miss such a prime fall day on the water even if I lost ten big fish.
But with this event it became absolutely clear that I needed a new golden rule:
Rule #649233:
"Get the fish
first, and the picture second"
- Juro Mukai |
