WRITING ON THE FLY
By GEORGE LISET
Stealth is the key to fishing Mad Beaver Pond.
As the name of the pond suggests, an angler may have some competition vying for those little stockies, and they won’t be happy.
When I arrive at the trail I am careful to approach the pond quietly, well, at least as quietly as my two hundred and twenty pound frame allows. Those days of quietly sneaking in the house past my parents after twelve in the morning are long gone. Those creaky floorboards gave me away every time, as do those broken branches which surround the pond.
As I reach the pond I warily look around for my competition, Mr. Angry Beaver. He’s a sly one. Mr. Beaver has the knack of stealthily swimming up beside you and slapping his tail on the water. This sounds like a shotgun blast to the unsuspecting angler and literally will scare the daylights out of you. I’ll admit he has a little advantage in that my hearing isn’t what it used to be. After forty plus years of teaching, and doing lunch duties and assemblies, I miss a few things.
On this day he is nowhere to be found. For the time being, that is. I see last year’s lodge at the far end of the pond. For Mr. Beaver it is prime real estate. The big spring where all the trout hang when the water warms up is right at his front door. If he had to pay taxes he wouldn’t be able to afford them. He’d get stuck with a waterfront view tax upgrade and would have to pay for trash removal.
Since the pond is small I have my eight and a half foot, three weight rod. I have a long twelve foot leader, size 6x and I use a 7x tippet. I have tied on a size eighteen bead head soft hackle, which I have had some success with here. It is getting toward evening and I know the trout will be swimming the edges of the pond looking for dinner.
As the sun starts to set behind the trees, the chorus begins. The peepers start softly and will soon rise to a crescendo. A sound I never get tired of. I began casting, working my way slowly around the pond. I start on the berm that acts like a dam. There is plenty of room to work on my casting which has gotten a little sloppy during the winter throwing streamers and nymphing.
As I make my way around the pond the brush gets closer to the shoreline. An angler then has to produce a decent roll cast in order to get the fly on the water. Anyone that does much fly fishing in New England has this cast mastered, especially if you are fishing rivers and streams. To this point I haven’t had much luck. Mad Beaver Pond, I have found, fishes better in the evening, however, I don’t see any rises.
I walk back to the top of the berm and tie on a dry fly. All the while keeping my eye out for Mr. Beaver who is still nowhere to be found. I go with a size eighteen Blue Wing Olive. I have to place my casts carefully since there is still some floating algae, or as I call it “Pond Snot”, on the surface. Some years it is worse than others. It all depends on how warm the summer and how cold the winter, among other things. Also it is a pain in the butt having to clean off your fly after every cast.
As I am casting, the pond goes silent. It is like someone threw a switch and the peepers stopped. As I look around I see an eagle who let out a little screech sailing gently above the pond. That screech is enough to get Mr. Beavers attention as he sticks his head out of the lodge. I know the fishing is pretty much over when Mr. Beaver is out. So I cut off my fly, reel in my line and walk back to the truck.
Mad Beaver Pond can be a tough pond to fish. It can be very moody. I didn’t have any luck this night, at least fishing luck. However, if you count the fact that the pond is not too far away, and that I found a little slice of nature and serenity at my back door, and that I didn’t lose any flies, I left a winner.
George Liset of Dover is an award-winning outdoor writer and avid fly fisherman who shares insights of his time on the water exploring New Hampshire streams and rivers as well of those around New England. George is a graduate of Wheaton College, Illinois, and the University of New Hampshire. His column Writing on the Fly has been honored by the New England Press Association and the New Hampshire Press Association.
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