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Nat Greene Flyfishers    July 2008

One for the record books (or the biggest whopper I’ve ever told...)

I have been telling Dick Feulner for years about what striper fishing on the Roanoke River is “really like.” ‘Fish on every cast,’ ‘you’ll be begging me to let you stop,’ and ‘your arms will hurt from fighting fish’. Naturally, reality has always reared its ugly head and these dire predictions have never materialized. But I am an eternal optimist and a fisherman, and I have yet to discover which preceded the other. Dick, Jacques Gagnon and I headed off to the Roanoke for another attempt to tame the striper run on Friday, May 5. The keeper season had just closed and conditions looked good. The water level was as steady as it ever gets and the temperature was in the low 60’s. Too low for spawning but high enough to attract the bulk of the run. Even the weather looked promising as the sunny sky was due to give way to clouds and maybe some rain. Perfect striper conditions.

On our way east, I proclaimed we were going to catch a lot of fish. Dick reacted negatively to my forecasts saying I was jinxing everyone. But the planets seemed to be in proper alignment. And what the heck, nothing a fisherman says actually has any bearing on whether the fish will bite anyway. So I repeated my prediction. Several times.

Friday afternoon was hot and bright. We put in around 3:30 and didn’t do very well. A few clouds began to appear but the fish didn’t respond to them. Even the bait fishermen were only occasionally boating a fish. Things were far slower than expected.

About an hour before sunset the fish suddenly started hitting. Our flies were hit on every cast, except for Jacques who was being taught, the hard way, that the fly has to be on the bottom. He adjusted his tackle and began to pick up a few fish. Dick did the most damage and I followed suit. We finished with about 50 fish to our credit. Not bad, but still not up to the river’s potential.

The phone rang off in the distance at 6:06 am. Dick had already been outside drying off the boat seats after a hard thundershower rolled through during the night. We decided to take advantage of the morning bite by fishing for a few hours and then pull out for breakfast. We dropped anchor below the Big Rock near the scene of last evening’s success. But nothing happened. The water was a bit off-color, probably due to the thunderstorm. We eventually caught three stripers, but such a paltry return for two and a half hours fishing is a testament to persistence and little else. Breakfast became the high point of the morning.

We put back in and cruised around looking for “good water.” There were plenty of boats but no one seemed to be hooked up. Yesterday we explored the length of the Little River and caught a few so I turned into the river mouth and proceeded upstream. Almost immediately, about ten fish symbols showed on the sonar. We went upstream about fifty feet and the images disappeared. Considering the lack of any indication there were even fish in the river, I decided to back downstream over the promising spot. The fish were still there and we set the anchor down.

The channel is quite narrow here, and loaded with deadwood. It’s a perfect spot to donate flies to the fish gods. I made a short, quick cast while Dick and Jacques got their tackle ready. The line sank and as it began to swing I made three quick strips and was tight to a fish. My watch said it was 1:30.

I think the splashing fish triggered a basic instinct in Dick and Jacques because suddenly they were ready. Dick positioned himself in the bow with Jacques in the stern. Dick hooked up first. Jacques followed suit. I started roll casting from the cockpit but soon took over some of Jacques’ real estate. We had to time our casting, but it was worth it. Through dint of trying, sheer luck or maybe using the newly installed fish finder, we were into fish, but good. Several boats saw our bent rods and inched closer. One young man cast right across our fly lines and I yelled we would soon have our lines fouled. He cupped his hand next to his ear, feigning failure to hear me; but the next time I looked up he was gone. Each time I looked at the other boats, they were catching an occasional fish, completely lacking the consistency of our hookups.

A culture of not stopping for anything set in. Even Dick, who recently said he doesn’t fish as hard as I do, never stopped fishing. Not for eating or even to pee. Jacques never let up except to replace his fly. He had two pieces of deadwood to contend with and they harvested a few of his flies. By 4:00, I was hungry and grabbed an apple when I stopped to replace a fly. I was irreligious enough to look around for a water bottle! The breaks were brief, nonetheless, so the fishing marathon went on. And on. And on. Finally, a boat anchored just upstream couldn’t handle watching us any longer and left for what they hoped were greener pastures. On their way out someone yelled, “Get a thousand yet?”

We were not in any danger of catching a thousand but we were most certainly approaching on our second hundred by late afternoon. Every one kept on fishing. I don’t even recall Dick casting, just playing another one. Jacques was in a trance: cast, strip, strike! He mumbled a rythmic jingle to keep himself going, “Second strip, same as the first” as he tightened into yet another. I asked ‘how many have we caught’ and the estimates flew. Everyone had been hooking fish on every cast for hours. I was trying to get a handle on the numbers when Dick mentioned he was counting the number of times all three of us played fish at the same time, which was over twenty at that point. He had long ago given up counting ‘doubles’ because they happened all the time. I don’t think there were more than two or three minutes an hour that no one was hooked up and that was likely due to fly changes. By actual count, our ‘triples’ number rose to thirty-eight before we quit, which I had to practically beg to do. I asked for 6:30 but they were still hitting so we pushed it back to 7:00. Gratefully everyone had had enough.

We were more than worn out. Each of us paid a physical price for the day’s effort. My hands were so sore I could hardly hold the rod anymore. They were also soaked and covered with fish slime. I had been pierced by dorsal spines at least nine times, and that was just my right hand. My left hand developed such a cramp from squeezing the rod grip I could hardly relax my fingers. Dick’s left arm was killing him; his arm wore out. Jacques was just plain sore all over, it took him days to recover.

I’m not sure the census takers at the boat ramp believed us when I told them we caught 300 fish. I wasn’t sure anyone would. But it was true. I have always regarded reality as being stranger than fiction and here was a case in point. No one would contrive such an outrageous whopper because they knew it was too unbelievable to dupe anyone into believing them. Maybe a 100 fish. Maybe 150. 300? What have you been drinking?

I only drank water but an ibuprofen chaser would have been welcome. I knew from the outset this was going to be a tough story to tell. No one is ever going to take it seriously. Well, the only way is just to blurt it out: Dick, Jacques and I caught 300 stripers in five and a half hours and lived to tell about it. OK, I’m a fisherman, and we, you know, tend to exaggerate, even if just a little. So take this report on its face value. The three of us are either extraordinarily brash liars or we actually caught 300 fish. Thinking back on it, I hardly believe it. I should ask Dick. He counted.

Jin Brady