effect was at work through the center of the rapids.
“Whoa.” Sid came to attention. “How’re you gonna get through all that? Looks pretty rough.”
“Up the right side. It’s a little tricky. I used to go ashore and pull the boat up in the shallows. One day I felt lucky and motored up. I got away with it.” In the distance, Russ noted a nice trout rising where Pink Creek trickled into the Eddy and saved the information for later.
“That feelin’ is great.” A grin broke up the side of Sid’s face. “Gettin’ away with somethin’ like that, I mean.”
“I guess you’d know a lot about that.”
“I guess I would.” Sid’s grin broke into a smile. “But make no mistake, Russ. The only thing I wanna get away with now is bass, walleye, trout, muskellunge, those watchamacallits—the rocket-fish.”
“Rocket-fish?”
“Yeah.” Sid snapped a finger at Russ. “Shad.”
“Shad. Well, you’ve come at a good time for them. Looked like the one you brought over the other night gave you quite a fight.”
“Very amusing, Smonig. So how come I never heard of these here shad before I came here?”
“Sid, let me ask you something. I mean, I saw you casting, and you seem to have done a lot of it. You have a lot of tackle, and of the right kinds. You seem to know a lot about fish, but…is this the first time you’ve ever actually fished?”
“Smonig, to quote a certain deputy warden I once knew, the only fish in prison is on a bun with tartar sauce.”
The bow swung to the right and over a burst of current and waves. The motor complained, and the blade whined and growled as it popped free of the water.
“You don’t mean to tell me you learned to fish in prison?” He tilted back his fedora.
“I had a special program, got all the magazines, catalogs. The Warden, he’s an outdoorsman. Gave me some pointers.”
Scraping the bow briefly off a rock to the port side, Russ cut the boat through a swell that sent about ten gallons over the gunnels. But that was the end of the rapids. The boat moved into the slick headwater. They didn’t go far before Russ pushed a toggle and the anchor motor fed cable. Soon they were stuck fast to the bottom. He flicked another switch, and a bilge pump started returning the ten gallons to the Delaware.
Russ produced a plastic compartmentalized tray full of squiggly-tailed rubber grubs, hooks, and attachments. “Take your pick of color, but with sun on the water I like the dark ones with sparkles.”
Sid picked one, and while he was tying it on, Russ made his first cast. He was retrieving the cast in sharp jerks when—bang!—his rod was bent and pumping. A golden brown fish roughly the dimensions of a large baking potato arched out of the water and bore under the boat.
Sid cast, his grub plopping upriver in the folds of current.
“Whoa!” Sid hauled back, rod bent, vibrating, pumping. “Whoa, I got a friggin’ fish!”
Sid looked briefly away from his battle. Russ was raising his rod again, the foot-long bass gasping. The jaws broke the surface. Russ’s thumb and forefinger clamped onto the lower lip. He lofted the red-eyed fish by its lower jaw, the fins slowly fanning the air.
Sid held his rod high as his fish raced upstream. The bass’s bronze sides flashed in the water. It bolted to sunlight and the surface, breaking free of the river. The fish pirouetted and spat Sid’s grub at the boat. Splash and flicker: the bass was gone.
“Aw, crap.” Sid stood motionless. “What was that? I had him. What was that?” He waved a hand toward where the fish went, arguing with it.
Russ unhooked his fish and placed it in the water. It thrashed from his grip, vanishing.
“That often happens when a fish jumps.”
“What’d I do wrong?”
“When you feel them shoot for the surface, reel up and put your rod tip down. That discourages them from jumping. It also helps to keep a taut line if they do jump. Once the line is slack, they can shake the hook loose.
“Whoa.” Sid came to attention. “How’re you gonna get through all that? Looks pretty rough.”
“Up the right side. It’s a little tricky. I used to go ashore and pull the boat up in the shallows. One day I felt lucky and motored up. I got away with it.” In the distance, Russ noted a nice trout rising where Pink Creek trickled into the Eddy and saved the information for later.
“That feelin’ is great.” A grin broke up the side of Sid’s face. “Gettin’ away with somethin’ like that, I mean.”
“I guess you’d know a lot about that.”
“I guess I would.” Sid’s grin broke into a smile. “But make no mistake, Russ. The only thing I wanna get away with now is bass, walleye, trout, muskellunge, those watchamacallits—the rocket-fish.”
“Rocket-fish?”
“Yeah.” Sid snapped a finger at Russ. “Shad.”
“Shad. Well, you’ve come at a good time for them. Looked like the one you brought over the other night gave you quite a fight.”
“Very amusing, Smonig. So how come I never heard of these here shad before I came here?”
“Sid, let me ask you something. I mean, I saw you casting, and you seem to have done a lot of it. You have a lot of tackle, and of the right kinds. You seem to know a lot about fish, but…is this the first time you’ve ever actually fished?”
“Smonig, to quote a certain deputy warden I once knew, the only fish in prison is on a bun with tartar sauce.”
The bow swung to the right and over a burst of current and waves. The motor complained, and the blade whined and growled as it popped free of the water.
“You don’t mean to tell me you learned to fish in prison?” He tilted back his fedora.
“I had a special program, got all the magazines, catalogs. The Warden, he’s an outdoorsman. Gave me some pointers.”
Scraping the bow briefly off a rock to the port side, Russ cut the boat through a swell that sent about ten gallons over the gunnels. But that was the end of the rapids. The boat moved into the slick headwater. They didn’t go far before Russ pushed a toggle and the anchor motor fed cable. Soon they were stuck fast to the bottom. He flicked another switch, and a bilge pump started returning the ten gallons to the Delaware.
Russ produced a plastic compartmentalized tray full of squiggly-tailed rubber grubs, hooks, and attachments. “Take your pick of color, but with sun on the water I like the dark ones with sparkles.”
Sid picked one, and while he was tying it on, Russ made his first cast. He was retrieving the cast in sharp jerks when—bang!—his rod was bent and pumping. A golden brown fish roughly the dimensions of a large baking potato arched out of the water and bore under the boat.
Sid cast, his grub plopping upriver in the folds of current.
“Whoa!” Sid hauled back, rod bent, vibrating, pumping. “Whoa, I got a friggin’ fish!”
Sid looked briefly away from his battle. Russ was raising his rod again, the foot-long bass gasping. The jaws broke the surface. Russ’s thumb and forefinger clamped onto the lower lip. He lofted the red-eyed fish by its lower jaw, the fins slowly fanning the air.
Sid held his rod high as his fish raced upstream. The bass’s bronze sides flashed in the water. It bolted to sunlight and the surface, breaking free of the river. The fish pirouetted and spat Sid’s grub at the boat. Splash and flicker: the bass was gone.
“Aw, crap.” Sid stood motionless. “What was that? I had him. What was that?” He waved a hand toward where the fish went, arguing with it.
Russ unhooked his fish and placed it in the water. It thrashed from his grip, vanishing.
“That often happens when a fish jumps.”
“What’d I do wrong?”
“When you feel them shoot for the surface, reel up and put your rod tip down. That discourages them from jumping. It also helps to keep a taut line if they do jump. Once the line is slack, they can shake the hook loose.
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