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"I
have to help her up into the back of the truck now. She used to be able
to jump in on her own, just after the hurricanes. A year or so after
that, I little hoist of her backside was all she needed. Now she makes a
hearty, spirited effort and I quickly put my arm under her belly and
lift her the rest of the way, where she spins a tail-wagging, huffing
dance."
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The freshwater fishing has
been terrible here since Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. Last year might
have been a bit better, but constant rains had waters high, muddy and
mostly unfishable. There's a couple little ponds with smaller fish, but
I grew tired of them back in the spring.
But one Saturday morning early I picked out a little bamboo
banty rod, a six-footer made from the mid and tips of a
Horrocks-Ibbotson "Spinner." There is a pond about three miles
from the house, I've fished it hundreds of times, and prior to the
drought we experienced after KatRita, it was full of small to medium
bream and the occasional eye-popping bass. The drought caused the little
pond to diminish from about four feet depth to less than one in some
places. I doubted anything at all survived, but when the rains returned
and the water level with them, I was surprised to find a fair population
of feisty, if small, fish.
The cat, Patches, who stays in the house, eyed me
suspiciously as I gathered up rod, bag, hat and made for the door. She
used to be accustomed to my puttering around prior to a fishing trip,
but I've been so home-bound the last two years when I start clattering
rod tubes and shaking tackle bags, she gets edgy, panics, and runs away
to hide.
My favorite companion on trips to this little pond is
Daisy. She's my fiancé's black Labrador retriever, but what began as a
dog-sitting stint after KatRita has turned into a comfortable
friendship. Daisy is getting up in age, near about fifteen now as far as
my girl can recall. She's showing her years a bit, slows down faster
than she used to, but she loves that little pond much as I do.
I have to help her up into the back of the truck now. She
used to be able to jump in on her own, just after the hurricanes. A year
or so after that, a little hoist of her backside was all she needed. Now
she makes a hearty, spirited effort and I quickly put my arm under her
belly and lift her the rest of the way, where she spins a tail-wagging,
huffing dance of delight over our fishing trip.
Off we go, and in my side-mirrors I can see Daisy, tongue
flapping pinkly in the wind, doggy slobber streaking along the sides of
the truck, as she moves from side to side to see and smell as much as
she possibly can. I groan. A truck washing will be in order when we
return.
The land around the pond is overgrown with grass, taller
than I. It'll all be roll-casting, something I don't think a six-foot
bamboo banty rod will excel at. I brought a double-taper line, though,
which should help.
Daisy knows when I lower the tailgate that she must wait
until I am done setting up my rod and loading the pockets of my shorts
with a fly box, hemostat and a cigar. She pants impatiently, but is
stone still, her entire posture scornful of the time I'm taking.
Finally, I help her down, and she makes me laugh as she trots toward the
trail to the pond, kept relatively subdued by the four-wheeling kids
that have found the shallow end of the pond is delightfully four-wheelable.
The pond is big enough that it doesn't really muddy up the rest when
they have their fun.
I find one of my favorite spots. I can't even see the truck
back at the road. It's close to a hundred yards away. While the pond was
in drought, all manner of brush sprung up on its revealed, fertile
edges. Access has become hard to come by, and it's too soft-bottomed to
wade. So I find a good spot, such as it is, and wiggle out a few feet of
line, leader and black foam ant with rubber legs.
The little rod will roll cast, but not far. I have to raise
my arm pretty high, but I can do twenty, twenty-five feet. Daisy has
found a spot to my right, a couple dozen feet away, to wade. I taught
her that early on: When I'm fishing a pond, she always wades to my
right, theoretically over water I've fished already or, in this case for
example, have left for her to enjoy. I fish to my left and walk that way
if I can, and she stays behind me. We don't fish where others are
fishing.
Second cast and the foam ant is lost in a swirl. I have to
strip-set, fearful that too vigorous a rod-lift at such short distance
will send my fly into the jungle growth behind me. No hook-up. The
'gills are finning it, or swiping the fly with their tails. It's closer
in, but I take up slack and let the ripples die. Another swirl, no
hook-up, so I roll it out as far as I can again, waiting with the line
as slack-free as I can manage. It takes a monumental conjuring of will
to not even twitch the rod until I see the line twitch itself, but it
pays, and soon a medium-sized green sunfish is in my hand, thrashing.
Daisy is there, at my side, ears perked. I didn't hear her
arrive. She knows that she'll get one little bream out of the trip,
which she'll toss around for awhile then roll on for a bit longer and
finally crunch happily.
"Too big," I tell her. "You only get the
really little ones." I toss it into the water, and the retriever in
her rises and she makes a halting lurch forward before she catches
herself and, pouting, turns back into the high grass to explore. I can't
help but notice the slight graying of her muzzle, a sign of her aging
that wasn't there when she came to stay with me two-and-a-half years
ago.
I can hear her rustling around nearby. I make another cast
and the same routine continues, swirling, slapping, finning, and finally
a take. Not much better, but this one is a bass, maybe five inches. I'm
pleased with my little banty rod. The Spinner was dark cane, very brown,
but straight. The butt section had a split ferrule, but I don't need any
more nine-foot bamboo rods. I was surprised how well it cast when I was
done. That's the thing about building banty rods: Unless you tape on
some guides and a reel to a bare blank, you don't really know what
you've got until you're done, days and weeks later.
I reel in and set the fly in the keeper, call for Daisy.
She's at my side in a couple minutes, huffing, looking expectant.
"Come here, old girl," I smile, and she sits by
my side for a rest and ear-rubbing which she preens over in delight. I
give her a few minutes to rest, then we make our way through the tall
grass again until I find another suitable spot to cast. She lies down
behind me to watch..
The next little 'gill, also a greenie, is tiny. I flip it
to the dog, "Here, my sweet," I say. She pulls herself up
easily, but more slowly than ever, takes the little gill in her mouth
and stalks off through the grass, presumably to the trail where there's
more room to play.
I fish on for an hour or so, until the sun is getting high
and the bite slows. I've caught nothing large enough to even matter, but
with each little splashing, accompanied by a grunting and rustling
behind me as Daisy plays aerial games with the little bream and then
flops on her back to roll on it, I'm quite satisfied with my morning.
Soon I hear the tell-tale crunch of a black Lab devouring a
green perch. I take in my line and make my way to the trail, in the
middle of which Daisy is sitting, licking her cheeks happily and looking
smug.
I take a little Punch Bolo out of my pocket and light it.
There's a little drop-off along the pond's bank here, and I sit there
for little while. Daisy comes sit near me, watching the morning mature.
I put my hand on her back, almost without thinking about it, and she
lifts her head a little higher, a little prouder. Curls of smoke spiral
around us ever so slowly, and the dog and I watch a new day begin in a
way only old friends know how. I glance at her, eyes drooping as she
relaxed. When Susan chanced across her, the people who she belonged to
horribly neglected her. A year old, Daisy weighed virtually nothing at
all and the miscreants beat her mercilessly for barking at night.
Rescued from that hell, it was years before the dog learned to trust
again. Susan's love and patience healed the young lady's wounds, inside
and out.
Soon we make our way back to the truck. She's just at my
heel now, and halfway there she's lagging a few steps behind, so I slow
a little, just enough to let her catch up, and the swing of her tail
indicates I've restored her pride. She waits patiently while I put my
tackle away, dry the rod and tube it, then help her into the truck,
curling my nose.
"You stink," I say, and she grins at me
toothily. I just have to laugh and rub her ear again. Not just the truck
is due for a bath this evening.
In my mirror, on the way home, she's facing into the wind,
ears and tongue flapping, tail swinging. We make it to the garage, and I
help her down. The bath can wait, she's tired. She follows me to her
fenced-in yard and I let her in the gate with a pat on the head. She
nibbles on a bit of her food and curls up on the ground for a rest, but
her head is up. Proud. The Lab in her will never diminish, and she is, I
think, gloating over the trip with her human, satiated, enjoying the
scent of fresh green perch on herself as a reminder of the day.
I head for the house for a change of clothes and cleanup,
and I think not for the first time how much I'd liked to have known
Daisy when she was a young lady. She was about twelve when she came to
stay with me, and I know that despite her good health, she's not a
youngster anymore. Still, in those nearly three years while my fiancée
was living away, her Lab and I became buds. I may wish to believe that I
took her in to stay with me, but the truth of the matter is certainly
that Daisy agreed to our arrangement and chose to be my pal.
It's impossible to know how many years she has left in her.
One thing is certain: whatever time we have on a pond catching midget
perch is time well-spent between good friends.
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About the Author:
 Roger
Emile Stouff is the son of Nicholas Leonard Stouff Jr., last chief of
the Chitimacha Tribe of Louisiana, and Lydia Marie Gaudet Stouff, a
Cajun belle. He has been a journalist for 25 years and author of the
award-winning column "From the Other Side" in the St. Mary
and Franklin Banner-Tribune. He is the author of Native Waters: A
Few Moments In A Small Wooden Boat, a memoir, and Chasing
Thunderbirds, a collection of short fiction. He has been featured on
"Fly Fishing America" in 2006. He currently resides on the
Chitimacha reservation. |
