Fly Punk - Issue 3

NIGHT TIME
IS THE RIGHT
TIME
― Dagur Gudmundsson ―
S
ometimes all it takes is one bump
against a branch to wake you up.
Sometimes it’s the plop of the popper,
almost sounding like a fish in that
delirious 3 am state you’re in. More often
than not though, it requires a hefty
bass pulling the rod out of your hand to
snap you out of your half asleep mindset.
Something about a fish pulling on
the end of your line in the darkest of dark
makes it seem about twice as big as it
is. Amidst the howls of coyotes and rustles
of skunks and snakes, you brave the
darkness, despite your fear of the dark,
in search of some of the biggest fish any
given body of water has to offer.
Bass are awesome predators. And
the night is the preferred stalking
time for the big boys that haunt the
ponds. They’ll move into the shallows
and slash at anything unsuspectingly
swimming by - hopefully a 2/0 mouse
pattern you tied up just hours ago.
When it’s so dark outside, you’ve got
to fish more with your ears than your
eyes: timing your cast by the sound
of the line, aiming by the sound of
the popper landing, and occasionally
losing your shit over the sound of a
massive fish crashing on the surface,
probably eating a frog. You’ve got to
memorize the structure of the reeds
from the daytime, knowing where the
drop offs are, and where that almost
invisible rock in a shallow cove is. It’s a
totally different ballgame when you’re
out there at night, you’re not there to
hunt the fish, you’ve got to find a way
to make the bass want to hunt you.
Sometimes that results in a delirious
mating dance with a turtle at 2 am, and
other times you make your mouse move
like you’d want it to if it was served up
to you at dinner in a fancy restaurant.
Most nights you come home fishless.
It’s too cold, not the right cloud cover,
too much wind, you were chased off
the water by a group of skunks, all
the classic excuses. But sometimes,
the stars align (maybe not literally,
since the best fishing is on cloudy
days) and you hook up with a monster.
Sometimes that monster turns out to
be a 8-inch crappie, but sometimes it’s
a four pound largemouth in a pond that
you’ve only ever hooked one pounders
in. Sometimes that fish runs you deep
into some reeds that you’d forgotten
about, and the feeling of a hooked
fish is replaced by the depressing
reality that he’s gone, and you have
to find some way to get your fly back.
But occasionally everything goes
right, and you land the fish, and have
to find some way to aim your finger
into it’s mouth in the pitch black, but
muscle memory serves you better than
eyesight, and that works out better
than you had dared hope. You estimate
the fish to be about five pounds, about
twice the size of any other fish you’ve
caught here during the daytime,
it's green sides reflecting devilishly
from the moonlight, and as you let
him go, the fish lets go of your finger,
only to lift itself back out and take a
final bite of your thumb as revenge
before swimming off. And you think to
yourself, “Damn, what a fish.”
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