First Feelings.  The author caught this small pike on the fly rod while visiting a seasonal stopping point for the fish on a small creek which runs up from the main branch of the Missouri River. Simonson Photo.

By Nick Simonson

The two men in Carhartt body suits watching their rods along the far side of the creek below the rock dam were a welcome sign.  Though their pickups in the parking lot when I arrived suggested there may be more traffic at the out-of-the-way feeder creek where a number of seasons ago the pike stacked up so thick in the flow of the spring meltwater that it seemed I could nearly walk across them.  Engaging them in a pre-fishing chat, I admired the pair of northerns on their stringer and the walleye behind them which flicked its white-spotted tail in the eddying waters along the bank.

In our conversation, they too regaled me with their tales of perfect timing and spring fish stacked like cordwood in the rush below the rocky dam – and times well before its construction – when every cast was a connection, and hands, wrists and forearms were cramped at the end of the day from bringing in pike after pike after pike.  While they suggested things weren’t as fast on this particular morning, with sun and soaring flocks of migrant geese overhead and the anglers’ frozen smelt awaiting the next fish in the murky churn below, they did say it was better than the week before, and that was all I needed to hear.
I told the duo I’d give them a wide berth and I unhooked the red-and-white streamer from the cork of my fly rod handle and took a position at the head of the pool and laid out my first clunky cast of the season, before a second trailing loop dropped on the back cast and the fly hung up in the remains of last season’s cattails growing from a damp spot in the rocks of the upstream barrier.  With a few more casts, the rust broke loose and that 10-to-2 feeling came back and the eight-weight rod began to load easier and easier, and the fly began to fall where I wanted it in the current seams and the back of eddying pools as I methodically made my way around the head of the flow which led down to the river.

There were no fish to greet it however, and after exploring the high percentage areas and examining the remaining shore ice around me which was elevated about three feet above the current waterline, I weighed a foray downstream to see if any pike had hung up against the likely logs and other barriers away from the head of the angling area.  I noted a small seep in my trek and then a larger inflow around the next hill that gushed out of the bank into a small pool where a lone stump kept guard over the point where the underground water met the main creek.  I placed my fingertips in the creek and then in the spring water, and the latter was at least ten degrees warmer thanks to its underground insulation.  Figuring it was enough of a change to attract fish, I unloaded my line and flipped a quick cast behind the stick and its trailing debris line of cattail fronds and wet grasses in the pool.  As the deceiver fly swung back and around the tailing area of the small space, no more than 12 feet wide, a hard thump jarred the rod and I jerked the line down and slammed the rod back and to my side.  The connection was solid; the mechanics instinctive.

In the first moments of any battle with a pike on the fly, the fish seems huge, sometimes unmovable. Quickly though, it’s easy to determine whether it’s a contender, or just an up-and-comer. And as the fish sprinted quickly toward the structure in the middle of the small space, I turned it with ease, paying little drag, noting it would be a manageable fight.  Still, the feeling of muscle memory returned – rod tip held high, fingers loosening on the line to allow an early run and the free pinky available to turn the crank and bring enough in to go to battle with the reel – and I smiled.  For some reason, the moment felt significant, even though the fish on the other end was only on the upper end of the hammerhandle size of the scale.  Able to land it without a net, I snapped a quick photo and let it slide down the wet chute of bankside grasses and back into the creek.

The smell of spring pike slime was fresh in the web between my thumb and forefinger, the bucktail on the streamer was a bit worse for wear from the toothy jaws of the fish, and my adrenaline level was up, even if the fish was a fraction of some of the ones I had tussled with years ago upstream from the point of this season’s first connection on the fly rod.  The sensations, sights, and even the smells of a start to spring fishing were all around me, and the feeling of being where I belonged lifted me up from my crouch and back to the truck, watching the world around me and remembering why I venture out each time…into our outdoors.  

Simonson is the lead writer and editor of Dakota Edge Outdoors.