The Last Foray
 

The Last Foray

I pondered the decision of sticking it out on this cold night in early December: wading a bubble-weed boulder field at 2:00 am versus heading back to a warm bed at the cottage? Earlier in the week I may have given in to the warm bed but this was my last night of casting so into the 38 degree air wins out. I waited as long as I could while trying to absorb the warm air blowing from the dashboard.

My eye glasses immediately fogged up as soon as the door of my buggy opened. I cleared them with a swipe of my finger and began to wrap myself with neoprene. I trudged through the short sand trail and paused at the wrack line. I gazed out towards the water and watched as the waves broke along the edge of this shallow point. All alone I made my way waste deep onto the left side of the bar. The steady northeast wind peppered my face with sleet.

The black Super Strike needlefish flew out toward the drop-off and the wind caused my line to belly. As I mended my line the take was subtle - but distinct. I set the trebles, my rod bowed, and the drag started to grudgingly give up line. I braced myself on the slippery bowling ball shaped stones that make up the bar. I began to hear the high pitched “whine” that mono often makes when strained by tension and cut by wind. The bass and I now separated by a thin strand of 20 pound monofilament begin to play a tune, every lunge and run creating a different note, as if she’s attached to the other end of my being. As she gets closer I can make out her form in the darkness. I guide her through the bubble weed careful not to expose my waders to the trebles. Sliding my hand down the leader I grab the nose of the needle and unhook this bright fish, its dorsal fin fully erect. I release her and watch as she rights herself and instinctively heads into the direction of the swell and toward deeper water. For the next hour I’m fortunate to repeat the performance twice. Eventually the cold water begins to seep into my neoprene gloves rendering my fingers useless. One last wave hits me just so - right below the waist - on that note I know my casting season is almost done. The sleet changes to snowflakes and I call out “last cast”, knowing full well no one is around to hear. Still I take it, finish my retrieve, and head for the cottage. Until next year my friend…


Merry Christmas everyone

DZ

GREAT POST DZ ::

glad you didn,t end your season with a Bluefish .,.,,:fishin:

Merry Christmas Dennis.

You forgot to include the line how you realize your snot is crystallizing....

Thanks DZ ...

... sweet John, thanks for the imagry ...

The correct term is boogercicles

I reserve that story for a winter steelhead expedition up where T Orlando lives. At 6 degrees I don't just realize its freezing - I can actually see it form on my mustache. No hanging your waders to dry up there - at the end of the day you just stand them up in a corner to let them thaw out.

DZ

Thanks for sharing that Dennis!

nice post dennis!

Nice story Dennis - Thanks

Nice... Whether it be fact or fiction.I'm thinking Grove Point.

Good job Joe. Very astute observation.

Compilation of many different memories from 25 years out there.

DZ

Thanks Dennis ... good story .. I left my last cast on Block Island that purple flag week .. :kewl:

Thanks for that story. I could picture myself standing next to you.

Well, its a tribute to your writing. You put me back at a place I have frozen my tail off more times than I can count.I never had to deal with the sleet though.......

Merry Christmas.