Authors: John McPhee
The Founding Fish (23 page)
I returned to the river soon after dawn and already three men were fishing. There was mist over the river and developing rain. What on earth did those fishermen think, at 5:45 A.M., when suddenly there slid out past them the lowfreeboard dark-brown canoe? On the opposite side of the river, I went high up the eddy, and dropped the anchor. Roe. Buck. Roe. Roe. Buck. Roe. They leaped. They ran in wide circles and would not be turned. The line passed through curtains of mist. They stayed on for ten and fifteen minutes. One rose straight up like a rocket off a padâthe tail well clear of the water, the head three feet in the air. It leaped five times. It ran into the shallows and back into the channel. It swung the rod through ninety degrees. When it came into the net, the dart fell from its outer lip. My hands were cold and I warmed them in the river. Last night and this morning, I had thirteen shad on the line. Soaked in steady rain, I carried the canoe back to the car.
Now, years later, I fish in a canoe about half the time. Not all conditions are right. But it opens up the riverâlets you drift down upon any rock or riffle, however inaccessible the banks might otherwise be. In the hundred and thirty-five river miles from Hancock to Foul Riftâfrom the start of the main-stem river to its preëminent rapidâthere are at least five hundred riffles and rapids distinctive enough to stop migrating shad. The drop at Foul Rift is twenty-two feet in nine hundred yardsâenough to shake
the confidence of a muskellunge. You don't need a Foul Rift to find a shad. Any good riffle will do, not to mention other obstructions.
the confidence of a muskellunge. You don't need a Foul Rift to find a shad. Any good riffle will do, not to mention other obstructions.
I was fishing one year on a cool spring day a short distance up from a sweeper. A big roe shad straightened and stiffened the line. There was no doubt about her gender. She turned sideways in the fastest water and engaged in a relentless tug-of-war. She was as big a roe as I would encounter all spring. I didn't have to see her to know that. I worried that something would snap, but I took my time and just held on. Unfortunately, the anchor was not also holding on. It bumped across the riverbed rocks, held, and moved again. Entering the equation between anchor and current, the roe shad was changing the balance. She was pulling the canoe downstream, ever closer to the sweeper. What to do? On brooks in New Jersey, as in the Brooks Range, in Alaska, I have been capsized by sweepers lying in wait for canoes. A sweeper is a toppled tree that looks like a broom in fast river current. A sweeper draws in a vessel, holds it broadside to the current, and inexorably rolls it over. Now, with this shad hauling me downriver, was I going to break off or not break off the line? The finest fish of the year versus almost certain disaster. I was locked stiff with indecision. This was the situation Jack Benny was in when the holdup man put the gun to Benny in his savings vault and said, “Your money or your life.” Benny fell silent, unable to make a choice. The sweeper was now about fifteen feet away. I was unable to act. Suddenly the shad sounded, and then bolted crossriver. The leader broke. She was gone. I picked up the paddle, had time for one stroke, and barely missed the sweeper. The shad had tried to kill me. The shad had saved my life.
Sometimes, I have forgotten to take an extra paddle, a mistake that can become precarious if you are dumb enough to rest the paddle you do have across the gunwales while you fish. Once in
early May on cold water I watched a lone paddle slide down a gunwale and away in the current. What to do? I pulled up the anchor and tried to paddle with the shad net, which was like trying to eat soup with a ring that blows bubbles. To extend the shad net's length, I had fitted it up with a broom handle. I paddled furiously, and broke the broom handle. I went on whisking with the shorter version, and, some distance downstream, finally reached the bank. The lost paddle was a lifetime favoriteâan old one of light spruce. I borrowed another paddle somewhere, went back to the canoe, took off downriver hugging the edge, and found the spruce paddle in an eddy.
early May on cold water I watched a lone paddle slide down a gunwale and away in the current. What to do? I pulled up the anchor and tried to paddle with the shad net, which was like trying to eat soup with a ring that blows bubbles. To extend the shad net's length, I had fitted it up with a broom handle. I paddled furiously, and broke the broom handle. I went on whisking with the shorter version, and, some distance downstream, finally reached the bank. The lost paddle was a lifetime favoriteâan old one of light spruce. I borrowed another paddle somewhere, went back to the canoe, took off downriver hugging the edge, and found the spruce paddle in an eddy.
That sort of thing does not happen every year, or even every decade, and my canoe is so involved with the angling endeavor that I would never abandon it in fear of more mistakes. Sometimes, wearing knee-high boots and not waders, I look for a submerged, flat-topped rock, and get out of the canoe so I can cast standing up. In breeze or current, the anchored canoe will swing on its rope, and before long move upstream in the eddy below the rock. It bumps gently against my leg. It bumps again. Too much of that and I give it a shove, to put it out of my way. I cast, concentrate. At the end of the swing, I bring in the line and cast again. The canoe has returned, and is nuzzling my leg.
One afternoon, I was fishing in this manner from a big rock covered with not much water and situated almost in the middle of the riverâin effect a small submerged island. Deciding to leave and fish elsewhere, I pulled up the anchor and set it in the canoe. I had meant to change lures before leaving, and had forgotten to do so before lifting the anchor, so I sat down on the bow seat with my feet on the rock in the water. I removed a shad fly from the leader, and tied on a
-ounce dart. I stood up with the fly rod to try out the dart, and forgot all about the anchor. Slowly, while I cast, the canoe turned and drifted away. I was too late when I realized what was happening. The shad net fell off the canoe and stood
upright under water, buoyed by the air trapped in its hoop. The canoe drifted past the shad net and on toward Cape Henlopen. What to do? I was marooned on a mid-river rock, in fifteen-inch rubber boots with deep fast water around me. This was embarrassment on a new scale. The dart on the fly rod was extremely small. I cast it into the canoe and made a slow retrieve. The dart maddeningly slid over everythingâover the tackle bag, over the life vest, over the paddles, over the stern painter. It somehow missed a tote bag and even a large wire fish basket, as it climbed each thwart and dropped on the other side and made its way through the whole canoe. Coming over the gunwale, it fell into the river. I cast again. The dart missed the canoe. I cast again. The dart landed in the bow. Gingerly as I stripped it in, it hopped, skipped, slid over everything, and went back into the river. The canoe was gaining momentum and was almost out of range. I cast again, landed where I hoped to, but failed to connect. How can fishhooks get hung up on every twig and pant leg while this one intersected nothing? There might be space and time for one more cast, and that would be all she wrote, hoss. I stripped out more line, backcast twice, and sent the dart on its way. It landed in the canoe. As it made its way toward the stern, its barb lodged in the coiled painter. The painter came over the side of the canoe and steadily straightened. A great deal of tension developed against that tiny dart but I couldn't just stand there, I had to pull. Ever so slowly, the canoe began to move upstream, and a little less slowly when at last it felt the draw of the eddy. In the end, it bumped against my leg. On the way downstream, I picked up the shad net with the blade of a paddle.
-ounce dart. I stood up with the fly rod to try out the dart, and forgot all about the anchor. Slowly, while I cast, the canoe turned and drifted away. I was too late when I realized what was happening. The shad net fell off the canoe and stoodupright under water, buoyed by the air trapped in its hoop. The canoe drifted past the shad net and on toward Cape Henlopen. What to do? I was marooned on a mid-river rock, in fifteen-inch rubber boots with deep fast water around me. This was embarrassment on a new scale. The dart on the fly rod was extremely small. I cast it into the canoe and made a slow retrieve. The dart maddeningly slid over everythingâover the tackle bag, over the life vest, over the paddles, over the stern painter. It somehow missed a tote bag and even a large wire fish basket, as it climbed each thwart and dropped on the other side and made its way through the whole canoe. Coming over the gunwale, it fell into the river. I cast again. The dart missed the canoe. I cast again. The dart landed in the bow. Gingerly as I stripped it in, it hopped, skipped, slid over everything, and went back into the river. The canoe was gaining momentum and was almost out of range. I cast again, landed where I hoped to, but failed to connect. How can fishhooks get hung up on every twig and pant leg while this one intersected nothing? There might be space and time for one more cast, and that would be all she wrote, hoss. I stripped out more line, backcast twice, and sent the dart on its way. It landed in the canoe. As it made its way toward the stern, its barb lodged in the coiled painter. The painter came over the side of the canoe and steadily straightened. A great deal of tension developed against that tiny dart but I couldn't just stand there, I had to pull. Ever so slowly, the canoe began to move upstream, and a little less slowly when at last it felt the draw of the eddy. In the end, it bumped against my leg. On the way downstream, I picked up the shad net with the blade of a paddle.
Since the main-stem Delaware, in its full three hundred and thirty miles of flowing natural river, presents more range and variety of shad fishing than exist anywhere else, the fact that two out of three Delaware River shad fishermen are in boats is less significant than the fact that the other third are on the banks. Imagine casting
a shad dart at the 79th Street Boat Basin. Imagine casting a shad dart in the Tappan Zee. The Hudson River, for all its historic commercial shad fisheries, is even less generous than the Connecticut to the lone angler. From New York City to Troy, its average width approximates a mile. Shad fishermen do not line the banks of this river, notwithstanding the success of Richard St. Pierre on the ferry dock opposite Catskill. Bank fishing is possible mainly where the Hudson's principal currentâmeandering like the jet streamâcomes close to shore, as at North Germantown, Barrytown, Cheviot, and Coxsackie. For that matter, you need a lot of local knowledge to fish with success from a boat. There is a mid-river shoal about a hundred miles up, known as the Kingston Flats. It parallels the banks. The middle of the river may be two feet deep and the flanking channels seven fathoms. The shad go low under flowing tides and rise toward the shallows when the water is slack. Boats are waiting by the shoal.
a shad dart at the 79th Street Boat Basin. Imagine casting a shad dart in the Tappan Zee. The Hudson River, for all its historic commercial shad fisheries, is even less generous than the Connecticut to the lone angler. From New York City to Troy, its average width approximates a mile. Shad fishermen do not line the banks of this river, notwithstanding the success of Richard St. Pierre on the ferry dock opposite Catskill. Bank fishing is possible mainly where the Hudson's principal currentâmeandering like the jet streamâcomes close to shore, as at North Germantown, Barrytown, Cheviot, and Coxsackie. For that matter, you need a lot of local knowledge to fish with success from a boat. There is a mid-river shoal about a hundred miles up, known as the Kingston Flats. It parallels the banks. The middle of the river may be two feet deep and the flanking channels seven fathoms. The shad go low under flowing tides and rise toward the shallows when the water is slack. Boats are waiting by the shoal.
O
ne April Sunday in my fourth year of shad fishing, I called Ed Cervone, at his home in Pennington, New Jersey, to explore the possibilities for the coming Tuesday. As we talked, Cervone's absorption with the subject went into crescendo and we left for the river as we hung up the phones.
ne April Sunday in my fourth year of shad fishing, I called Ed Cervone, at his home in Pennington, New Jersey, to explore the possibilities for the coming Tuesday. As we talked, Cervone's absorption with the subject went into crescendo and we left for the river as we hung up the phones.
Eighteen boats below the Lambertville-New Hope bridge. A light breeze and balmy sun. At no moment that I can remember was there not at least one shad on a line from a boat on the river. More often two or three. Rising from the boats, the rods were throbbing. The fishers were all men and their stiff rods were pulsating at the tips. I now understood the physics of shad. So intent is the man with filament engaged that you could cut off his foot and
he would not stop fishing. Cervone hit into six. I was using the same size and color dart, same split shot, same jigging motions. I never had a strike, not a nudge. This is proof: there is a Godâa God who knows what He is looking at and enjoys making decisions.
he would not stop fishing. Cervone hit into six. I was using the same size and color dart, same split shot, same jigging motions. I never had a strike, not a nudge. This is proof: there is a Godâa God who knows what He is looking at and enjoys making decisions.
In the territorial tensions that rarely but surely arise on the river, the aforementioned physics can't help but be involved. Off New Hope another time, Cervone and I had scarce anchored and made our first casts when a fisherman near us reeled in his line, found a strange dart caught on it, and waved the dart at me angrily, shouting, “You're fishing under my boat.” This was most unshadly. It was also corrupted fact. The thing he was waving was not my dart.
Five days later, we were back in the same place and Cervone soon had a fish.
He loses it near the boat, because his knot untied. Cervone is furious with Cervone. Klutz is not his concept of Haut Cervone. Frustrated by my own failure to hook into anything, I begin to cast across current and swing the dart in an arc. The strategy seems to work. I hook into something very big: the boat next to us. My dart is embedded in its anchor rope. I yank and pull and cannot break my line. I carry the rod to the far end of our skiff, and yank and pull as hard as I can. At last the line comes free. The dart is still on it. The hook is bent out straight. If nothing elseâand nothing else is the term I am searching forâI am the knot-tier in this boat. Cervone has a fish on the line. He lands a roe shad. Cervone has a fish on the line. He lands a buck shad. That is the last fish that Cervone is ever going to catch on this blue earth unless my rod
bends. The Lares and Penates of Ed Cervone hear this declaration. My rod bends. It bends for ten minutes over a racing fish, a sounding fish, an unleaping unrelenting deepwater fish, a netted fish, a buck shad.
bends. The Lares and Penates of Ed Cervone hear this declaration. My rod bends. It bends for ten minutes over a racing fish, a sounding fish, an unleaping unrelenting deepwater fish, a netted fish, a buck shad.
In New Hope one day in our sixth season, I got a fish on the line downstream right. It ran back and forth for a while, and then moved upstream until it was directly to my left, halfway to another boat. A man in the other boat had a bending rod, too. Our lines grew tighter and tighter, and eventually were aimed at each other. We were catching the same fish.
He yelled, “Let your line go slack.”
“My line?” I called, incredulous.
“Yes.”
I let my line go slack. He netted the fish. He unhooked my dart and returned it to the river.
I said, “Thank you.”
He said, “Thank
you
!”
you
!”
Cervone thought it was my fish. When I related the story to the editor C. Patrick Crow, Crow told me that what the man meant was “Thank you, sucker.”
Crow was in a position to know.
May 24: In my canoe, I have a shad on the line. Crow, wading opposite, casts over my line. His fly slides down to the fish. He hooks into it, tries to hang on to it, and the fish breaks off. Crow accuses me of interfering with his fish.
After seven or eight years, I at last developed enough moxie to fill a reel with four-pound test. Its advantage is that it sinks rapidly and gets down to where the shad most often are. Its disadvantage
lies in trying to bring in a fish known to break line twice as strong. The elemental requirements are experience and finesse. I caught a buck shad on the four-pound test. Next I got a big roe on the same line, and maneuvered it for fifteen minutes. There was a sense of expansion under my vest. I was thinking, Herewith I graduate to the subtleties of four-pound test. It's more difficult to use. It will catch more fish. I am turning pro. Gradually, I drew the roe shad closer and closer to the canoe. When it finally saw the boat, it power-dived. Explosively, the line broke in my face.
lies in trying to bring in a fish known to break line twice as strong. The elemental requirements are experience and finesse. I caught a buck shad on the four-pound test. Next I got a big roe on the same line, and maneuvered it for fifteen minutes. There was a sense of expansion under my vest. I was thinking, Herewith I graduate to the subtleties of four-pound test. It's more difficult to use. It will catch more fish. I am turning pro. Gradually, I drew the roe shad closer and closer to the canoe. When it finally saw the boat, it power-dived. Explosively, the line broke in my face.
It took about ten seasons for me to shed enough humility to appearâeven in a diary addressed to myselfâinsufferably pedagogical:
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