Angling styles offer different, but effective approaches

Ken Allen

Copyright © 2005 Blethen Maine Newspapers Inc.

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Sometimes writers watch a real-life plot unfold, and right from the opening minutes, they think, "Wow, what a great anecdote for a lead!" Then the story remains stubbornly in mind for life.

Many years ago on an early May afternoon, such an incident illustrated how differently bait anglers and fly rodders approach fish on flowing water, one of many observations. A movie script could not have shown a better example of my general rule, but the sequence of events was pure coincidence. (Granted, my rule is fraught with exceptions, but the May day contained a common enough behavioral pattern to be noticeable.)

I walked downstream along a tiny river before arriving at the top of a long, quiet, gravel-bottomed glide. The sunlit trunk of a fallen tree offered me an inviting seat beside the river, so I sat in the warming rays and waited for a mayfly hatch to begin at2 p.m. as it had all week.

A short while later, movement on the opposite bank caught my eye. A bait angler in drab clothes was sneaking to the bottom of the glide with the same stealth that a deer hunter would use to stalk close enough for a shot. If he had not passed through a sunlit opening before hiding behind a big maple next to the water, then I would probably have missed his furtive approach.

The crafty angler waited a few minutes before casting a worm and large sinker upstream. The bait drifted along the bottom before swinging beneath an undercut bank, where he left it awhile -- and then cast again.

Soon, a well-known Maine fly rodder with a national reputation arrived at the top of the glide on the opposite bank from me. After stringing up his rod, he plowed into the water and waded to the middle, pushing wavelets ahead of him that gently lapped the shore.

Completely oblivious to the other guy, the fly caster began dropping a nymph softly above potential lies. Just as the fly caster came abreast of me, the worm dunker was stomping downstream. I knew the fly fisher well and with a good-natured tone, said, "You (expletive) bully!"

While snapping his head toward me, he jumped as if someone had goosed him. I pointed at the retreating angler, which told the whole story.

As a general rule, good bait anglers wear drab clothing and sneak up on a pool as if it were a game animal. They keep shadows away from the water, footstep vibrations to a minimum and body and arm movement below the fish's cone of vision. While casting, some of them take the precaution of hiding behind trunks or bushes.Those tips can improve the catch rate.

On the other hand, fly rodders often wade into pools, whether they need to or not, instigating a rule of thumb. If a fly caster can reach a fish from shore and has casting room, stay out of the water. If folks must get into a pool to cast, do it carefully with no wavelets or vibration.

In my life, I have noticed diametric behavioral patterns in trout, entirely dependent on the amount of human traffic they encounter. Naturally, fish in remote spots with few to no anglers can be naiive to the core. However, and as odd as it may sound, trout in heavily fished water are far less spooked by anglers than in places with light to medium-light pressure. The latter can be extremely finicky.

This partially explains why fly rodders sometimes approach fish so carelessly. They often fish spots with special regulations, which attract crowds. Fish are accustomed to people so are less skittish.

Two stretches of the Kennebec offer a perfect example:

Trout in the Shawmut section encounter jillions of anglers and tolerate human traffic. A careful angler can sneak upon 10 trout in a row without putting one down. In this situation, presentation becomes far more important than approach.

On the other hand, a more remote part of the Kennebec with light fishing pressure sometimes drives me nuts. Trout are less accustomed to people, so approach means everything. After all, if an angler has already spooked the quarry, what good is a perfect presentation?

For instance, last June, Bob Mallard and I were fishing a flat, slow pool on the Solon stretch of the Kennebec, one of the pools difficult to reach on foot. Wicked wary browns were rising sporadically for mayflies -- one dimple every 10 minutes. After each rise ring, I would sneak toward the brown, making sure not to make wavelets. By the time I was close enough to cast for a drag-free float with a dry or nymph, the fish would stop feeding.

Bob was watching me from a considerable distance upstream, and after three botched fish, he hollered, "These fish are certainly different here than at Shawmut!"

The trick on the less-fished sections of the Kennebec is simple. On flat pools where rushing, tumbling water does not make noise or distort the surface, anglers must stay in one spot and wait for a fish to rise within casting distance, which requires patience galore.

The key to success on heavily fished water is perfect presentation. The fly must float at the exact same speed as the current. When fly rodders use a dead-drift presentation (the fly floating at the same speed as the current), they look at a fleck of foam or anything, floating beside the fly or strike indicator. If the fly or indicator is drifting at a different speed, no matter how slight, it often frightens fish more than a sloppy approach.

For sure, a lot of fly rodders can learn a lesson or two about approach from a good bait angler, but even with a careless approach, fly rodders have an advantage because they can present a fly that lands on the water with the softness of a grandmother's kiss. Trout often respond to such a presentation with reckless abandon, providing the stalk has not frightened them witless.

Ken Allen, of Belgrade Lakes, is a writer, editor and photographer. To reach him, send e-mail to KAllyn800@aol.com