The decision to go fishing came as a slight surprise even to me.  Ignoring a lawn that looked like it was maintained by vandals, I found myself flying along a back road with the windows down and the radio high while heading to a rendezvous with my old mistress, the creek.

I had recently noticed feelings of being penned-in, cramped, lonely, irritable and otherwise out-of-sorts, thoughts that invariably arise whenever I am forced to stay within the confines of civilization too long.  It had been a stale two weeks since I stood on an incredible mountaintop and breathed freedom.  I knew it was time to get back outdoors, even if it were only for a couple of hours.

I actually didn’t have high hopes for the fishing.  A high-pressure front had just passed, an east wind was sitting on the Midwest and I forgot to wear any socks, which meant my bare feet would be rubbed raw inside the chest-waders.  I was ready for a less than stellar day.

However, it didn’t matter because I was going to a Secret Spot.

Every outdoors enthusiast has a secret spot or two, even though there is really no place left on the planet that hasn’t been visited, mapped, photographed and posted on the Internet.  Regardless, everyone has one or two special places that renew the spirit and helps capture that most elusive commodity, peace.

I had discovered this spot while driving around after finding fisherman standing shoulder-to-shoulder in all my other favorite spots.  By sheer luck, I found the hidden stretch of creek a few years ago and instantly fell in love with the place.  The area is gorgeous with shallow rocky runs, islands, small pools and the deepest spot I have personally found within the creek.

Assembling my gear at the pullout, I decided that one thing I love about fly-fishing is the fact that you don’t just grab your stuff and hit the water.  Getting organized requires a few extra minutes, allowing you to calm the mind and make the important mental transition from modern man into predator.

The water was cooler than I expected.  Stepping off the bank, I was immediately glad for my waders even as a chilly trickle of water informed my right foot of a thorn puncture.  I ignored it, happy to be in my favorite place.

Working upstream, I marveled at how the receding water level had changed the waterscape.  Where there once was a nice rapid, a small waterfall had formed while another primary channel I had fished this past spring was now rocky and dry.

At times, it was nearly like fishing with a cane pole as I heaved my green size-14 wooly bugger into the shallow runs.  Pint-sized bass didn’t disappoint as I continually heaved in tiny specimens that swarmed like aggressive bees.

Tired of the yearling fish in the shallow current, I headed upstream to the deeper pool that hopefully held bigger fish.  The wading was easy as I picked through ankle-deep water and thick mats of green algae.

I had just reached the edge of the deeper water and laid out a nice long cast to a rock pile when tragedy struck: there were two fishermen in my pool!  With my head down while carefully walking, I had not seen the pair even though they were as obvious as a bison in your backyard.

I was crestfallen.  Never before had I seen anyone fishing this spot, even though I had seen tire tracks and discarded bait containers on previous trips.  However, over time I had grown to feel that I owned this particular piece of water and all the fish within.  Now, there were two men standing in the middle of MY pool, heaving bait and apparently doing quite well.

Rather than immediately turn and run, I made a few more casts, gave an almost-friendly wave then began picking my way back downstream.  My cigar smoke seemed particularly bitter, as the beautiful day had taken a turn.

I fished downstream, my least favorite method of wading, with little success.  After an hour of fruitless casting, I heaved a large sigh towards the sky and headed back to the van.

After stowing my gear, I slid into the seat and prepared to turn over the tired motor when I looked upstream to see the men laughing over a fish that had struck but missed.  One fisherman was older and reminded me of my grandfather on that same stream, wearing old work slacks and a plaid shirt.  It was apparent they were having time of their lives and I was just a little jealous.

Then a thought struck me: maybe it was their special place too.  I smiled.

I smiled because, after all, it doesn’t hurt to share a secret now and again.

-30-

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