Fly Fishing for Frogs: In the Ivy league
Because I'm a glutton for punishment, I went up to Michigan to see Muddy again.
Being adults with some means, I had hoped to get into “real” reel fishing, out on a Great Lake with walleye or salmon. That was not to be. The weather conditions for the weekend called for thunderstorms and thirty-eight knot winds on the lake, threatening 6 to 8-foot waves. No one was going out.
If anything, we are adaptable. We had 3 days to fool around and find something to do.
So, right in the middle of a busy session of sitting around drinking beer Muddy got a call. He's a beekeeper among other things. A swarm of bees had alighted in a tree at a farm and the farmer knew who to call. Muddy didn't even tell him it was a wrong number. He needs as many bees as he can get and I always wanted to catch a swarm, so off we went.
It turned out to be a large hive but we got them. I learned that the first-time shaking bee swarms out of a tree goes a lot smoother than the third time! I only got stung once. I've always felt blessed that animals love me. If they didn't, I'd have been dead a long time ago.
However, there is always that one. One bee must have been a deranged psychopath. As the other bees calmly buzzed around, one flew straight at me and hit me right between my eyes, at full speed, stinger first! I lived, he didn't, but the rest of the bees started eyeing me up more suspiciously after that. Luckily our work was done. Hive communication is fascinating to watch with a bee keeper there to explain it.
Muddy communicated to me that we could still fish if I was willing to go for channel catfish. If you like a fight then you will like hooking into a channel cat, so the next night off we went.
Like a fool I was wearing flip flops. I did ask Muddy if I needed boots and he said no. Why I listened to him, I have no idea. The hotspot was of course down through a brushy bank where the predominate species of flora was poison ivy. I happen to be resistant to ivy but not immune. I managed to catch several large cats and 3 or 4 very itchy spots on the sensitive skin right below the ankle.
The last night was the grand finale of the trip. Now that my histamines were fully activated, the only thing left to do was get mauled by a bear or blinded by a spitting cobra. I know that sounds out there but how many nearly 60-year-old men do you see playing with bees and getting poison ivy while cat fishing? I was about ready to buy a bicycle and a pack of baseball cards when Muddy had a suggestion.
Not to be outdone, by ourselves, it was decided that we would go frogging the last night. In an interesting twist, frogging may be looked down upon by many anglers but amongst Warden's, frog poaching is a high value case.
Some may have thought the rumble in the night was from an impending summer thunderstorm but I'm pretty sure it was Hemmingway rolling in his grave as the magical romantic lore of fly fishing turned to two guys wading around in lily pads first with spin rods, then fly casting to frogs, at night.
We tied on very small, soft plastic frogs which you had to cast very near the pad sitter. They would chase the lures but only for about 6 inches. The frogs would gobble up the plastic and it was fascinating to watch. They would roll the rig around in their mouth then spit it out. Then they'd say, “Rumpph, rumphh, ribbet” then gobble it up again. “Rumpph” must translate to, “Hey, Frank, this is awful, it tastes like burnt hair and pineapple pizza…let me eat it again.”
Often the frogs avoid the hook but they don't let go of the bait until you bring them in. Once in, they let go and if you didn't have your sack ready another chase would begin. On one catch, after casting from a dirt road, the frog let go as I was admiring it. Luckily the road was remote enough that no one was scarred with the vision of two old men with fly rods chasing a hopping frog down the middle of the road. I would have caught it too, if my ankles weren't so itchy…
See you along the stream.