All’s Well That Ends

Our spur-of-the-moment, impromptu, fly-fishing trip to the East Coast, which we had been planning for about a year, got off to a rather auspicious beginning. Some whacky directions from the GPS unit I set up the day before proved the theory of “garbage in, garbage out.” Four days later the trip ended with a dead car battery. In between, things got real interesting.
All in all, for a fishing trip, the birding was wonderful.
We had been invited to a friend’s home on Cape Ann, Massachusetts. This drop-dead gorgeous spot sits right on the ocean, Ipswich Bay to be more precise. It carries the name Red Rock, because of the huge granite boulder that seems to anchor the entire spit of land where the classic thirties-era beach house rests.
We’ve been there before. In fact, we took our wedding trip there a decade ago. More than one striped bass has been caught and released in the surrounding waters. I’d not fished the salt for nearly three years, so I was looking forward to this trip. I spent the previous week tying fancy new flies for the occasion. Had I known one of those 2/0 Clousers was going to whack me in the back, I might have created something smaller.
Motoring south from Manchester, New Hampshire, Susan and I chattered away, not paying a lot of attention to road signs because: A, We knew where we were going, and B, we had the GPS. When the skyline of Boston loomed ahead, we knew something was amiss. Fortunately, Susan was driving and exited as soon as we realized we were going the wrong way. She stopped at the first convenience store so I could ask directions. When I had to explain to the lady behind the counter what a map was, I figured we were in real trouble.
We found our route, in spite of all the nasty things the GPS unit was saying and thinking.
Fishing on Thursday was a bit less than impossible. On Friday it got worse. The wind provided a gentle breeze of 30 knots, with gusts hitting 50 knots that could rip the flesh from your face. Not a chance of making a cast. But I tried, anyway. Two days into a four-day trip and I had hardly gotten a hook in the water.
Saturday the wind dropped and I headed for a favorite spot—after I figured out the tide movement thing. When you live in Ohio, all you have to know about Tide is that it comes in a box and you do the laundry with it. When you’re fishing in the ocean, you have to learn about tidal movement.

At “the spot” I noted that there was hardly another fisherman around. Two guys talking, not fishing, about 200 yards down stream. Not a good sign. I stepped off the bank to head out to the deeper water when I had my first near-death experience of the trip (neither gale force winds, getting lost, nor an over-priced lunch, count). What appeared to be relatively solid sand was muck with the texture of quicksand. Fortunately I was still near to the stream bank and was able to extract myself. Damage done? The Earth had reclaimed the soul of one wading boot and had ripped the other to the point where I’ll have to pry it off and get replacements. I think I also managed to add a couple inches to my overall height. Talk about something that sucks!
The two guys from down the way were now standing nearby. (Had I been screaming for help?) They were friendly locals and suggested I follow them to a better beach for some surf fishing. “Something wrong with the bottom here,” one of them offered. No kidding?
Saturday ended with high tide and a beach full of running kids and dogs. The chances of hooking either were good, however it might make for some bad PR for fisherman.
Back at the house, the simple task of disassembling my rod proved daunting. Sections two and three were jammed and were not about to be taken apart. I tried every trick in my near 40-year-old book of fly fishing knowledge to no avail. I was without computer access so Googling my plight was not possible. I called the good folks at L.L. Bean. They have a great fly fishing help line, 800-347-4552, that stays open until 10 p.m. for guys like me. I talked with anyone and everyone available. We tried every possible trick and still the rod would not separate. Well, finally it did. You don’t want to hear how. It’s too painful to even think about if you’re a fly fisher. Suffice to say, repairs are in order …
In hopes of cheering me, we opted for a lobster dinner. In this part of the world the lobster is relatively inexpensive—and alive. To get dinner on the table, a fight to the death must ensue. If you’re lucky, the guy with the biggest pinchers ends on the plate.
On Sunday, as I stared at my broken rod, I couldn’t help but think of what an ideal fishing day it would be—for someone. We switched gears, or gear, and went birding. Rewards were aplenty with great views of Savannah Sparrows, Brant, Long-tailed ducks, two species of scoters, and a couple of Blue Grosbeaks, particularly rare in this place and at this time.
Monday morning broke with the promise of another beautiful day. The downside was we had to head for Cleveland and our wonderful hostess, Cindy, had to get to work. What was beginning to look like a sad-faced good-by turned into a smiley faced opportunity. The good/bad news was that the battery in her car was deader than the lobster we had for dinner the night before. The fishing road trip got a reprieve and extension!

Did I mention that not a fish was caught? Or even seen? We did, however, log 59 species of birds, using only about seven gallons of gasoline.