Freakin’ Rican and I fished the tail end of the outgoing tide on Friday from 5-8 pm at one of our favorite spots, an obscure little feeder stream to the Potomac River. We like this water because at low tide it’s more or less wade-able, and it’s teaming with panfish, a few bass, and even some gar. I hate fishing with crowds, so the best part about this place is that there’s nobody there – EVER. We plan to keep it that way for as long as possible, so we will just refer to it here as the “Angry Beaver Hole”, a reference to the bitchy animals that seem to want to ruin my adventure each time I fish the creek. I don’t like these beavers much. Friday was no damn exception either, and the water was pretty stained from upstream wash, so the creepy factor was sort of there…you know, when you can’t really see what’s in the water around you, and you know there’s an angry beaver circling, or maybe a giant gar (that might be worse actually, and now that’s going to haunt me too). Between casts I worried just a little that one of the beavers would take a chunk out of my calf muscle, or a piece of my ass with those gnarly chompers. Both (I think there’s only two) would swim up between us and slap the water with their tails, not only spooking us, but the fish too. They’re a pain in the ass. Then it would drop below the surface and I’d think, “Oh no, here he comes”, the Jaw’s theme played in my head. I’ve decided I don’t like beavers – already said that.
It was 84 F, sunny, not too humid, and overall a pretty good day to fish. The water is pretty warm already this year, so I went “wet” (sans waders). Freakin’ Rican wore his though, maybe because he wanted more fabric between his ass and beaver fangs. We met at the trail head a little after 5 pm, Freakin’ Rican was late again, mumbling something about rush hour traffic. “I gotta pee”, he announced. But he didn’t run off into the trees like a normal angler dude, instead he rigged up and donned his waders, which seems counterintuitive since he still hadn’t urinated. We head off down the trail and of course, thirty feet from the trail head, he yelps out, “damn it! Hold my rod (??) I gotta stop and pee”. “Oh, really?”, I said. When his back was turned, I reach for the camera. I couldn’t help myself.
Freakin’ Rican usually shows up with about 30 pounds of crap, but not this time…he was leanly equipped with an 8 foot/6 weight and small chest pouch with his flies and stuff – I actually had slightly more gear for a change (like a camera and water). Turns out we both had just what we needed to get the job done though. The Rican threw small poppers, and I fished my 5 weight, tossing the same two #8 and #10 white and brown Wooly Buggers the entire time. Both of us hooked up with about a dozen fat sunfish (angler translation: eight small fish) and one decent largemouth bass each (translation: smallish and no more than a pound). It was good day on the water with my fishin’ buddy.