Doc's Perspective on Knowing When

For over ten years now, I have extolled the prognostication power of Azalea blossoms when it comes to predicting when specks first begin to appear on the front beaches. Actually, I have recently also noticed that this somewhat coincides with the return of the mockingbirds and cardinals to my north lawn. To borrow a quotation from Peterson's field guide to the birds, these things are all "a sensitive guide to the environment, an ecological litmus paper". And it is a litmus paper that fishermen would do well to heed. For details on azaleas and mockingbirds, readers will have to look to elsewhere - in Marjorie Wilson's or Judith Toups' columns. In the grand scheme of things, though, the return of the birds, the budding of azaleas, the greening of the grass, and yes, even the appearance of trout on the front beaches, are all linked inextricably to the season. That season is Spring; and it is fully upon us. Spring is that time of the year when gardener's break the budget on 8-8-8, birders break out their spotting scopes, and fishermen choose their weapons. Those with years of experience don't need a groundhog to bite them in the nose to tell them that the specks have arrived on the front beaches. It comes natural.

Last Saturday, I too had to do the natural thing. I bought the triple-eight, I cleaned the lenses on my Nikons; and then I realized that the azaleas had turned pink and the birds had arrived - So I got my priorities in order and went fishing.

As is typical of most early season fishing trips, not everything was where it ought to have been when I set out to hit the beach in the morning. Realizing that it's the early bird that gets the worm, though, I struck out with only a fistfull of jigs and my aluminum box full of selected spoons. Four MirrOlures that fit into my top pockets completed the arsenal. The boat traffic in Long Beach Harbor Saturday morning was enough to scare any trout well away from the place, so fishing the outside, west-side of the harbor jetty seemed to be the only alternative.

The waters west of the harbor jetty are characterized by sand bottom near the beach that quickly becomes transformed into a band of sticky, oozing mud that is difficult to wade. Fortunately, this difficult bottom extends for only a short distance; and then, once again, the bottom is relatively firm. Some fifty yards of so offshore, the bottom deepens into a wide trough of from four to six feet in depth. Oftentimes, good fish can be found in these waters; and they are worth casting to.

This morning, I had cast a silver Johnson Sprite into the darkness, not by choice, but because it happened to be the bait on my rod at the time. I let the spoon settle to the bottom. With a slow whip-retrieve, I brought the lure off the bottom, allowing it to settle again. I went through the motions once more; but this time, I was met by some serious resistance on the other end. The fish sped off into distance, leaving a mud trail in its wake. Then, the line went suddenly slack as the fish backtracked through the vein of disturbed water.

It felt like a good fish at first, but then the first fish of the season always feels that way. Sweeping the not-too-shabby three-pounder into my net, the fisherman in me was glad to see that the specks have returned to my favorite stomping grounds. As the rites of Spring go, that first fish was destined to be set free, no matter how large it might be. Of course, this ritual has never been tested by the likes of a ten-pounder yet. I made a few more casts, just to check things out; and, sure enough, I had a second hookup. This time the fish got off without much fanfare. It was all for the best, though, because the lawn fertilizer, the pruning, and all those lesser rites of Spring awaited my dutiful return home. . .