Doc's Perspective On Fishing at Night

The boards of the pier were covered with dew and a dense cover of fog hung over the Sound as I headed out to try my luck with the night-time trout. It had been well over a week since I had wet a hook after work, and I was anxious to get back to fishing. I knew full well that it would not be long before these fish were driven from the relative shallows of the pier to deeper waters to the south by dropping water temperatures. In the meantime though, I had every intention of challenging them with my Countdown Rapala. The pier was empty as so frequently is the case at this hour of the day. Most folks, I suspect, are either just finishing or beginning their dinners; and the strongest tides of the day were still an hour away, so even the fishermen among them are not compelled to rush. It suits me fine as only the whirr of the spool of my Ambassadeur breaks the thick silence. I scarcely can hear the sound of the plug through the heavy fog as it plopps down somewhere in the distance. Though it is scarcely five thirty, it is also almost dark; and the pier lights have long since turned on. Casting an eerie glow onto the water, the shadows cast by the light posts warrant my particular attention. It is here that I know that the big trout lurk, awaiting the passage of an easy meal. Flipping the three-inch black and silver Rapala near the edge of the shadow, I paused briefly as it sank. Giving it a count of three, I then began a slow and deliberate retrieve. The tight wobble of the Countdown was clearly telegraphed by my graphite Fenwick rod; and I knew that it was working properly. Near the end of my retrieve now, the plug began to work its way back towards the surface. Just as it came into view, I noticed a brilliant silvery flash as a big trout made its pass. Missing the plug, the fish darted back into the darkness. I quickly reloaded and cast the silvery Countdown right back to the same spot. This time I worked the plug even slower and more deliberately. The ploy worked. Just as the plug came into view, the big fish made a second pass, only this time the sharp bronze treble took hold. My rod bent in a sharp arc under the weight of the fish as line slipped smoothly under a light drag setting. I have long since learned that one cannot expect to catch big trout with a heavy drag, and I always check the drag before fishing. The big fish easily took out line with determination as it surged repeatedly toward the bottom. I could clearly see the silver flashes as it moved to and fro in its attempts to dislodge the hook. Lucky for me, it held though; and moments later, I lifted the nice trout from the water and onto the pier. I estimated the fish to be about twenty-five inches in length, but it was exceptionally well-conditioned and deep in the body and would have weighed six to six and a half pounds easily, I suspect. Clearly the best fish I have taken in recent months, I admired it briefly before allowing it to slip out of my fingers back into its shadowy realm. In keeping with a New Year's resolution that I made last January, I have practiced catch-and-release fishing exclusively in 1994, and I wasn't about to break my resolve with fewer than thirty days left in the year. I would continue to fish for nearly two more hours without so much as another strike. It is odd that when I manage to catch a really nice fish that fish is oftentimes my only success of the day, but it only serves to confirm my suspicions that the larger fish typically are loners, even as many of the best fishermen prefer to fish alone. With no one there to witness the catch, I just wonder what would have happened had my catch-and-release ethic and resolve been tested by the likes of a lone ten pounder?