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A FISH STORY IN WHICH THEY DIDN'T ALL GET AWAY; THEY DIDN'T EVEN SHOW UP
Dan Levin
November 07, 1977
I own as much fishing tackle as the population of a small city, and I travel around the country a lot, so I get to use it in the kinds of places you see on the covers of Field & Stream. But what happened to me last year should not happen to a barefoot boy with a willow stick and a bent pin. Whole rivers and bays full of fish seemed to disappear when I showed up. I got marooned on an island. Storms crashed down on me from balmy skies. And in Virginia, while wading in the Smith River, I suddenly stepped from knee-deep water into a hole so cavernous that it may be the secret passage to the Orient that Columbus never found.
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November 07, 1977

A Fish Story In Which They Didn't All Get Away; They Didn't Even Show Up

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I own as much fishing tackle as the population of a small city, and I travel around the country a lot, so I get to use it in the kinds of places you see on the covers of Field & Stream. But what happened to me last year should not happen to a barefoot boy with a willow stick and a bent pin. Whole rivers and bays full of fish seemed to disappear when I showed up. I got marooned on an island. Storms crashed down on me from balmy skies. And in Virginia, while wading in the Smith River, I suddenly stepped from knee-deep water into a hole so cavernous that it may be the secret passage to the Orient that Columbus never found.

I was fishing for a giant brown trout with the nickname of Old Granddaddy. My guide, a 40-year-old furniture-company executive named Harmon Harms, had hooked Old Granddaddy twice and lost him in the boiling currents both times. He estimated the fish's weight at 18 pounds. But now Harms had a plan. Instead of standing on the shore, he would join Old Granddaddy in the drink, putting himself at the mercy of the river. "I can hang on to enough branches on the shore so as not to drown," he said.

I went to the Smith because the Virginia record for brown trout had been broken there three times the previous summer. The last fish, 14 pounds and six ounces, had been caught by a friend of Harms', and together in a period of only four years on the Smith they had caught more than 200 trout of more than five pounds. That kind of fishing was supposed to be gone from this country forever. To fish with Harms would be a sure thing for almost anyone. But if Balboa himself had come back last year and taken me to see the Pacific Ocean, it would have vanished. That is what happened to the trout of the Smith River when I arrived.

Of course, there was a reason. The Smith comes out from beneath the dam that forms the Philpott Reservoir. Philpott is full of gizzard shad that are maimed or killed as the water passes through the dam's turbines. They float down the river, and the trout are like hogs at a trough. But I turned up—and the shad turned off, because the sluice-gates of the dam were closed. Harms did not catch a trout of more than three pounds for months thereafter. He should be more careful about whom he fishes with. As for me, when I emerged from the hole in the river bottom, coughing and spitting, I reached for a handhold on a rock and all but shook hands with a copperhead that was sunning itself there.

Seven months later, hands steady again. I found myself on the shores of North Carolina's Pamlico Sound. It was supposedly full of large red drum, otherwise known as channel bass. Waiting for me was a soul mate of Harms', Ernie Hudson of Oriental, N.C., one of the first men to go after drum with rod and reel in Pamlico. He and a friend had caught more than 400 of them, some weighing as much as 57 pounds.

The first day's run was a bone-rattling 12 miles through rough open water to Point of Marsh at the mouth of the Neuse River, a mile and a half from an Air Force bombing range. A publicist for the state of North Carolina had made it a three-man expedition, and we baited 18 hooks with squid, cast them out and laid the rods and reels in a row along 200 yards of sod bank. The six rods per man increased our chances for a big drum, but tiny snapper bluefish kept stealing the bait and we had to scurry around, constantly checking the hooks. We looked like people caught in a bombing raid, and then we almost were. Jet planes crisscrossed overhead, screaming past to their target, and I asked, "Is it legal for us to be here?"

"Don't worry," the publicist replied. "We can't get a ticket. The worst thing that can happen is you might get your leg blown off."

What did happen were the second-and third-worst things. No one caught a red drum, and when it was time to go, Ernie Hudson's engine was as dead as the squid in his pail. It looked like a long night in the cold. A search for firewood ended 10 feet inland in shin-deep ooze. There was no place to lie down, and off to the side numerous large creatures slithered around in the reeds. Our rescue by a Coast Guard boat was hardly a blessing. The 1 a.m. tow back to Oriental took five hours against the tide and wind. Along the way we were lashed by a downpour that fell from what seemed to be starry skies. The logical next move was to the airport.

But there were two days of fishing left. Hudson phoned commercial fishermen all around the sound, and they told him, "No drum." He became embarrassed. He blamed the weather, the netters, himself. He did not suspect my influence. I began figuring the value of my fishing tackle. It was depressing that I had invested so much. Maybe I would sell it all and buy a set of golf clubs. Several sets.

The summer passed, and I did not go fishing. I even avoided seafood restaurants. But with fall came an invitation to go after landlocked salmon in the St. Croix River at the Maine- New Brunswick border.

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