The Next Generation by Mark Usyk

The morning Kevin and Stacy left for the tournament, Carter and I got up and went to our river. I rigged up my JP Ross 5wt Coherence with a seven foot length of 6lb test mono and a Clouser, and picked a rock for him to stand on where the river met the bank. It looked good, but after about fifteen casts I could see the look on his face and read his body language. He had already lost hope. So I pointed down river and said “Let’s walk down there to that pool tucked against the bank just above those riffles.” From even a hundred yards upriver I could tell it was a fishy spot on this river that was probably two-hundred feet wide. He didn’t argue, I think he was happy to try a different spot. I think even to him it looked better. I propped my fly rod in the weeds up on the bank and stood back about twenty feet downstream of him and told him to cast straight out as far as he could, then let it sink and drift with the current, and when it had begun to swing a little I told him to start making small strips. The line went tight.

He caught his first fish on the fly, a ten-inch smallmouth, right there on that cast. I took a photo of him standing on the small boulder just off the bank, the fly rod leaning against him, the bass held proudly, and then he released it and proceeded to catch several more in the same spot. I think a total of nine from that little pool. The Clouser’s time was up though when he was surprised at a fish taking it literally the rod’s length away. I was in the right place for my polarized sunglasses to show me the shape and stripes of what I swear was a foot long muskie, although Kevin said there were none in that river. There were pickerel he said. I know what I saw, and I know it took the streamer just off that boulder the way they do just off a boat sometimes. It was a little excitement and mystery to talk about, the stuff that keeps us going back.

We crossed the river in the shallow riffles just below the pool once it seemed that he’d either caught all the bass there or they’d warned the rest. On the other side we started working our way up against the current, and now Carter seemed to be able to catch a bass almost anywhere he chose to cast next. For the rest of the morning we fished together, Carter not even needing me to net his fish. He’d cast, play a the small bass, then bring them to hand tucking the fly rod under his arm and removing the hook. Then with his next cast it would seem that removing one bass from the spot had only meant another moving in to take its place. He did catch one bluegill in the shallows around some boulders, and there was one nice bass that did have his voice calling for the net with that inflection of urgency and concern. It ended up being the biggest fish of the day, a smallmouth about fifteen inches long with a big tail. That was another photo opportunity I didn’t let slip away. In all through the day he caught thirty-six fish, all on his own. I caught twenty-something myself, but I hadn’t started fishing until he was well over the ten count, and honestly I found myself standing in the river watching him making casts, his body language from a distance telling me he was completely comfortable in the moment, casting catching, and releasing.

We went out on another river with Kevin and Stace the next morning to hunt for carp before we left, and so Carter experienced both extremes that weekend. First the easiest fishing he’d ever see, and then the hardest. We saw four carp, and managed casting to three of them, hooking up with none. Carter slept for a lot of the eight-hour drive home, but when he was awake we talked about how great the fishing had been. And that’s the story of a fifteen-year-old becoming a fly fisherman in one day.

Mark Usyk has been with JP Ross for quite a few years now. He’s the author of three books full of stories about fishing where life happens, all available here on the JP Ross website. He’s working on his fourth book, Trout Don’t Have Thumbs, between adventures.