By Jim Mize
My kitchen table looked like stuffed animals had staged an MMA fight and none had fared well. Fur, feathers, and synthetics lay in clumps where we had littered the surface with fly-tying materials. This way, we could sort through them and easily pick out what we needed.
Beanpole and I often got together to tie flies at my house. Nell appreciated not having the mess, and I didn’t mind having trimmings on the floor. After all, Moose, my black Lab, started shedding about this time of year, and I was sweeping every morning anyway. Besides, the fly trimmings just added a little color in the dustpan.
I sat staring at a pack of Awesome Possum dubbing, trying to imagine what the possum had done to earn this title. It must be hard to be awesome when you’re a possum. This one must have been exceptional.
Beanpole was focused on his vise, trying to get rubber legs in just the right spot on a hopper. He squinted as his fingers held the rubber legs against the hook shank, and at one point he stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth. Once he had it tied down, he looked up and lobbed a question that landed with the impact of a grenade.
“Do you want to buy my fly rod?”
I looked over at him, once again focused on tying the hopper and tried to guess what was going through his mind. The odds of me doing that were somewhere between winning the lottery and being struck by lightning. Maybe that’s how the Awesome Possum died. The hair did look a little singed.
“You buying another one?” I asked.
“Not exactly.”
I had learned over the years that Beanpole’s mind was complex to the average person. Clearly, there was more to this response, so I thought about the usual progression of questions I had to ask to get something out of Beanpole when he didn’t want to tell me. So, I jumped ahead about five questions and got to what I really wanted to know.
“Tell me what happened.”
Beanpole looked up sheepishly realizing I had guessed right. There was a story behind the question, and I wouldn’t leave him alone until he shared it. We had done this dance before, and the song always ended the same way.
“Well, I went fishing last week on Humility Creek. It was still cold, the trout were on the bottom, but I was picking up one now and then on weighted nymphs drifted under an indicator. Mostly, they were rainbows.”
Beanpole took a sip of his Cheerwine as if he needed some liquid courage. Then, he proceeded with the story.
“You know that big hole where the creek turns? I was almost to the bend when two Canada geese started honking at me.
They were up on the opposite bank in front of some brush. Not your normal honk, but faster and more aggressive. I figured they were going to nest there, so I tried to give them plenty of room.”
“Good decision,” I interjected.
“Yeah, you know I had been buzzed once by a goose in a similar situation. Had to fend him off with my fly rod. Came straight at my head looking like a Boeing 757 trying to land. Thought I was going to die.”
Beanpole gazed into space as if remembering the event, shuddered, then came back to finish his story.
“Anyway, the geese were getting more and more excited and finally one took off. I thought it was going to come at me, so I braced to defend myself. But it just flew down the creek honking as it went. That left one goose on the bank. It was still honking, but not quite as much.”
“I thought I was in the clear then, so I went back to fishing. After every few casts, I would ease a couple steps downstream and keep drifting those nymphs, watching the indicator for any sign of a bite. The goose and I were still watching each other, but it seemed fairly calm for a goose. I had almost forgotten about it and was just concentrating on the drift, the fish, and that indicator.”
“That’s when it happened.”
Beanpole paused as if I might let the story end at this point. He always did this, and I wondered if he was checking to see that I was paying attention. So, I asked the obvious question.
“What happened?”
Beanpole looked me in the eye to tell me the next part.
“The goose flew off the bank straight at me. I braced for a flogging as it got closer, but instead, it swooped down and tried to grab my indicator. I think someone had been feeding the goose, and my white indicator probably looked like food. Anyway, the goose tried to grab it.”
“He plopped down in the stream and was pecking at the indicator. Apparently, it was moving and the goose was flapping to stay close to it in the current, pecking at it over and over, more frantic each time.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“It was all a reflex. I tried to yank the indicator away, but the line must have run between the wing feathers on the goose. Next thing I know, I’ve hooked it.”
In my mind, I could see the bend in the stream, Beanpole with his rod up, and the goose flogging the stream, flailing and splashing, slinging water in all directions. Probably every fish for a hundred yards had taken cover.
“What happened next?”
“Well, the goose didn’t respond well to that,” said Beanpole. “It honked like crazy, and I’m in the creek with a goose on a four-weight. It’s trying to take off, and I’m trying to get unhooked. It’s flapping like crazy, getting a foot or so above the stream, and then my line gets tight and I pull it back down.”
“I’m trying to sort the line from between its wing feathers, water is splashing everywhere. I’m backing up to get away; the goose is half in the water and half in the air, and it was just a total mess. That was when I realized it.”
“Realized what?”
“You can’t land a goose on a four-weight.”
I nodded. I hadn’t thought about it before, but Beanpole was probably right.
“What did you do then?” I asked.
“I just grabbed my line and broke it. Maybe if my fly was bigger or my tippet stronger, I would have had a chance. But it’s impossible to land a goose on a size 18 pheasant tail and 5X tippet.”
“And that’s why I want to sell my four-weight,” added Beanpole.
“So, you’re giving up fly fishing just because you hooked a goose?” I asked incredulously.
“No, but if I’m going to hook geese, I’m going to need a heavier rod.”
I stared at Beanpole across the table, tying flies, preparing for the coming season, and thought to myself that in his world this was the logical conclusion.
“What kind of rod do you plan to buy?” I asked, letting him share exactly where his thoughts had brought him to.
“Probably an Ugly Stik.”
I nodded and went back to tying flies. Maybe he was right.
“Beanpole Sells His Fly Rod” is an excerpt from Jim’s new book, The Haunted Outhouse. You can find it on Amazon or get autographed copies at www.acreektricklesthroughit.com
Jim Mize has been writing humor and nostalgia for over forty years. Most of his work has appeared in outdoor publications including Gray’s Sporting Journal, South Carolina Wildlife, In-Fisherman, and other magazines. His stories and books have been selected for over one hundred Excellence in Craft awards, including the Pinnacle Award, the highest award for books from the Professional Outdoor Media Association. His previous books include The Winter of Our Discount Tent, A Creek Trickles Through It, Hunting With Beanpole, Fishing With Beanpole, The Jon Boat Years, and Funny You Asked Me That! Jim writes from his cabin in the South Carolina mountains while his Lab, Moose, keeps the bears at bay. Autographed copies can be purchased at http://www.acreektricklesthroughit.com. Contact: Jim Mize – e-mail: jimmize1@cs.com