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School of Fish

On the Blackstone River, a fisherman leans his lesson from a master angler.

Illustration by Christopher Silas Neal

(page 1 of 2)

When I was a boy, the Blackstone River was excluded from my fishing itinerary. I’d heard you could catch something in those polluted waters—but it might not be a fish. Years later and from afar, I heard rumors: The river was being cleaned up. Then, prior to moving back to my native Cumberland, I read in Tom Fuller’s excellent book Trout Streams of Southern New England that the Division of Fish and Wildlife began stocking it in 1995. The water is now clean enough to support insect life and forage fish. Although Fuller describes the Blackstone as a “suburban” river, he suggests that if it were in a rural setting, the river could one day rival the famous Housatonic and Farmington rivers, places I know very well. 

I decided to test the waters. Studying the current from the river bank while I assembled my fly rod, I looked for patterns of moving foam created by the Albion Falls one hundred feet upstream. Fly fishermen call these patterns “food highways.” From a trout’s perspective, nature is his Stop & Shop and the current is his Peapod. I entered the unfamiliar water and gingerly felt around slippery rocks. Even on this balmy, early June day, any misstep could fill my chest waders with chilly water.

I slowly battled the current to find a position mid-stream. No one knows why trout fixate on one particular prey, even when other morsels present themselves. Only a trout or God can answer that question. Although I was hoping to use dry flies, I saw that the fish weren’t rising to insect hatches. I tied a stonefly nymph to the end of my tippet as my feet tangoed to stand their ground. Trout find shelter among submerged rocks while waiting for delicacies—most take ninety percent of their meals below the surface. I cast cross-stream for an hour and allowed the nymph to bounce along the stream bed. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a shadowy presence on the opposite bank not more than thirty feet away. Standing almost four feet tall and decked out in a stylish hairdo—quite the attention-getter—I thought him nothing more than a dandified rake. He wagged his slender head back and forth. Suddenly, his neck coiled. His head plunged into the water, emerging again almost instantly: A small silvery fish wiggled helplessly in his long yellow beak. The fish slid down the throat of the great blue heron, head first. This blue-gray angler spent no time celebrating his catch. He went back to work. I prepared for the next cast and marked the score—one to nothing.

My brother angler expressed no concerns about sharing a fishing hole. I waded in deeper parts, while he fished the edges and shallows. His stature on the water was second only to my own, but he was fishing with stealth. As he slowly worked his way upstream, one choreographed step at a time, I saw that his cunning approach minimized his profile on the water.

Most birds are wary of human presence. Even the bold, grouchy Canada goose avoids us. But for some reason, my fellow fisherman tolerated my proximity with utter
indifference.

I became fascinated: The Professor Emeritus of Angling had taken the podium. He moved his head side to side and generously returned my stare. I admired his coiffure and speculated it must be a display of status in his world. My own shabby hat placed me as one among billions.

Fly fishermen will often socialize and exchange information in mid-stream. I flattered myself with the notion that we were sharing an “inter-species moment,” although I was fly fishing and he was beak fishing. Regardless, I was getting skunked. I reeled in my line.

From my arsenal, I selected another nymph, a number-fourteen beaded caddis. My brother angler concentrated on his own technique. As his neck coiled slowly, he reminded me of a minuteman hiding behind a stone wall to watch the redcoats march within range. The hammer of the musket was cocked, a steady finger held the trigger.

His head slipped in and out of the water. The current erased every sign of disturbance, and seconds later, another fish struggled within his beak. I couldn’t restrain myself. “Bravo!” I shouted, tallying the count. Two to nothing, his favor.

I ignored my watch and let the sun keep time. Feeling a slight tug, I slowly raised the rod tip. I had one on. I reeled my line in against the current, but I could tell there wasn’t much on the hook. I lifted my little catch out of the water and held its struggling body. The hook came easily out of the corner of his mouth, and I let him go.

Meanwhile, the heron had snuck upstream. He was stalking something. I disobeyed fishing etiquette and triumphantly shouted, “Hah!” Not a feather on his body rustled. Keeping score wasn’t on his mind. Only the score he kept in his belly interested him. But my catch put me on the board. Two to one. Still his favor.

He waded out into deeper water and concentrated on a semi-circle of rocks that formed a small, gurgling pool below the falls. I questioned his approach. I was casting upstream, since trout “hold” in the current, waiting for nutrients. But the heron had reversed tactic and was fishing downstream. Could he detect activity I couldn’t? Perhaps the fish were turning downstream to face an underwater predator, lining up in a rear-guard defensive position against attack. Was the heron waiting for prey to be driven within striking range? Is a bird brain capable of this kind of reasoning?     

That graceful neck coiled slowly. I got the impression a decisive moment was imminent, but then he relaxed and stood upright. He repeated this maneuver several times. In between feints, he waited.