The Near Side of Midnight
It is nine p.m.--time to go fishing! That's right, it is the time to wade through the inky darkness in pursuit of wary salmo trucha ("German Brown Trout). For several years now, I have succumbed to the urge to wander through forbidding swamps--graciously allowing ravenous mosquitoes to imbibe my 84 proof blood--in an effort to effect a "hook up" with the prodigious trout that are very rarely seen, but which nevertheless do exist, in many of slow-moving, muck-bottomed streams in what is imprecisely referred to as "the Midwest."
As soon as I found out that large brown trout have two periods of peak feeding activity (9-11:30 p.m. and 3:30-6:00 a.m.), I immediately changed my June-July fishing schedule. No longer do I venture forth in the heat of the day, preferring to seek the "magic of the night." If my quest seems inordinately foolish to those who have never done it, I certainly can appreciate that--as it took me a long time to cast my lot with other nocturnal creatures. What follows is a description of why I now prefer to fish at night than during the day—especially in early Summer.
I consider myself to be a very visual person--someone who relies heavily upon my eyes for orientation to the world. I have known others who have great hearing acuity. What I have found is that, like anything else, you can develop your latent capabilities; provided you are willing to work at it. Since taking up night fishing, my auditory skills have improved considerably. I can easily differentiate the rise of a large fish from a small trout--even when the former is sipping flies on the surface, not smashing a large hex fly.
In addition to developing my "other sensory skills," I have found that night fishing breeds a kind of personal satisfaction that rewards the individual who is willing to try another way. Most people, for what I presume to be a variety of reasons, are just unwilling to "risk life and limb" wandering through the night, even on the chance of taking a trout of "bragging proportions." While I understand their rationale, I can only say that for those who are willing to try "something different," they will experience a feeling of accomplishment that is every bit as cherished as any fish caught.
Now let me confess that I have had my share of mishaps fishing at night. My sorties have not been without bumps, bruises, falls, narrow escapes with quicksand, and, oh yes, occasional "dunkings." But any serious fisherman has had those experiences during the day! So why should anyone be dismayed at the prospect of what is just "the inevitable part of angling?" The important thing is to laugh at your mistakes, pick yourself up, and go on with your fishing. The body does bruise, but the ego need suffer no similar injury.
And what do you get for subscribing to night mania? I would suggest that the rewards are at least two-fold. First, and I would argue much less important, you have a very good chance of hooking a really large trout. If you wonder what it is really like to have a huge fish smash your dry fly, go night fishing--you will probably find out. While there are no guarantees in life, the odds of you tying into a trophy trout are infinitely greater when night provides them with the feeling of security to forage aggressively in pursuit of necessary nourishment.
Yet even when you don't hook a single fish the night is filled with a special brand of magic. There are nights I've spent streamside when I never made a single cast, yet they will live vividly in my memory until my physical life ends. I recall the night when I stood in the Mecan River watching hundreds of fireflies winking at me, the night I stood in a pool on the Tomorrow with no desire to fish--just grateful for the lushness of Summer and the reassuring murmur of the river. The more I fish, the less I care about catching anything—yet the more I am compelled to seek out as much magic as this life has to offer. When that becomes important, Dr. Holland's prescription is easy; hike to your favorite trout stream the near side of midnight.