Late in the afternoon we anchor up at the confluence of the Roanoke and Conine Creek and throw our entire arsenal into the water, wave after wave of baits, like artillery fire. ![]() “Eventually,” Wood says, “you’d think we’d get lucky.” ![]() Spring is everywhere but on the ends of our fishing lines. There are prothonotary warblers migrating downriver, herons winging toward massive rookeries, water snakes draped across sunny logs. The river here flows through a floodplain 5 miles wide, and for mile upon mile there are no houses, buildings, or other signs of man. It’s hard to square the failure with what we know is in the water beneath the boat. I land a catfish that goes maybe 12 pounds. But we’ve fished this river enough to know that a plummeting barometer is the kiss of death to dreams of striper glory.Īnd we meet with similar success everywhere: We catch a trophy-size bowfin, the primitive muck-loving “swamp muskie” that most anglers disdain. We have Clousers and diving plugs and circle hooks for cut bait. On the tent platform we spooled superthin braided spinning lines that would cut the thick current of the Roanoke and drag a plastic fluke to the bottom no matter how fast the flow. We’ve come prepared for any fishing condition: Riding in the passenger seat of my truck, Wood tied superfast-sinking fly lines out of old running line and heavy T-14 tungsten line that sinks at 9 inches a second. I’ll soon feel like letting loose with a good primordial shrieking, myself. Maybe that vision should have clued me in, too: All is not well. It’s a great kickoff, but the boat ripples the tall, somber reflections of cypress and gum in the black water, turning each trunk into the haggard outlines of Edvard Munch’s figure in The Scream. ![]() A green, red, and white Clouser fly decorates its jaw. I look down as Wood lifts a nice 5-pound striper from the water.
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