BROWN ISNāT WORKING TODAY. Neither is white. Even orange on a green jighead isnāt getting bit. Itās a chilly sunny April day and Iām out with Paula and Gordon in a Fletcherās rowboat, bouncing tandem bucktail jigs for white perch. Every year the Potomacās migratory speciesāshad, herring, and perchāswim up out of the Chesapeake Bay to spawn. Every year, the three of us go out to meet them. Itās how we mark the death of winter and the beginning of spring, the end and start of another circuit on the big merry-go-round. Itās how we honor the stupefying fact that all three of us are still alive to see it. No one says a word about any of this. Thatās part of the ritual.
Weāve tried several historically productive holes, spots combining the deep water and rocky bottom that perch prefer. I got bit as soon as my rig hit bottom. Perch donāt really fight. Thereās just a sudden quickening in your hands that tells of a fish on the line. I had a double on yellow jigs, two keeper fish. Gordon picked up an even bigger single on a brown jig and threw it in the cooler. But just as fast as we caught those fish, things went cold. Now heās trying orange. Anglers like us fixate on color because itās one of the few things we can control. But it doesnāt matter what youāre throwing if the fish arenāt there, so now weāre drifting, hoping to luck into a school.
āIām not happy,ā Paula announces. While this is no surprise, itās also one of the great things about her. Unlike some people, Paula Smith never makes you guess her mood. She comes right out and tells you. Today she sports her standard field uniform: a black beanie under her Tilley hat, chin strap deployed against the gusty wind, a manās green army coat, one of Gordonās old shirts, jeans, and sneakers she probably fished out of a dumpster. āThey gotta be here, you know?ā she says to no one in particular. Sheās covering her bets, one white, one purple. Once again, I ponder how this strange, gruff, almost filterless woman has become one of my oldest friends. It says more about me than her, Iām just not sure what. More Christmases than not, I have dinner with Paula and Gordon.
Paula shakes out a cigarette and lights it in a 20-knot wind on the first try. Soon weāre both smoking the cigarette. She sees my grimace and cackles. āYou like these?ā she asks, feigning a concern she clearly doesnāt feel. āNew brand. No additives, lotsa nicotine. Just the way I like āem, honey.ā
Drifting isnāt producing either, so Gordon tells Paula to drop the anchor and pours a cup of coffee from his thermos. āFunny thing about climate change,ā he says. āAll the flowers and trees are blooming a month early, but the perch are coming a month later. Mid-April instead of mid-March. I checked my journals.ā Seventy years ago, when Gordon was a boy, he could fill a 5-gallon bucket in a couple of hours. Now three anglers are lucky to get half that in an entire season. The netters downstream take them in huge numbers, and a lot of the fish we do catchāpurple with a yellow collar is finally putting a few fish in the coolerābear scars from nets. The perch look like they always do when you bring them up into the lightāstunned at this bright world. Paula and Gordon subsist mostly on wild fish, waterfowl, deer, and the vegetables they grow out back. This is about putting fish in the freezer.
āHow long we been fishing together, Paula?ā I ask out of nowhere. āTwenty years?ā
āNo,ā she scoffs reflexively, as if that canāt possibly be right. Then she reconsiders. āWell, maybe.ā I think itās more like 30 years. At least. Actually, I canāt think of a time when I didnāt know Paula.
We pull the anchor and motor downstream using the 2.5hp kicker Gordon bought after he sold his boat. At Windy Run, we start picking up a few. āThatāll work!ā Paula crows when I pull up a double on purple jigs with a bit of Mylar flash in them. Theyāre both keepers. Paulaās using gaudy yellow jigs with a brown collar. Gordon is silently outfishing us both from the back of the boat. Heās throwing a green-and-yellow combo.
The old perch madness comes over us as the bite picks up. Itās abundance mania, the sudden, euphoric awareness of ripeness and plenty that must be gathered now. We donāt dare jinx it by talking. There is only the next fish and the next fish and the next fish, and the necessity of getting them efficiently, which means without haste.
In 10 minutes itās over. We keep fishing but theyāve moved on. Weāve got maybe 25 keepers. A young bald eagle of no definite color flies overhead. āGood to see that,ā Paula murmurs. It feels like an omen.
Back at the dock, I carry the little motor to Gordonās truck. We take the oars and life jackets back to the boathouse. The fish go into a cooler. We carry our gear to the cars.
I ask, as I always do, if they donāt want some help cleaning the perch.
āUh-uh, honey,ā Paula says. āIāve seen you fillet, and it aināt pretty. Come by the house sometime, and Iāll give you a packet of perch. If we have any left, I mean.ā We nod to each other. They head out in Gordonās truck.
And just like that, another year has begun.
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