The Ghost Hole
The Westfield River in the Berkshires is named for Joseph Westfield, a locally famous gillie from the turn of the last century. He soloed his canoe down the river swinging streamers for salmon during the flood of '36. That was a mistake.
His canoe washed up on some shoals downstream, but his body was never found. In the wake of the tragedy, The Army Corps of Engineers erected Knightsfield Dam. The reservoir sits mostly empty, a lacustrine surge-suppressor protecting towns and anglers alike from raging flood waters.
It was a long walk to the river. Long walks thin the herd and generally equate to solitude. I was excited to have a nice patch of wilderness to myself.
Within sight of the river, the trail entered a clearing. In the middle of that clearing was a telephone pole. Four feet up that telephone pole was a pay phone.
Once there were two and a half million such devices scattered across the laundromats and parking lots of America. They were ubiquitous. These days, no so much.
As I walked by this one, muscle memory kicked in. I swept a finger through the coin return slot. Nothing. I picked up the receiver and held it to my ear. Surprisingly, dial tone. I hung it up gingerly. It was, after all, an antique.
As I turned towards the river, the phone rang. Still operating on muscle memory, I waited for the second ring, picked it up and offered a tentative hello.
A thin voice asked Fly fishing are you?
Umm...yes.
Hiya. I'm Joe. I used to guide this river.
Um... OK. I'm Tom. First time fishing this river.
Downstream there's a little brook that joins the main river. There's a deep cut there that should hold fish this time of year. Give it a try.
I walked downstream.
Joe was right. The water flattened below where Dead Branch joined the river. Fish-shaped shadows flashed silver in the depths.
I floated a Klinkhåmer over those fish for thirty minutes.
With nothing to show for my time and determined to get my afternoon back on track, I started upstream. I was in the middle of the river when the phone rang again
I trudged to the bank and answered again.
Dry flies won't work today. Nothing hatching. Dredge a March Brown through there, about five feet under a bobber.
I started to hang up but the voice continued.
Those fish'll be spooked by now. They'll take a hard look at your fly before they eat it. Use aught ex gut if you've got any.
As prescriptions go, it needed modernizing.
Gut tippet is hard to come by in any size. So I tied on a few feet of 6x fluorocarbon. The March Brown is an archaic fly pattern. I didn't have any on me. But I figured a Hare's Ear nymph would be close. Bobbers? Don't even get me started.
On my first cast with this rig, the strike indicator paused, then plunged. I lifted my rod tip to set the hook. For a thrilling instant I felt the tug of a fish, then the line went slack.
Subsequent casts assembled themselves into a triptych of frustration. Three times I felt fish. Three times I lost the fish I felt.
Enough is enough. With nothing to show for my time and determined to get my afternoon back on track, I started upstream. I was in the middle of the river when the phone rang again, again.
I trudged to the bank and answered again, again.
You're popping the hook right out of their mouths. Slow down a beat or two. And try a strip set instead of whatever it is that you're doing.
On the next cast the... um... bobber... again stalled over the hole. I bested my instincts, waited a beat or two, kept the rod tip down and strip-set.
It worked. I stood in the same spot and caught five chonky rainbows before I called it a day.
The phone remained silent as I passed it on the way out of the valley. I picked up the receiver anyway.
Um, thanks I said, as I dug around under my waders for a dime to drop in the coin slot.
Always tip your guide, especially if they get you on fish.
Notes:
If the Flood of '36 doesn't ring any bells, blame recency bias. New England was inundated twice in as many years, but the Hurricane of ‘38 is the one we still talk about.
If your basement isn't currently filled with flood-water, safe bet it’s because of the Army Corps of Engineers.
And in case it's not self-evident, Joseph Westfield, all-knowing haint of Massachusetts rivers, is a figment. The Westfield is named for the city it runs through.