FIrst hit Violet Patch Park where a stretch that normally produces decent numbers didn't produce a thing. I don't care about theories of lure choices and what's best and when. The way I fish and where I put the lure generally pays off. It's an old theory. If you want to catch fish, put the lure where the fish are. That I know how to do. But when not even a tap is being had in response, something else is going on. I used to care what that something else was, now I don't. There are other things out there to see and the fishing has become an excuse to go wander around the river.
I had watched the foot bridge being built over the river at Violet Patch Park since they drove in the first pylon. Not a bad looking bridge. I wanted to start fishing on the west side anyway, so I decided to make life easier on myself by walking the bridge.
A perfect spot to build a bridge. Panoramic views of the river on both sides. An opportunity to stop midway, lean elbows on the rail and take in the sight while listening to the water sing over the rocks below.
Only one problem. If you're 5 foot 9 inches like me your view would be more like one from a prison cell.
The top of the rail is just about at the 6 foot level. The only way to see the river is to stand on your toes and hop up and down a little. Walking on it is much like walking through a tunnel. No real point trying to look left or right, the view is ruined.
What a dumbass way to build a foot bridge over a river.
Too much water piled onto too much coffee had me stopping too frequently along the shore. But it seemed like every stop had a reason for me to be there. Came across some wild grapes that are ripening. I've been seeing a pretty good harvest of these everywhere I go. I've picked them and crushed them down in the past. They make a fantastic sauce for just about any kind of game. My daughters like to just pop the sour pellets in their mouth till tongues and teeth are the same color purple as the grapes.
I keep coming across things in the wild that artists I've known have tried to emulate in their work. We thought their work was pretty good at the time. But in reality, it pales to what I find.
There's a spot along this stretch where I've always stopped to take a break. Go walk up onto the edge of the farmers field just to let my feet feel somewhat flat ground for a little bit. Give them a break from the rock field of the bottom of the river.
Up to this point the catching of fish was nonexistent. But I was coming up to a shore line that the owner had rebuilt with some excellent structure. This small stretch never failed to produce a minimum of 6 fish of a variety of species. Years ago I made 5 casts to the same spot between a couple of boulders and picked up 5 different species.
Today, I caught a stick.
Wound up around 10:00 at Saw-wee-kee Park where the 2 fish came from. DIdn't last long fishing in that area. The wind was ripping pretty good out of the west, the direction I was heading. I gave up before I got near the better spots. The wind made casting difficult and trying to hit a specific spot virtually impossible. I decided to take a short cut through an island to get back to the other shore just to get out of the wind. RIght on the shore were two rakes. Odd. But then I saw the path that was built with the use of the rakes. I wasn't really looking forward to bush whacking across the island in this heat, but it was starting to look like this might make it a little easier.
The island is privately owned with a duck blind on the far west end. I've never met the owner, but we know of each other through a mutual friend. Apparently if I ever wanted to camp out on the island, all I have to do is call. I've never done it.
As I headed down the path it turned west. I figured it was going to eventually lead to the duck blind, which is where I wanted to be before heading across the river. About 100 yards through the woods I came across a nice sized tent. Don't know why I didn't take a picture of that since it's only the second time I've ever had that happen. Taking a picture seemed like a violation of privacy at the time. I continued to follow the manicured path weaving through the woods. This was just too easy, I could get spoiled doing this. Nothing like the animal paths I usually follow, getting down on my hands and knees and crawling when I have to.
The path didn't end at the blind. I was bummed. The rest of the way was the impenetrable brush that I dreaded. I knew it wasn't far, but I was too hot and tired to look forward to the bush whacking. But where the path ended was a total surprise. A pot of gold only a dedicated bush whacking outdoorsman could truly appreciate.
I made it to the blind and took a break inside. Dabbed off the half dozen or so spots of blood forming from where the thorns pierced my flesh. I was sweating profusely. The wind was blowing directly into the blind making it very comfortable. I seriously considered laying down on the platform for a quick nap, but instead sat quietly sucking down water and staring down the river.
Screw the camping. I'm going to have to go talk to the owner about using the blind for birds. I'll even help with getting it ready for the season. I've seen enough river shore line over the years. I think I can make it blend right in.
) fish straightened my heavy gauge spook hook within 5 seconds and we spent the next 2 hours fishless and gossiping over interwebz drama. 
