One of the best things about the Swift River’s flyfishing-only section is the help you get from strangers out strolling on the streamside paths. Contrary to their reputation, New Englanders can be a friendly and outgoing people, and I find that most are willing to do their bit to help an angler maximize his or her experience. Usually, you don’t even need to ask.
I had a typical encounter recently while working a part of the river that I call the canyon, though I don’t think anyone else calls it that, since it’s not a canyon. For half an hour I’d been drifting midge patterns through a current that was clearly loaded with trout, and I was already starting to get frustrated. Suddenly, I heard a rustle in the bushes behind me.
An elderly couple appeared on the bank, about five feet above my head. The man had a bushy walrus-style mustache and carried a long wooden walking staff, thickly coated in varnish. The woman wore a fanny pack and had her arm hooked around a tree for safety. I could hear them whispering as all three of us followed my fly through its drift, and when I glanced up for my backcast, I saw them pointing into the water.
“How many you caught?” the man asked in a gruff voice.
“None so far,” I said.
“Really?” he said, sounding incredulous. “You’ve got, I’d say, six good-sized fish—”
“More,” his wife said.
“You’ve got maybe a dozen fish in that stretch of water right in front of you.”
“I know,” I replied, trying to sound pleasant.
“That’s why I’m fishing here. But so far they’re not interested.”
“” the, his tone seemed to say. A man to be able to catch a trout with a dozen to choose from.
