Slow, Dark, Large Shapes...Mostly Hidden

Yesterday was the fifth or sixth time I've visited the Institute Pond this year.

The pond holds a large population of fat, hand-sized pumpkinseeds (a particularly colorful form of sunfish, with iridescent orange bellies splashed with blue and green), and a healthy population of smallmouth bass that can be taken sight fishing with a fly rod. But my main reason for returning there -- again and again -- is the grass carp.

These grow to 36" and on a good day they'll snarf a dry fly. They're not exactly exciting fighters -- stolid is the adjective that comes to mind -- but there's something compelling about catching a 25 lbs. fish on light fly tackle: I once snapped my rod fighting one. As much as I like to believe size doesn't matter, it does here.

So far this year I'd caught little more than a hint of the carp. On my second visit, a few weeks ago, one rolled in the shallow water, and I glimpsed it's giant dorsal fin and scales for an instant before it disappeared into the gloomy depths of the pond. Other than that one moment, not a hint.

Until yesterday.

At first, it seemed the same. Plenty of sunfish and bass could be seen cruising around, and I amused myself throwing a weighted streamer into the little pods of bass as they passed, attracting a few strikes, and landing one.

Then the wind died, the riffled surface of the pond became glassy, and a high cloud moved off, so that penetrating, direct sunlight cut through the surface glare. Immediately, a series of dark shapes could be seen cruising a couple of feet below the surface in the center of the pond. Cruising is the operant word. Cruising slowly.

Carp are social animals. They school. And they communicate. Spook one carp, and you spook them all (or at least most). They're very shy: line shy (when feeding on the surface they'll never swim under your floating fly line) and motion shy (run along the bank to try to get in a cast, and you might as well be flashing lights for them to move away...even if they're 75 feet away). God knows what they're doing when they cruise like that, but they're not feeding. Once in a while one will roll on another and move off quickly. Then back again slowly, to resume the schooling.

Of course, even knowing that cruising carp won't be caught doesn't keep one from working to put a cast over them. The pond is T shaped. Each stroke of the T is about two casts across, 3 in the centre, so in theory you could cover most of the pond. In practice, all of the top stroke, and much of the left, underside of the T has trees and brush along the edge, so it's tough to cast more than 10 or 15 feet from there. There's brush in other spots as well, so I'm lucky to cover half the pond.

One carp started cruising along the surface. You could see its massive dorsal fin and tail sticking out of the water, just to left of center in the T, the least accessible part of the entire pond. It seemed to be a dance of dominance to the other carp, or perhaps a mating ritual. Then, again, the grass carp are supposed to be sterilized (do sterile fish spawn?). In any event, I couldn't get closer than about two casts away from the surface cruising carp for any place where I could actually launch a long cast. So it was tantalizing, and frustrating, yet reassuring that here they were.

Of course, I kept moving (slowly) trying to see if I could get closer. A giant blue heron was stalking the pond's perimeter (first time I'd ever seen one right there). I must have spooked him a half dozen times. He'd fly off when I approached within 25 feet or so, and land at another spot along the perimeter. He'd spook all the sunfish and the bass as he flew over them Though I was so focused on the carp, I didn't care.

Ultimately, I couldn't get near the surface fish. I managed two or three casts over small schools of carp as they cruised below the surface. One seemed to shift direction towards my fly, briefly, sending a surge of expectation through me, but after the briefest moment of hesitation (or did I imagine it?), shifted back to cruising.

I never did see a carp actually feeding. You can catch them when they're "clooping", taking leaves and grass from the surface. Then feeding is obvious: rhythmically their giant mouths emerge every few feet to take in food. Throw a bushy green dry fly, on a long leader, 15 feet in front of a clooping carp (any closer and you'll spook him) and you might be rewarded with a take.

But today, no such luck. No clooping. No takes. No fish.

Just the satisfaction of knowing they're still here.