The three H’s of summer – hazy, hot, humid – had been prevalent all week and the fishing had been nothing much to talk about. Low, warm water put a damper on the enthusiasm of the local fish to enjoin an angler in a bit of diversionary tug of war – a mighty bleak outlook for both to say the least.

Nevertheless, I was itching to get out, cast a line and see if anything could be enticed from beneath the waters of the Merrimack.

I waited until just before day’s end figuring there might be a break in the heat and humidity before setting out on my little quest. Clouds were building up off to the west, dark and ominous with the occasional rumble of thunder to catch my attention.

Undeterred I loaded up the truck with my gear, grabbed a rain jacket (just in case the rumbles weren’t false) and set off bouncing down a short dirt two track to gain access to my destination. The threat of a little rain didn’t turn me off, I was a man on a mission.

A short hike brought me to a section of the Merrimack I seldom fished. Somehow that night I felt myself drawn to try my luck along the ledge filled back water and cool shaded runs that pass beneath the old railroad bridge. Rundown and appearing abandoned, the bridge was still used on occasion to bring freight cars into the Manchester area. I figured if there was anyplace that fish might congregate to avoid the sun’s unrelenting rays it could’ve been this shaded area tucked away under the bridge. My heart kicked up a beat or two in anticipation.

As I rigged up and made ready for my first cast I looked about me at the litter strewn here and there, the beer party slobs had been here many times before I appeared tonight. If it wasn’t for the detritus discarded all around this spot it would be quite scenic and give very little clue that you were so near to the largest city. Enough of the contemplation about slob behavior, it was time to concentrate on trying to catch some fish. Ready to go, I slowly approached the river’s edge and contemplated where the first cast would be placed.

An hour later my arm was beginning to tire as cast after cast had proved fruitless with the exception of small sunfish chasing my offering back to shore out of curiosity.

My casting had taken me all up and down the shoreline and various lures had certainly been exposed to each pool and riffle that I encountered in my back and forth coverage. The sun was really dipping low in the western horizon yet the fish were still not in a cooperative mood despite my earnest efforts to seduce them into striking. The least they could’ve done was give me a little tug to let me know that they were in there but alas no.

In the beginning I had planned my evening’s strategy around the railroad bridge as a fall back last resort if all else failed. Time to use the master plan. As I moved into the shadowed cover of the bridge the first thing I noticed was the quiet of this spot, it seemed to absorb any outside noise by virtue of it’s rusty steel bulk.

The second thing I noticed was the short – lived silence suddenly penetrated by the whining of mosquitoes that discovered my presence in their area of the riverside. Protected by bug spray I was undaunted by their stymied attacks and made my first cast into the darkened water.

A couple of dozen casts and still not even a slight tug on my line. Frustration began to surface beneath the placid calm of my facial expression – had all the fish left town to hang out further south in Nashua? A couple more futile casts into likely looking spots and still no response from the fish beneath the promising water. Bats now began to filter out of the recesses of the bridge understructure and zig zag through the air as the growing gloom began to engulf the underside of the railroad bridge. Time for a few more casts and then home to a late supper and reflections on what was missing in my many efforts at this hopeful spot.

Last cast – out and into the descending darkness went my lure. I heard it plop seductively into the water and as I made one turn of the reel handle there was a massive splash and my line stopped right there. A strong tug from out there and then my drag started to sing as line played out – I was hooked to a fish of impressive size.

I leaned back into the rod and raised the tip to get some leverage and direct the fish away from a tangle of driftwood roots I knew was down-river from where I stood. My adversary on the other end of the line had other ideas though and I soon felt the resistance of something far larger than the culprit I think I had hooked.

A strong pull confirmed my fear that I was now fast to a hidden object out there in the darkness. One more yank and my line snapped and I brought back emptiness. A loud ker-splash answered my silent curse and the keeper of the secrets beneath the bridge had outwitted another angler.

Another night – another time, my friend – I shall return.

Gordon Lewis can be reached at sports@nashuatelegraph.com.

Newsletter