Play It Back From The Beginning

I was first introduced to fly fishing, balsa bugs and how to fish them in a small countryside pond among the green, rolling hills of Lafayette County, MO.
It was on one of those Fall “football” afternoons in the heartland (Fall ‘96). Blue skies, & mild temps were a reminder that Fall was in the air. My friend & classmate Jerod Kirk & I had caught a mess of crappie near the sunken log halfway down the bank on the north side of the pond. Ultralight spinning rods, minnows, and bobbers. Every once in a while, we’d switch over to a grub and a crappie nugget (berkley product). Placed tactfully near the cover that a sunken log provides, the vulnerable minnow is a crappies’ favorite meal. Largemouths to a few pounds were also in abundance taken on the live bait setup & a topwater lure from Rebel- the Pop-R. An iconic bait like that should be capitalized in our American English. Jerod would spend time in the summers at his Grandpa’s right on the Lake Of The Ozarks and was very skilled with the lure on a baitcasting setup. We’ll get to the POP-R later. (nearly three decades of content to share between then & now).
Catch & release was our practice as young 15 yo kids. We were too lazy to fillet them out & or the landowner didn’t give us permission to harvest. Those details are a little cloudy, but we had a fun afternoon on the Fall bite in the countryside surrounding Odessa, Missouri.
The Goodloes were very gracious in granting access to two young kids that dared to knock & ask. Jerod’s Mom, Kristy, dropped us off in her red camaro & told us she’d be back around 4. Picture the chaos that is two overexcited, awkward, fifteen-year-old kids trying to successfully take out tackle boxes, rods, and lunches from the backseat of a new-body-style (at the time) Camaro. Looking back, Kristy & Donnie were very kind & cool to drive us all over the surrounding Odessa area-supporting our obsession with crappie & bass fishing. They always had Aerosmith, ELO, Pink Floyd, or Todd Rundgren with the tunes, so they were cool in my book. Thank you, Kristy & Donnie!
Kristy picked us up later after we had a fish-filled early afternoon. “Bass thumb” was now a thing for me. Bass thumb is developed over time as you catch one after another, after another, and from the act of removing the hook & landing them by the mouth. Over time, their harmless small teeth can act like sandpaper on your skin. The vibe was high as we headed south on OO highway to the Hanaway pond.
She cautiously pulled into another dirt driveway a few minutes down the road at the Hanaway home. A well-manicured, landscaped yard and modest country home with a slice of heaven just off to the north of the house. The Hanaway Pond would become a learning ground, a place to be free, and an escape from the boredom of living in the city.
A much-taller-than-me man had a cigar in his mouth near the west, shallow end of the pond. Stubble from manicured cattails though dead, were protruding from the water a foot or so. They too, knew that it was Fall. Their purpose now provided crappie, bluegill, and other sunfish with cover from ambush points. The man was focused and in his own thoughts, flipping a fly rod around deliberately focused on each motion. No movement or casting stroke he made was unnecessary. He stood there like an old heron for several minutes longer, picking off crappie…HIS crappie, at will.
Jerod was piecing his white river fly shop branded fly rod together as he greeted Dave and waved. Dave didn’t say a word. “What’s this?“I asked interrupting Jerod’s focus. “This is a fly rod” “Dave and I catch trout on them down at Bennet Spring,” he replied aligning the tip section with the butt. “Who’s Dave?” (being totally unaware of the situation…as 15 yr old kids can be.)
“This is Dave’s pond. Dave Hanaway. He’s fishing over there. Look, stay cool, and we’ll go meet him.” Jerod said. “Dave fishes a lamiglass rod and an Orvis reel…ya, real nice combo for Bennett.” “Just be cool. Got your stuff?”
We walked along the beautiful grass for thirty yards or so to the end, where Dave was fishing. He ldr’d (long-distance release) another one as we set our gear down on the bank. Dave & Jerod talked about fishing for a few mins. I remained my shy, quiet self watching the water and occasionally enjoying the aroma of Dave’s cigar. Dave’s hand dwarfed mine as we were introduced. “You come over anytime,” he said to us as he casted out once more into the edge of the shallows. Presumably, he had a mcginty wet fly tied on the end of his line as he was also a trout fisherman, and the fly has crossover.
Dave didn’t say much to me that afternoon. I immediately saw that he liked his silence & peace while fishing. Jerod & I were just the opposite in being very loud & obnoxious when together. I always thought that that was the strangest thing. How Mr. Hanaway could catch a fish and not be hootin’ and hollerin’ and squealing on the bank. Instead, he was expressionless on the outside, calm, and disconnected from us. Not in a negative way because he was still responsive to us and our split shot needs. However, he could easily slip into the trance of casting a fly rod and the magic that occurs when the conditions are right. Like a wizard, he must have caught & released the entire school of slabs. All beautiful, white crappie.
Jerod was fishing an indicator (bobber) and a yellow & black micro marabou jig-also a common trout/panfish fly in the Ozarks. Nothing. A few lookers came out of their homes to look at his jig undulating up & down as a leech does. No takers. The water was extremely clear and maybe 1/2 acre in size. Small to some standards but large enough to support a healthy panfish/largemouth bass/catfish population.
“Got him”, Dave suddenly & confidently yelled out as we both looked over. “SNAP!” and it ended nearly as quickly as it began. “SHHHHHHHIIIIIT! Oooooooh that sucks, Dave.” Jerod said, knowing what had just happened. The Kirk kids were allowed to curse in their home-which was also kinda cool to me as a 15 yo Mormon kid. Jerod chuckled in his unforgettable high-pitched laugh. For those who are new to fly fishing, yes, a male-dominated pecking order does exist among some groups of fishermen. Jerod was the self-admitted “FNG” in their group of fishermen meaning the new guy at the bottom of the order. The f____ ing new guy”. The fng was belly laughing at one of the more senior, tenured members of the casual group. This couldn’t be good.
Dave shrugged it off & also chuckled as he reeled in his line, taking another puff of tobacco. Hardly a reaction. “Yep, you boys come over anytime,” he repeated as he made his way up onto the bank from under the waterline. Dave had just fooled one of the more giant bass in the pond into taking his fly. The behemoth snapped his lighter, panfish-sized tippet with ease.
The sun was dropping lower in the sky as Jerod was re-rigging his setup to a small popping bug…or a balsa bug. Standing proudly in the last rays of light almost yelling, “Pick me! Pick me!” cattails provided cover on the East bank of the pond. Surely insects of the large & flying variety would be available to the finned pond dwellers. Missouri is full of critters.
Line off the reel. Feed out the tip. Pick up. Stop at two ‘o clock with the rod near the ear & send the plastic-coated floating fly line to ten ‘o clock. Easier said than done. “Plooop,” gurgled the balsa bug as it came out of the water. Jerod did the ‘ol pick up & put down with twenty feet of fly line. Like a game of 8 ball or chess, he was setting up his approach first. A flick of the arm translates into energy traveling down the rod and out to his fly line. A perfect loop was created. The balsa bug turned over and landed right along the far edge of the cattails with a thump.THAT was a roll cast!!!
The tiny wooden frog imitation left ripples on the surface as the sun dipped noticeably lower. Any bass or bluegill in that corner pocket would have sensed it. We waited a few moments longer before Jerod began his retrieve. The motion of the green & yellow hackles out the butt of the faux frog caused a kicking motion…or the appearance of one. Pure magic. Jerod retrieved the balsa creation much like he did the Pop-R. One. One-two. One-two-three. Pause. One. *Kersploosh* and Jerod’s bug disappeared. My brain processed this fairly quickly. That wasn’t a beaver & no one threw a tire iron into the pond. THAT WAS A BASS and Jerod was connected to the 2lb pond pickle. With a tight line, Jerod took ground in the struggle. The fish also attempted to take ground and head-shake the fake frog out of his jaw. His head came out of the water as the rudder (tail fin) continued forward, almost skipping like a large stone across the water. The bass swam right into Jerod’s grip. “Hell yea!” he yelled as the medium-sized fish was lipped.
Connecting with nature that day and many more days in the farm ponds of West Central Missouri were a highlight of my childhood. I look back on them w/a smile.
27 yrs later, it all comes together why Chief Deputy Hanaway liked his peace & quiet. As a Deputy Sheriff, he was in and around chaos all day, every day. His pond was a quiet space where he could turn off the shit show and reset. I thank him for providing a young, passionate fisherman the same.