A carp’s smell is… distinctive. I’m in the minority that actually doesn’t mind it.
On the right day, that lingering aroma is weirdly earthy and sweet, like freshly cut grass or a sidewalk after rain. All in moderation though—the sentiment wears fast if you leave the net in your car overnight.
Carp were the first new fishery I “figured out” when I moved to Boston a year ago. As far as chasing local bites go, it’s not the hardest thing in the world. Their willing presence from spring to late fall make them like an old friend, a reliable backdrop to a new and often trying world of urban angling. When this long New England winter started to sputter and the odd warm day filled the lapses, I made my first visits to the muddy pits downtown.
I felt a sort of short-term nostalgia as I restarted the seasonal cycle. Moving to a city last spring after spending almost the first decade of my adult life close to wilder places was a big change for me. In those first few weeks there were certain discoveries in the new chaotic normal, signs that I wouldn’t completely lose myself in an unfamiliar setting. Hence the stretch on how carp slime out of a muddy canal in April takes me back.
This time around, early spring held some of the toughest fly fishing I’ve experienced in a long time, and reaffirmed that this sport still has an annoyingly tight hold on me. Every warm spell was a cue to fish hard, even when mounting negative conditions indicated otherwise, with predictably varying results. I took every weekend the temperatures mysteriously plummeted and the wind gusted to over thirty as a personal attack. I saw more skunkings in a few months than I did over my entire three years in the West, but couldn’t seem to stop going.
I’d been pampered, I know. Being sad that your fly fishing sucks kind of makes me feel like a trust fund kid experiencing adversity for the first time. The slow weeks that I knew were coming still just got to me more than I’d like to admit. That said, every odd half-frozen trout or pike I’d pick up was a kick to the glowing embers somewhere in my maniacal fishing brain. Good things were coming… they must be.
Starting my second year in the same place comes with the opportunity to build off a past season’s knowledge, start to anticipate, and improve. The first herring have arrived at the small culvert down the street—signs of life from a long-quiet sea. Solid spring rains have refueled local creeks, once again making it possible to catch native trout within a few miles of Boston. A few smallmouth have followed in my big pike streamers, making me itch to bring a six weight next time I float the nearby rivers. And when I leave the windows open for the now bearable cool night air, I can finally start to imagine myself far from the city on weekends, deep in the North Woods and its haunted tannin streams.
The first big thunderstorm came from the West last week. From my window I watched it come over Lexington, douse my apartment in Somerville, continue onto downtown, and wash into the bay at sunset. This had been a regular occurrence last summer, and a welcome show as I finished off my first few days in the city. Now I felt pangs of familiarity, and a deeper appreciation in still seeing the beauty in something you now recognize day to day. This is not wild, no. But for now, it’s home.
