Fishing for Shad at Fletcher's Boathouse

For many summers, I had been fishing along the banks of the Potomac near Fletcher's Boat House in Washington and catching nothing. I was content to cast at the river with a leisurely flip of the wrist, my only reward solitude and relief from stress. Any fisherman will understand.

But everything changed one day some 10 years ago, when by accident I fell upon that breath of a moment when that small muddy bank becomes one of the great fishing spots in America.

I say "fell upon" it because it was an accident of timing. I happened down to the muddy banks near Fletcher's early one spring morning, toward the end of March. The river was coming alive, herring popping eagerly to the surface, birds splashing, diving and feasting.

I was too dumb, too inexperienced in the ways of the river to know what that meant.

Perched on a rock, inhaling the crisp air, I began my usual comforting routine of casual casting, a mere flip of the wrist, not worrying much about distance or direction, for what difference would it make anyway?

I had long ago forgotten the thrill of a fish hitting my lure and long ago ceased to care. So when it happened, it took me by surprise. Surely, I thought, a branch was caught on my line.

But the silvery shad leapt end over end out of the water as I retrieved the line. It jumped at least two, maybe three feet in the air, glistening in the sun, as if posing with me for one of those tourist postcards.

A freak catch. Surely, Mr. Shad, you have the wrong man. I do not catch fish that jump end over end. I brought it in, released it, cast again, this time aiming for the same spot and again, that flash of silver in the sun, another catch. I cast again, and again, and again. Two in a row. Then three. Then four. I stayed until dark and came back again the next morning.

By next morning, word was out, it seemed, across the country. The banks were lined with men and boys, speaking many different tongues, jostling for position, sliding in the mud, perched precariously on the slippery and dangerous rocks. Over that next week, I would come to learn why men get so desperate when the shad arrive at Fletcher's.

First, you don't know when or if they're going to arrive and, if so, whether you'll be there when they do. You can arrive early in the morning to find nothing, only to be taunted by the guy next to you about how "they was really bitin' last night. Shoulda been here. Gotta come in the evening," then to be told in the evening, that "they was really bitin' in the morning. Gotta come in the morning."

The day of the shad is unpredictable. Water too warm -- no shad. Water too cold -- no shad. Water too fast -- no shad. Water too muddy -- no shad.

You can try to call Fletcher's in advance every day and ask "are they catchin' shad bitin" -- you must say it just that way. But if they are catchin', by the time you get there, you'll find no room to cast. So you must be there before they're bitin'. You must be one of the "they" who are "catchin' " when others call.

It is impossible to leave whether they're bitin' or not bitin', because just when you are about to leave, one bites on someone else's line, say a hundred yards away, and you turn around and start casting once more, saying all the while, "Just three more casts. Just three more."

As I said, everything changed that day. I started to care. I started to care whether or not I caught. Don't let it happen to you.

-- Fred Barbash

[Fletcher's Boat House is on the Potomac River and the C&O Canal National Historical Park, between Chain and Key bridges. http://www.fletchersboathouse.com 202-244-0461.]