I was sitting at my fly-tying desk whip, finishing the head of a red and white bucktail tandem streamer and daydreaming about the soon-to-arrive trolling season when the phone rang. It was just past nine o’clock on a late April evening, and as my wife answered the phone, I suddenly got one of those fingernails-on-the-blackboard feelings that it was for me. When she presented me with the portable phone a few seconds later, her look and the simple words, “It’s for you” spoke volumes.

Her demeanor and curt sentence actually said, “It’s one of your strange outdoor buddies again, with some hair-brain idea or weird venture that’s either going to cost money or get you in a mess. Probably both!” I resented the implication. She was probably right, but that was beside the point. In this case I should have heeded her ESP, thrown the phone in a desk drawer, put out the guard dog, locked all the doors, turned off the lights, and hidden in the closet until morning. But then hindsight is always clearer – also always too late – so I put the phone to my ear and said, “Howdy.”

This was the start of my indoctrination into a new sport by some guys who used to be friends and fishing buddies. These fellows decided that it was high time I was indoctrinated into a unique style of spring angling called smelt dipping. Considering my age, I guess their timing was about right since any semi-sane adult could only stand such a trip about once every 25 or 30 years. Any style of fishing that allows a guy to use a large dip net to catch a limit of fish has just got to have a down side.

There are certain guidelines that must be rightly observed to become a member in “good standing” of the local smelt netting clan. In retrospect, there was very little standing done by any of us on the outing and the only time I even heard the word “good” was when someone suggested it was time to go home.

The initiation

Plans are never pre-arranged. A friend gets a hush-hush tip that the smelt are running at this out-of-the-way secret brook. You’ve never heard of the informant who passed on the tip, but the spring urge to go fishing for anything is so great it’s convenient to forget that the only ones who really have inside info on smelt runs are the smelt, and they’re not talking.

Word of the smelt runs is quickly passed from one unsuspecting soul to another, and it’s up to the first man in a group to alert the rest of the fishing fools who are his friends and fishing pals-for the time being anyway.

Invitations to these gala affairs are issued during a 30-second phone call at an inopportune time. Those having been invited before will vouch that any time is inconvenient, but once you’ve said “Howdy,” it’s too late! The words you’re likely to hear just before the phone is slammed in your ear are, “They’re runnin’ thick up North, Git yer gear t’gether, we’ll pick y’up in thuty minits.” The caller then hangs up quickly under the pretense of calling others, but the real reason is to prevent anyone from saying no. I made excuses to a dead line for three minutes before I realized I was all alone and I’d better get up and start packing.

As I tore about from room to room, leaving every light on and banging doors in search of warm clothes, hip boots and gear, I yelled trip plans to my wife. She in turn used several of the colorful phrases I’d just growled into the phone to express her enthusiasm for my packing progress in general and the trip in particular. I appreciated her spirited help moving my gear to the entryway, and the first rainy day we have, I’ll patch up where the flashlight and boots hit.

Fifteen minutes after the phone call, screeching brakes and a blaring horn announced the arrival of a club cab pickup with four men inside and a rear box mounded with waders, nets, lights, coolers and other sundry items. Hopping to the truck on one foot while trying to get my other boot on, I added my equipment to the pile and fought my way into the crowded cab of a truck already in reverse. It makes sense, if you’re going after small silver fish. Why not travel like packed sardines?

Getting there

Smelting excursions almost always take place in the evening because that’s generally when the peak runs occur. And since we get to use a huge net, why should a sportsman have the advantage of daylight too? After all, someone might actually see the ankle-high blowdowns, hidden gullies and perhaps even stay upright and dry, or heaven forbid, get a few fish.

Between the driver, navigator and a set of scribbled directions taken over the phone, the 45-minute drive took only an hour and a half. Once we finally got on the right woods road, we drove right to the obscured path leading to the secret secluded brook. The half dozen pickups parked along the road were a dead giveaway. Untangling ourselves from the truck, standing upright and restoring feeling to our limbs took 10 minutes. Another 20 were eaten up by the enjoyable task of donning hip boots or chest waders and sorting out gear by starlight and flashlight.

We lost two netters before ever leaving the truck. In the rush to pack, one guy grabbed his wife’s size 6 waders rather than his own size 11s. Another hastily grabbed a salmon net from his dark cellar, with mesh large enough for a two-pound trout to slip through, rather than his smelt net. These two would have to man the coolers as the dippers filled them with smelt. Positive thinking is essential.

The jaunt to the stream was a real treat. A half-mile march in waders is tough enough without lugging coolers, lanterns and nets with 6- to 8- foot long handles. Mud, standing puddles of water, and snow in combination with shin-barking blow downs, toe-stubbing tree roots, rocks that roll when stepped on and the occasional fir bow across the lips, kept us alert and verbally colorful.

Prime netting water on the 10- foot-wide brook was about a 50-yard long stretch, just enough room for about 10 of the 25 netters trying to fish. In late night cold, men aren’t interested in discussing sharing or alternating turns, only eminent domain. Spotting a small opening among the crowd, our leader jumped right into the water and flailed his way to midstream. From the shrill yelps and his attempts to walk on water it was apparent that the patch in the crotch of his waders was faulty and the water was still extremely frigid.

Once he finally reached shore, mumbling curses between chattering teeth, our buddy took off at a fast pace back to the truck to change clothes. A wrong turn halfway back allowed him to visit a swamp, a swale, a very large brush pile and one very unhappy moose. Upon finally reaching the road, his half-hour side trip cost a hat, one glove, a ripped net, another hole in his waders and about three years of his life. A fair trade for a good night’s exercise, we figured.

The fishing

Two of us ended up joining the water bound sideshow. Within 10 minutes of taking my spot, a few smelt began traveling and I was poked, prodded, clothes-lined and goosed no less than 20 times by nearby netters frantically wielding their weapons. Every once in a while my buddy or I would manage to actually snare a few smelt and transfer them to a shoreline cooler.

The high point of the evening’s excitement occurred when the guy next to me caught a glimpse of movement in his headlamp shining on the brook and made a fast dip. Feeling the weight in the net, he yelled to his buddy to open the fish box for a load of smelt and swung the net and dumped it into the cooler. Imagine his friend’s surprise when upon close inspection of the box, instead of fish, a very irate muskrat came clamoring out past his face. I’ve seen people net rocks, suckers, driftwood, salmon, hats, gloves and even flashlights, but that’s the first fur bearer!

When one sport limited out and vacated a prime run and two nearby anglers squared off in a duel using net handles to slash, stab and parry, we packed up and headed for the truck. I hadn’t had so much fun since I dated the collegiate boxing champ’s girlfriend at University and he found out about it.

By the time we were almost home, my clothes were nearly dry, my body temperature was up a few degrees below normal, and my teeth had stopped chattering enough so I could finally talk. Each of us was on the mend enough to agree that all-in-all we had fared pretty well. As a matter of fact, we might even try our luck on another smelt run sometime. In fact-I’m not doing anything tomorrow night and if any of you readers are interested, and I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a real secluded brook. Stay by the phone tonight, I’ll call.

A serious note

Although the smelt dipping outing you’ve just read may have one or two exaggerations (my wife is far more patient than I truly deserve) most of it has really happened on one trip or another. Nonetheless, I wouldn’t have missed one outing and can’t wait for the next. Dipping smelt during the spring thaw is an old Maine tradition, and although brooks open to netting are fewer and smelt runs smaller, every outdoorsman should try it at least once.

Every once in awhile it’s possible to get into a truly heavy daytime run, like the one in the accompanying photos. It’s mesmerizing to watch thousands of smelt parade along the shoreline within three feet of where you’re standing. Watching one of nature’s wild migrations becomes more entertaining than catching fish.

Check your law book, ask questions at the local sporting goods store or talk to a fisheries biologist about waters open to smelt dipping in your area. Runs should be taking place throughout the next few weeks. Call a friend and give smelt dipping a try, it’s a hoot.