When Cousin Herbert and I set out a couple of weeks ago to go brim fishin’, I knew I was off to school. Certain-sure I was going to be taught a lesson before the week was over. That man’s always teaching me something, whether it’s about boll-weevil control, rate –of-growth of loblolly pine, tobacco allotments, or, at his preference, where to find the next quail covey. His proficiency at pedagogy comes from three-score years of growth from farm boy to agriculturist, always in touch with the land. And that means everyday observation and an insatiable curiosity about woods, fields and waters and all of the things that grow on or in them. I never asked, and maybe he doesn’t know, how many acres of black loam farmland he and the other family members own or control in northeastern North Carolina. But he has learned and retained something from every acre of it.

It was a wet July when I drove east from Charlotte to be present for a gathering of the Jenkins-Benthall clan at the little Bertie County town of Aulander (not Orlando, bud!) The occasion was the ninety-fifth birthday of my last surviving aunt, a not unremarkable occasion since this nephew is nearly seventy. But they are long-lived in that family, the honoree’s mother having taken leave of her many progeny at the age of one hundred and four.

So I went down a day ahead, sneaking in from the back side of town to avoid Aunty’s surprise. Hey! If I’d driven into town any other way, she’d have seen me. Small town! I thought to gain a day’s sport on some of those tan –bark creeks that etch their way through bum and cypress and flow into the grand rivers of the coastal plain. Into the Meherrin, the Camden, the Pasquotank – or the mightiest of them all, the Chowan. The area is the piscatorial paradise that harbors platter-sized crappie – the natives call them specks or speckled perch – and brim with ear flaps as big as your thumbnail. Here is dog-days, I sought a break from the office, fully expecting slack fishing, but taking a plethora of tackle. It was, of course, all light stuff. The four-and-a-half-foot casting rod with the new mag reel, an ultra-light spinning rig, and, as always, the favorite flyrod – all went along. Only the last was to figure in the fun, Herbert figuring that the weird weather might have delayed some of the brim bedding.

The same flyrod, bought years go off a rack at some sporting goods store, has, with me on the end of it, caught Alaska salmon, grayling, char, and rainbows. It’s brought in strings of browns from Ontario, and even a couple of Miramichi grilse in its day. Eight feet and carrying number five or six line of various designs, it versatility suits me, although obviously it’s a bit much for mountain trout and sixteen-ounce brim. And it’s light enough not to wear you out in a full day’s exercise.

But this was to be a popping bug scenario, working out of a skiff coaxed along by the MinnKota, twenty feet out from the creek bank and offering a thousand hidey-holes among the stumps and cypress knees at the edge. An absolute piece of perfection for the fly-rodder who takes pride in being able to lay a bug or fly in a teacup under a Christmas tree. I’m not that adept, but I do love the challenge. And with reasonable wide water for false casting over open space, it was something I’d looked forward to. But my veteran rod and I got no respect at all from my host. Oh no, he didn’t criticize the casting technique, nor even badmouth the tackle.

First, he slyly reminded me that he and Lefty Kreh “had done a little mountain trout fishin’ last summer.” Then he pulled from its aluminum tube and the inner felt stocking a six-foot Orvis boron switch of a rod, casually remarking that it was a replacement for the graphite one, the tip of which had been broken by some guest who had closed a cooler top on it. My feet automatically retracted under the seat, disposing themselves from their comfortable resting place on top of the Igloo. I was intimidated!

I knew the coup d’etat was at hand when Herbert, watching me tie on, harrumphed. “Well,” I said brightly, “yellow’s always good for a starter.” “Humph,” goes Herbert. “It ain’t the color. You ain’t got no bugs.” Since I was sitting twenty miles from nowhere in a swamp creek, that was a helluva time to make that pronouncement. Besides, I had black, red, white, spider-legs, bicolor-tails – every known popper, old and new. Ignoring the gibe, this ole boy proceeded to flip one of my little jewels precisely between two roots that marked a black hole of promise. The leader rolled over properly, and my yellow “bee” settled softly on the surface. Nothing!

From the corner of my eye, I saw my host knot on a dun-colored bug with milk chocolate tail. It had hardly reached my twin roots before it was sucked under and the boron rod was quivering as it brought in a fat, black brim (okay, dammit, “bream,” if you insist). “This,” Herbert said laconically, “is about the only thing they’ll take on this creek.”

My stubbornness at presenting my rainbow of colors and patterns lasted for at least a couple of hours, during which I got out-fished at a ratio of about ten to one. I finally borrowed one of those strange and unique insects, putting pride in pocket, and from there the day went well. I had relearned my lesson: use what the natives use; they always know best. It was also gently pointed out to me that a careful angler hadnpicks his bugs and flies, checking the angle of the hook, the fullness of the tail-featherin’, the infinite difference in shades of color. Oh, that boy’s a popper-purist, all right. He, in his field puts Lee Wulff and the match-the-hatch boys in the shade.

The Chowan River as seen from the old Atlantic Coastline Railroad bridge inTunis in 1972. I later had the pleasure of developing the film in the back porch. Jasper "Wink" Manley and I caught a few perch at this spot one weekday evening. The Sunday afternoon my toe brought back a leech that I discovered in the shower while getting ready to go out for a date. -Marvin T.