Ready, willing and able

Trout Fishing the Deerfield River with Ace Guide Joe Benson

 “Meet Joe at 9am, Cold River Package Store.” When I asked Tom Harrison of Harrison Anglers guide service in northwestern Massachusetts on Thursday about a plan for our Saturday trip to trout fish the Deerfield River, he said he would text me Friday night. Fishing the Deerfield is subject to weather, recent rains, CFS rates and local knowledge. No legit guide guarantees fish and we expected the same but still, we put our trust and walllets in the Harrison brothers to show us their way after they spoke at a winter Trout Unlimited meeting. Through her nearly 75 mile run, the hardest working river, as she is often called, suffers ten dams blocking fish passage, while providing electricity and adjustable swift waters. My friend Todd Manglass and I hired the Harrison’s to float a section north and west of Shelburne Falls for possibly a trifecta of trout or, more significantly, a good day floating a pretty river. There’s something wonderfully old school about meeting in a liquor store parking lot. Sometimes fishing trips begin with a little trust.

Morning arrived predictably in classic late May style: cloudy, breezy and rainy. After breakfast at the Foxtown Diner, where fare is excellent and timing relaxed, we rolled into the mudded gravel parking lot where Joe Benson was hopping into his waders. I tried to gauge the day by asking about his New York truck plates: turns out he’s an upstate N.Y. native, much like my fishing partner. After they chatted about Chatham, Hudson Valley and fishing the Housatonic, Joe asked where I was from. “From a place where we don’t really like being around too many people from New York,” I said. Ice broken, Joe said he wasn’t a Yankees fan, we called it even, shook hands and made a plan to catch rainbows, brookies and possibly a wild brown trout from his drift boat.

Thomas & Thomas and Sage

Swivelling in to my bow seat, I came clean that I was a life long striper guy, that nymphing was new to me, and that I would listen, learn and not whine. Joe seemed to appreciate an early disclaimer. Being honest is always a good play with someone you are about to trust but seasoned guides like Joe Benson peer clear through sports who flex to stake their claim of high fishing skills before any boots are wet. Experienced guides also know how to make a medicore fishing day seem like the best day ever. Joe clearly knew how to handle a boat and new sports with strong ease. There is a difference between ease and swagger. We knew quickly Joe was an ace.

Trout Fishing Often Begins With A Little Trust

 I had fished the Deerfield few times, mostly with a nine foot five weight, a box of mop flies and mixed success. On my first visit, as a guest of a local Trout Unlimited chapter president, we waded into the shadow of the Bear Swamp dam near the Vermont border. That was wild brown trout water, the presence of which the chapter was working tirelessly to prove existed. Mark hooked a strong fish, I helped with his net. While I haven’t seen him over the last few years, I’m certain he has not and will not forgive me for missing that gorgeous, patterned brown. In the last moments of sunset, she slid between rocks and disappeared, much like our brief friendship.

Performance over style

“You will only need to cast twice as long as my oars,” Joe instructed. Near Zoar Road, he set us up with 10′ 2″ Thomas&Thomas rods with Sage 2540 reels. He skillfully rows a faded robins egg AIRE inflatable three seater raft worn on the edges from countless hours dragging long oars over a floor just loose enough so stone flies can crawl off the river, seeking shelter in her seams. I took stock of his Simms wader boots and failed laces.

A stoweaway and great indicator

“How old do you think these are?” he asked. Just four months old, it was a shame they looked four years old but a subtle quick lace fix told me Joe Benson was more focused on catching fish than showing off pricey gear, especially when it failed.  I took the bow, comfortable in Grundens waders, just in case we needed to bail or walk. Todd sat in the stern.

Stern Todd caught and released all day

“Set downstream always,” Joe advised, as he rigged up Stern Todd’s 4x tippet with a pink wiggly worm, very similar to Fred Bridge’s worm pattern, only in slinky rubber. After a few misdirected commands to lift or mend, we became Bow Todd and Stern Todd. Casting indicators was new to me; it took some time to overcome well worn muscle memory earned over decades hauling back on striped bass, always with my right arm. “Down stream” has no meaning off the rocks or coercing angry bass into a tight port side kayak cockpit. Joe set me up with a tan midge creature of his own creation. He had a box full in subtle shades for changing conditions and trout getting conditioned to seeing them. Out of respect, I took no photos of his creatures. Tied 18″ or so below a white indicator float, it proved to ba a winner within just a few minutes at his first fishy seam. Joe always knew our destination, he saw edges and riffles, he called hazelnut from chocolate in brief runs of dark waters because he and trout knew the difference.

“Ok gentlemen, you will be casting to the right,” Joe directed as we turned to see a different bank choking on Japanese knotweed. Infiltrating acres of this invasive weed have clearly suffocated native plants; they are thriving from river’s edge to guardrails above. Long stretches of Route 2 in the Pioneer Valley remarkably retain an old country feeling. Simply handsome farm houses, rusty Chevy truck remnants, running or not, small towns with small stores, ample places to pull over and fish, hay fields and a river running alongside.  You can leave your drift boat with high end Sitka rain coat draped over a middle seat on a bank by a road while you retrieve your truck and trailer with a half hour commute. That doesn’t happen in many places. The valley and river sustain the feeling of a ski town, with more trucks than cars, more mountain bikes than trucks, and more places to get small batch beer than breakfast.

Joe Benson: total ace guide

“Set! Left! Set! left!” Joe advised, instructed, grumbled and occasionally barked, begging me to set downstream. I struggled. Joe Benson was quick to correct my foundational mistakes, with patience, to his credit. For one fish, he saw the indicator move before I did so he reached to push my wrist left, to the downstream angle, to the way he had instructed all the times before this gesture. Message received. As we approached a pair of prominent and obvious boulders shouldering a three foot drop to a chilly, swirling pool, I looked back at Joe. Considering my canoeing and rafting experience on some big waters, like the Allagash and Hells Canyon, I knew it wasn’t a game changer, more something to be circumvented. Considering his hundreds of floats down the Deerfield and his time expensed instructing me in day one fly casting skills, I suspect he took some enjoyment from nose diving the bow smack between them. I puckered a bit but subconscioulsy cheered him. I likely would have done the same.

The float was lazy but purposeful

“Don’t you dry hand my trout!” Through a first few hours, Stern Todd landed several beautiful rainbows up to 14″, maybe more. We measured none and took only a few photos. Keeping trout out of water is risky business both for fish and sports who anger guides by posing with pretty fish for too long. Joe corrected me with clear irritation when I reached for a healthy netted brown. Rookie move. The respect good guides have for those fish who keep them balanced, happy and employed, likely in that order, is admirable. “Keep ’em wet,” is a common call to protect fish of all varieties and really is a critical, simple practice.

 We stopped for lunch downstream of the Route 8A bridge, but only after we hooked a dozen stockers from a pool at the feet of two spin fishermen. We are anglers all, but Joe certainly smirked as his sports caught and released until they tired while two guys in rubber waders chucked Panther Martins with irritation. Enjoying my newfound understanding of downstream hook sets and mending light line while anchored and happy, several rainbows fell for his tan creature midge. “Bow Todd is now called Clinic Todd,” Joe decreed, to my absolute pleasure. We shared Stern Todd’s sandwiches while Joe searched for river glass, all the while watching barn swallows and celebrating Baltimore Orioles. Guides such as Joe don’t just search for fish and count for bragging, they absorb all Nature has to offer, they cheer and coach and occasionally sigh with deep appreciation. Nature played many of her cards through the day, as rain mostly kept us in jackets then her sun warmed us to shirt sleeves only to dowse us with brisk showers delivered with stiff winds but then on the backside, skies laid low, lulling us into complaicancy before showering us with reminders of how fickle Pioneer Valley weather can be.

A pretty river all alongside a classic New England town

Shelburne’s Social Side

A day prior to trout fishing the Deerfield River with Joe, Todd and I walked the afternoon sleepy streets of Shelburne Falls. Known for her lovely Bridge of Flowers, simple downtown, trolly musuem, and excellent food, it’s the type of place you hope never changes. Some may point to Bill Cosby hiding in his large estate near the Deerfield but visiting Salmon Falls would be time better spent than peeping past Keep Out signs. Planted alongside the under construction trolley bridge are a scattering of restaurants, a brewpub and shops.  At first, Floodwaters Brewing Company seemed tight with long beards under long faces but as Breezy Jane and the Hurricanes contorted their guitars, violins and tight drum kit under low house lights and a player’s ten gallon hat confined to four gallons, the scene proved positive and welcoming. The whole space is just enough. After a brief wading reconnisance trip in the afternoon and unloading our gear in the simple fine Red Rose Motel, a few pours of Green Purse Pale Ale with Rye proved to us that the trip was already a success.

 “Ok, but it’s going to take a few minutes,” was the bartenders dry reply to a local’s ask for a pint of No Hard Borders Irish Stout. Life is good when you can trust your bartender. Through a small rectangular window, more tall than wide, green mountain mist passed us by as the band began trading uneasy licks. Not knowing how much time they had worked togther, it was clear they could flat out play. Two good folks danced around a small square of bar room floor, arm in arm. Stern Todd wondered what his next beer would be as I wondered how men get those newly fashionable hair buns to fit neatly under their hats. I loaned my glasses to a guy who needed mine to pay his tab. Two more Green Purses to support the cause and we headed for the West End Pub where seats are close enough to have a conversation with a fellow angler or traveller and we stayed long enough to eat and drink all we liked.  The locals of Shelburne Falls, the whole town really, apparently goes to bed early. Near enough to big roads to be convenient while far enough from colleges and noisy all night cities, Shelburne is a fortunate small town, with her classic New England main streets, pub fare and fine dining without the affectations of rolling around for a spotlight. We likely could have bellied up for two more solid pours of ale while still in waders and not attracted any attention. I wondered if locals just understood the benefts of ample sleep or if they baled early for some kick ass after hours parties tucked into the hills with banjos, flat picking and cold good beer.

Joe knew every Deerfield seam and riffle

After our river lunch and some manageable shallow rapids, we drifted for a few more hours, pausing to net and release a pretty brook trout, the completion of Stern Todd’s Deerfield Tri-Fecta. We cast through seams where Joe seemed disappointed there were no hits. That’s when he would dig in the oars and row up upstream so we might drift there again, then row back again to fish it again, until he was satisfied it was empty of rainbows and not just insufficient sport skills. Watching Joe Benson work upstream with more than a few hundred pounds of boat and men is more than impressive. “It’s daily alchemy, it’s magic,” Todd said later, when we were dry, sipping Gratitude Cryo IPAs at the Dirt Church Brewery tap room, where dirty, muddy, happy people secured mountain bikes to trucks before watering dogs and thirsts.

Stern Todd didn’t keep track, but over blue cheese olive martinis at the Blue Rock Restaurant, we agreed to a number no less than 40 trout caught and released. Some things in life need not be counted; new stories have more values than straight numbers. I asked a passing waitress if she knew Joe. Smiling, Jen Goodnow acknowledged that we fished with one of the best. “Any chance you were in waders in the Cold River Liquor Store parking lot earlier today, towing a drift boat trailer,” I asked. This part of the Pioneer Valley is lovely, water and beer are cold, brewery and drift boat seats are close, and the circle of guides is quite small. The Deerfield connects a community who relies on her for power, employment, tourism, fish and that comforting feeling that no matter what you are doing, a pretty river flows along, as she has done for a millenea before settlers of any color moved in. My final notebook entry, “Best day eva,” was a shorthand reminder of how we put our trust in a guide and how excellent the entire Joe Benson and Deerfield River adventure was.