Last spring, I posted a story about my first nymphing success at a local, Southern Maine river (see article). Since then, I have continued to work on my nymphing tactics around the state, and have had some decent luck. I might even go as far as to say that I’m alright at it. True or not, I have really come to appreciate the challenge and simplicity of dead-drift nymph fishing. Simply stated, the angler is merely casting their fly upstream and letting it drift into a fish’s mouth. But recognizing the take while nymphing is where things get a little grey. When dry fly or streamer fishing, it is relatively easy to know when the fish takes your fly; you either literally see the trout eat the dry fly, or you feel a tug as you’re stripping in your streamer. So how do you know when your nymph has been taken?John Gierach’s short story ‘Zen and the Art of Nymph-Fishing’ in the book Trout Bum, is a great analysis of the technique, and I recommend everyone read it, if you haven’t already. In the story, he writes, “The strike to a deep, dead drifted nymph is signaled, if at all, by a very slight bump, jiggle, twitch, jerk, hesitation, wiggle (or whatever else you want to call it) in the floating part of the line or leader and/or by an equally slight movement, flash or shadow on the bottom.” Well said, Mr. Gierach. I think the key phrase there, and the part of it that makes recognizing the take so difficult, is the “if at all” part, and I sometimes find myself thinking of Gierach’s words when I am nymphing.So, there I was, again dead drifting nymphs at the river. It was a lazy Sunday and I had some guests arriving later in the afternoon, so I was hoping to fish only for a short time. The water was pretty low and the deep runs that existed the prior weekend were slow and much smaller. Nonetheless, I found some nice looking ones and began. On the third or fourth hole, I saw the bump / jiggle / twitch / jerk / hesitation / wiggle and set the hook. Fish on, but only for a split second; no solid hookup. I cursed as I knew that might be my only shot at a fish for the day. I worked my way around the river, drifting various nymphs through various holes, with no luck. It was getting late, so I started to work my way back downstream, toward the car, when I came to the hole where I had had the hit earlier. Cast after cast, I let my nymph drift through the riffle and into the slower, deeper water. No luck. I watched one cast drift through the hole and past me, and then I turned my head upstream to aim where I would put my next cast. I lifted my rod to cast and suddenly, somehow, there was a fish on. Startled, I realized what was happening, got my bearings and played the brown trout into my net. I chuckled as I held the fish and released him, perhaps just as surprised the fish was. I thanked Poseidon, called it a day and went home with a grin on my face. So after all that talk and thought about waiting and watching for the “strike,” mine came completely unnoticed; the fish caught almost on accident. I say ‘almost’ because I was fishing, right? Maybe not, but that’s another discussion.