Really.

"Are there really fish in this pond?"

I was very busy with my surgeon's knot, and struggling with the 3x tippet and the dimming light, I decided to start over and answer the nice lady's question.

"Well yes ma'am. Indeed, there are fish in here."

She was all sorts of disheveled. Teeth all gappy and what not. Anyway, I took her query seriously; for some reason I felt proud of the little pond in my front yard. Yup, we have bass, and crappie, and some bluegill. Although I haven't caught bluegill in some time; and the last crappie that I saw was back in April, sunning itself in over the warming mud, mere steps from one of Central Park's most traveled Upper West paths. I told her the long and short of the place, including my secret, at least I thought it was a secret until Edwin at Urban Angler talked to me about the same lazy, unspookable largemouth that loom inches from the shore. I was feeling chatty, I guess, but somehow I wasn't worried about burning my little spot.

Incredulous, and without much else to say, Gappy bid good day and off she went. I returned to my surgeon's knot. I cut some more tippet, the other had been too short.

Overlap the leader and tippet. Good. Alright, now push the line together and create a loop. Nice, now try to grab both with your left hand, almost...

"Is that a fly rod?"

"Eh, um, uh. Sure is."

I sounded like a diesel turning over. I started and stalled. Then my knot fell apart. I was officially exasperated.

I looked up, and took a deep breath. I tied my best to curb my attitude, but nearing minute 10 in my knotty battle, my patience had long begun to wane.

"Right. That's right, this is a fly rod. A 4 weight fly rod."

"Oh, that's great. You know, there's excellent fly fishing where I'm from."

"Oh yeah?" She was a kind-looking lady, aging gracefully in spite of her Marlboros. She had a really pretty dog, and it was most excited to be pet.

"Where are you from?" I asked. Not expecting her to say.

"Jackson."

She knew, that I knew, that she was not talking about Jackson, Mississippi.

"Really." Not the kind of "really" that one might say as a question - the rising "rEALLY?"

No, I said it as a statement. She knew that I knew. And, we had a little moment over that.

"God's country," and we understood that to be our goodbye.

She moseyed west, and I returned to round three with my surgeon's knot. Thinking about Jackson, freestone streams, big sky and clear, crisp mountain air, I managed to nail my surgeon's knot.

Jari showed up. After 30 minutes of fishing I had tried my go-to bugs with nothing to show for it. On top of a rock, I had a shot at the Central Park equivalent of bone fishing. I saw a crusing bass. Big for this pond - 4 lbs, maybe, swimming lazily, but with direction across the top of the murky, blown-out pond. I scrambled, and with just enough line off the spool I shot a cast on top of her nose.

Damn. Not even a wooly bugger right in her grill. It was exciting, but I really wanted the take. Damn.

We spent an hour throwing all sorts of differnt bugs to no avail. A first! I've never been skunked here, but perhaps the pond, filled with silt from the recent heavy rains, wasn't too fishy.

We moved on.

Through the park we walked north and east, our fly rods in tact.

We passed a guy, seated on a park bench. It was after I passed him that I realized that he was rolling a joint. No matter, by my next step he called us.

"Hey, you going fishin heeya?"

Neither of us wanted to stop, so we slowed to a sort of sidestep, tacitly engaging in a brief discussion while not committing to a coversation. We crept and responded.

"Ha, yeah. Not today, but we'll see at the next spot."

"You eat dem?"

"Na, no, no. We don't eat them," Jari answered.

We began to turn and walk, and I reiterated.

"We don't eat them. We just like to torture them with these bugs."

We continued along the path, meandering past the baseball fields and alongside the speeding, bespandexed cyclists. Jari told me stroies about cycling in the park. I told him it looks scary. Then, as if on cue, a fit, older gentleman screached a halt beside us.

"You guys going to the Meer?" He asked as if he knew something. This stranger knew what we wer up to, and he had something to share. His helmet and glasses couldn't contain his excitement. You could tell that he loved the fact that we were fly fishing up here.

We said yes, and that we had been at the other pond with no luck, only that I blew my one shot at a big fish.

He didn't like our idea. We learned that the Meer wasn't our best bet, and that if we really want to catch some big fish, we have to fish the Boat pond. Woolybuggers and a short 6 weight are the weapons of choice, but you have to go really early to beat the crowds, especially in the summer.

He sped off, and we continued. A little discouraged about fishing the bastard child of Central Park's ponds. We arrived, and the fishing was plenty slow.

But as the sun sank, we could see fish feeing near the surface. With all the gunk on the water I really couldn't tell what they were feeding on. And again we resorted to chucking and changing. I exhausted most of my options for distance, angle, and presentation with each fly, cutting and tying often to see what would work.

Finally, near dark, Jari hooked up with a micro bass. A persistent man approached and asked Jari if he could have the fish. He's a heck of a guy, I doubt I would have been so patient. Jari calmy explained why he could not give him the fish - that it would be bad for him, bad for the pond, and bad for the fish. Bad for everyone. I'm not sure if he acquiesed, but the man finally went on his way after watching the wee bass make for freedom.

I had one hit, a tiny bass, but I wasn't paying attention. I lost it.

We packed up at dark, and wrote text messages, carefully worded to explain our whereabouts and ETA. We made tentative plans for the Boat pond, but agreed that the evening had been a good one in spite of a poor showing. It's a refrain. A theme, of sorts. Even Jari's microbass means that we're something right.