August 13 2007, Fletcher’s Cove, Potomac River, Washington, D.C.
“Definitely my dad!” answers 13-year-old Margaret Ward to my question about her favorite fishing partner. With blonde hair, pink cheeks, and blue eyes, she’s a bright complement to this stretch of the Potomac River that landscapes behind her here at Washington D.C.’s only fishing boathouse. She’s been fishing here all her life.
Today the river is blue and clear beneath a hot sun and cool breeze. The far shore – the Virginia side – goes straight up with foliage in multi-greens. The river moves along with currents from the upstream falls, and hosts generous populations of smallmouths and largemouths and catfish and especially spring-run anadromous shad and stripers.
Margaret is here with her father, 52-year-old Dan Ward, who works here and began doing so as a teenager. “Why do I like fishing?” he repeats my question. “I don’t know – it’s a combination of the mystery of it and the natural environment.” Dan gestures with his hands, rocks gently back and forth on his sneakers. “I’m what I call a social fisherman. The whole competitive thing is fine, but not what I like.” He turns and looks out at the river. “The fun is in the simplicity.”
Fletcher’s is a D.C. mainstay that originated in the 1800s and that has a history of famous visitors and famous fish tales as long as the one that got away. Today is my first visit and I am genuinely surprised that this natural oasis – without any view of buildings or monuments or politics – exists.
“I love to come here and read,” offers Margaret, “because it is so relaxing.” She reads a lot of animal books, and is now reading a fantasy series about talking with animals.
My fishing venture here is in one of the rowboats – handmade, heavy, sturdy, wooden boats that cost over $3,000 each and that rent for $20 per day. It is roomy and stable and glides surprisingly easy to my strokes with the oars. I head to the far side of the river, and once there I drop anchor and throw a Senko into steep shadows. Sharp bites greet every cast, but nothing hangs on. Must be small ones.
“This year was incredible for shad,” Dan told me. “Even people who wouldn’t normally catch fish were catching them. And for a brief period you could catch 50, 60 whites a day.” Whites are American shad – bigger and stronger than the more numerous Hickory shad.
But this is August and the shad are gone and I’m after bass. I switch to a Rat-L-Trap – first chartreuse and then brown – but no bites. Then a little crankbait that looks like a minnow. No bites. Back to the Senko – lots of bites, but no hookups. The bites are not from bluegill; these are more savage than those of bluegill. Bluegill will sort of peck and twitch; these are more akin to attacks.
“I just like to go out there and have fun,” Margaret told me, with worm-baited rod in hand. “When you catch them and then reel them in it’s a lot of fun. I really don’t know how to explain.” At Fletcher’s I watched as she and her dad dropped red-and-white-bobbered worms among bluegill. Margaret knew how to watch the line and lift the bluegill out of the water at just the right moment.
I see only one other boat on the water. The Chain Bridge is upstream as far as I can see, and the Key Bridge is downstream even farther. I am certain that those are little smallmouths that are hitting the Senko. I have seen photos of the huge smallmouths – five pounds and bigger – that come regularly out of this water. And it’s deeper here than you’d think – 30 feet average, much deeper holes.
I switch to a Roboworm with a small jig head. A bite or two, no takers. Then I bite off half of the Roboworm and rehook it on the jighead into what looks like a small minnow, and on the first cast I catch a little smallmouth. He’s green and sleek and energetic.
Earlier I asked Dan about his work at Fletcher’s Cove. He does just about everything including helping customers, ordering fishing supplies for the little store, and cleaning. During the colder months is the annual maintenance on these wonderful wooden boats. Each is pulled from the water, cleaned, scrubbed (algae), scraped, and painted with primer and topcoat. Also an occasional carpentry repair is needed. This careful attention and maintenance contribute greatly to the aesthetic pleasure of each of these boats.
My boat’s anchor is as authentic as the boat: a rectangular rock with a rope. Anyone who has ever used a rock for an anchor knows there is an art to tying the rock with a knot that won’t come off. Whoever tied these anchors should write the book.
The Roboworm continues to produce little smallmouths, but no large ones. I try other lures – a huge grub, a creature bait, a bit-in-half Senko – but no takers. I watch the other boat in the distance – also a Fletcher’s rowboat with anglers – and see that they are casting silvery lures. But I don’t see any fish.
“Every kind you can possibly imagine,” was Dan’s description of the customer base. “Rivers seem to attract everyone. We get people who can barely afford to pay for worms and people who can afford anything and who compare this to their recent trip to Paraguay or somewhere. And we’ve had many presidents here. President Carter jogged here on a regular basis and would stop and chat.”
I wish I had all day to spend on this section of the Potomac but I don’t. I row back into Fletcher’s Cove, tie the boat, and talk again to Dan. He says that nobody has been catching much of anything right now, and that it’s an accomplishment that I caught some fish. (He knows just what to say!)
I ask Margaret if she has a favorite day of fishing. She thinks awhile, twirls her cap, then turns her head and points upstream. “A while ago my dad and I went walking along the path and fished off the rocks and caught a lot of big fish.” She smiles gently.
I look up that way, and sure enough, there is a path. Next time . . .
“Definitely my dad!” answers 13-year-old Margaret Ward to my question about her favorite fishing partner. With blonde hair, pink cheeks, and blue eyes, she’s a bright complement to this stretch of the Potomac River that landscapes behind her here at Washington D.C.’s only fishing boathouse. She’s been fishing here all her life.
Today the river is blue and clear beneath a hot sun and cool breeze. The far shore – the Virginia side – goes straight up with foliage in multi-greens. The river moves along with currents from the upstream falls, and hosts generous populations of smallmouths and largemouths and catfish and especially spring-run anadromous shad and stripers.
Margaret is here with her father, 52-year-old Dan Ward, who works here and began doing so as a teenager. “Why do I like fishing?” he repeats my question. “I don’t know – it’s a combination of the mystery of it and the natural environment.” Dan gestures with his hands, rocks gently back and forth on his sneakers. “I’m what I call a social fisherman. The whole competitive thing is fine, but not what I like.” He turns and looks out at the river. “The fun is in the simplicity.”Fletcher’s is a D.C. mainstay that originated in the 1800s and that has a history of famous visitors and famous fish tales as long as the one that got away. Today is my first visit and I am genuinely surprised that this natural oasis – without any view of buildings or monuments or politics – exists.
“I love to come here and read,” offers Margaret, “because it is so relaxing.” She reads a lot of animal books, and is now reading a fantasy series about talking with animals.
My fishing venture here is in one of the rowboats – handmade, heavy, sturdy, wooden boats that cost over $3,000 each and that rent for $20 per day. It is roomy and stable and glides surprisingly easy to my strokes with the oars. I head to the far side of the river, and once there I drop anchor and throw a Senko into steep shadows. Sharp bites greet every cast, but nothing hangs on. Must be small ones.
“This year was incredible for shad,” Dan told me. “Even people who wouldn’t normally catch fish were catching them. And for a brief period you could catch 50, 60 whites a day.” Whites are American shad – bigger and stronger than the more numerous Hickory shad.
But this is August and the shad are gone and I’m after bass. I switch to a Rat-L-Trap – first chartreuse and then brown – but no bites. Then a little crankbait that looks like a minnow. No bites. Back to the Senko – lots of bites, but no hookups. The bites are not from bluegill; these are more savage than those of bluegill. Bluegill will sort of peck and twitch; these are more akin to attacks.
“I just like to go out there and have fun,” Margaret told me, with worm-baited rod in hand. “When you catch them and then reel them in it’s a lot of fun. I really don’t know how to explain.” At Fletcher’s I watched as she and her dad dropped red-and-white-bobbered worms among bluegill. Margaret knew how to watch the line and lift the bluegill out of the water at just the right moment.
I see only one other boat on the water. The Chain Bridge is upstream as far as I can see, and the Key Bridge is downstream even farther. I am certain that those are little smallmouths that are hitting the Senko. I have seen photos of the huge smallmouths – five pounds and bigger – that come regularly out of this water. And it’s deeper here than you’d think – 30 feet average, much deeper holes.
I switch to a Roboworm with a small jig head. A bite or two, no takers. Then I bite off half of the Roboworm and rehook it on the jighead into what looks like a small minnow, and on the first cast I catch a little smallmouth. He’s green and sleek and energetic.
Earlier I asked Dan about his work at Fletcher’s Cove. He does just about everything including helping customers, ordering fishing supplies for the little store, and cleaning. During the colder months is the annual maintenance on these wonderful wooden boats. Each is pulled from the water, cleaned, scrubbed (algae), scraped, and painted with primer and topcoat. Also an occasional carpentry repair is needed. This careful attention and maintenance contribute greatly to the aesthetic pleasure of each of these boats.
My boat’s anchor is as authentic as the boat: a rectangular rock with a rope. Anyone who has ever used a rock for an anchor knows there is an art to tying the rock with a knot that won’t come off. Whoever tied these anchors should write the book.
The Roboworm continues to produce little smallmouths, but no large ones. I try other lures – a huge grub, a creature bait, a bit-in-half Senko – but no takers. I watch the other boat in the distance – also a Fletcher’s rowboat with anglers – and see that they are casting silvery lures. But I don’t see any fish.
“Every kind you can possibly imagine,” was Dan’s description of the customer base. “Rivers seem to attract everyone. We get people who can barely afford to pay for worms and people who can afford anything and who compare this to their recent trip to Paraguay or somewhere. And we’ve had many presidents here. President Carter jogged here on a regular basis and would stop and chat.”
I wish I had all day to spend on this section of the Potomac but I don’t. I row back into Fletcher’s Cove, tie the boat, and talk again to Dan. He says that nobody has been catching much of anything right now, and that it’s an accomplishment that I caught some fish. (He knows just what to say!)
I ask Margaret if she has a favorite day of fishing. She thinks awhile, twirls her cap, then turns her head and points upstream. “A while ago my dad and I went walking along the path and fished off the rocks and caught a lot of big fish.” She smiles gently.
I look up that way, and sure enough, there is a path. Next time . . .
Photo: Dan and Margaret Ward at Fletcher's
