Suburban Subversion

There are few joys to be found when living in a brand new subdivision. Instead of the organic home grown feel of an established neighborhood, one is left with the gnawing sense that a Disneyland Imagineer decided to design a neighborhood that would be glistening, new, and as inviting as Wonderbread. One of the upsides to the Development is that the builders know people like to live near water and so they are usually centered on a pond or have them scattered throughout the neighborhood.

In addition to the ponds, the builders are also keen to institute the extra-legal Homeowners Association and the rules that the Association enforces, usually everything from paint color, dog breeds allowed and, most important to me, if fishing is allowed in the ponds. Usually it isn’t, but that has never held me back. The key to good subdivision fishing is never let The Man keep you down. God didn’t grant you two legs and two arms solely to squander their use keeping grass at the prescribed height of 1-3/8 inches. Go out and subvert conformity with a 3 weight.

I usually start the day in the truck, cruising the side roads and thoroughfares of the suburbs looking for water. Retention ponds, creeks, drainage canals are my targets. I tend to pack light for these trips- fly box, water bottle, rod and reel. You may need to get out of Dodge with a quickness and running in waders and a vest is never easy or fast. Old running shoes that the dog has used for a teething ring are my preferred footwear. Most of these ponds have healthy bluegill populations and the occasional bucket mouth, so having box upon box of flies just isn’t necessary. This is pared down, ultra-light fishing with a handful of poppers, otherwise known as Alabama Dry Flies, wooly buggers and some streamers. Delicate tippets aren’t necessary and some level 10lb Stren works just fine, no matter what the purist may say.

Subdivision fishing is many things, but one thing it isn’t is wake up at 3 am type fishing. It’s a leisurely pursuit, best undertaken on a lazy Sunday after a few cups coffee and a nooner with the wife. I’ll usually rig up at home, keep the 4 piece in two sections for fast assembly and have a popper tied on before I get to the pond. I’ll pull up to the pond, take a pull from the traveler mug and reconnect the rod sections before heading down to the water’s edge.

As far as access goes, I wouldn’t trespass, heavens no. However, I feel no compunction about slipping through the backyard of an unoccupied home or using the easement from a playground to get down to the water. I like to take a nice amble because there is no rush and to scout out any crazies in their backyards. If a guy is cutting his grass with scissors, rest assured, he will call the cops if he sees you before you see him. Once the way is clear, I’ll walk the bank, looking for bluegills flashing in the tea stained water, or look for some fish attracting reeds that have grown up. If there are bluegills around, you will know it within about 5 casts because they are not shy and are voracious predators that their size belies.

I can think of few fish as fun as bluegill. Brookies are sublime, steelhead glorious and tarpon are sadistic in the beating they give, but no fish approaches pure joy as much as a bluegill. I challenge anyone to watch a sub-pound gill crash a popper and not smile, laugh or whoop. For the headhunter, a half hour of bluegill chasing on a pond will bring as many strikes as a day on a trout stream or a lifetime chasing steelhead on the ‘Chutes. Plus they are quite tasty grilled in foil with lemon, butter and rosemary.

In fact, catching gills can be so effortless at times, that true excitement comes from an HOA member chasing you off. Usually it begins with an SUV loaded with car seats parked on the road with a rather high-strung middle aged woman behind the wheel, watching you. Her name is invariably Victoria, Diane or Stephanie. She will proceed to dismount the Suburban or H2 like a Paladin of old, dressed in her uniform of Banana Republic khakis and black shirt. She will approach you with trepidation, as if you are the personification of a barbarian at the gate, one who dares violate the sanctified rules of the HOA. She will politely, yet firmly inform you that fishing isn’t allowed in this community, insurance liability and all, and she will kindly ask you to leave. I like to feign surprise, an “Oh, really? I had no idea” while leaning on the “No Fishing” sign. The assumption is then made that I am a poor illiterate and she begins to speak loudly and slowly so that I can understand. I then give a tip of the hat and walk up to the truck and start for the next pond.

The true fun is when her husband gets out of his BMW yelling and running at you. I can think of no better fountain of youth than running from an angry middle manager, because at that moment I am 14 and have been caught while pool hopping on a summer night. In an adrenaline filled, laughing glee I break like a whitetail for the vehicle and speed away, adrenaline pumping, laughing and grinning that an act so simple and innocent as fishing for bluegill on a pond made a responsible pillar of the community become completely unhinged.