Readers Cast

PRIDE GOES BEFORE THE FALL (II)

Neil M Travis - March 1, 2010
part 1 is found here

As darkness fell he held his tippet up to the fading light and tied on yet another fly. Out in the darkening stream the big trout continued to rise, and as he placed another fly perfectly in the drift line of the largest riser it floated downstream unmolested.

“Damn,” he said. “What do this trout want?” He picked up his cast and slammed it down in frustration on the head of the closest riser. Seemingly unperturbed by his show of temper the trout continued to rise.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered to himself as he reeled in his line. Realizing that he had forgotten his flash light back in his vehicle he needed to hurry before it became too dark to see.

Walking back to his vehicle he stumbled and fell in a mud hole nearly breaking his fly rod, was startled when a cow suddenly materialized out of the gathering gloom, and tore his waders as he slipped over the fence next to his car. Standing next to his car shaken from his encounter with the cow and covered with mud from his fall he recalled the old man’s words, “I doubt you will catch much. Unless you know how to fool em most guys don’t catch much here.” It seemed that he could hear him laughing somewhere out there in the dark.

Not one to be humiliated he began planning his return even as he stripped off his torn waders. He would be back and he would show that old man that he could fool those trout.

He spent a fitful night tossing and turning as rising trout splashed through his dreams casting distain on his best flies and perfect presentations. Waking with a start he glanced at the clock on his bedside table, 2 P.M. He fell back on his pillow staring up at the ceiling, but soon he was casting again to those trout that continued to rise without the slightest inclination to take his best offering. As the sun broke over the eastern horizon he sat staring into a cup of black coffee through blood-shot eyes from the lack of sleep.

“Damn those trout,” he muttered, ‘and damn that old man too?”

Like a man possessed he spent the day checking and rechecking his tackle. He spent a couple hours down at the local park casting on the lagoon, he checked his fly boxes, tied some flies, repaired his waders, and made certain that his flashlight was in his vest. Every so often he glanced at his watch and long before the sun even began to dip toward the western skyline he had his gear loaded up and he was on his way to his rendezvous with destiny confident that tonight those trout would meet their match.

Parking his car next to the fence where he had parked the day before he quickly began to assemble his gear, double checking to make certain that his flashlight was in his vest and that he had an extra set of batteries. Within minutes he was carefully easing through the fence and heading for the river. In a few minutes he was on the banks of the pool where he had been the night before. Strange he thought, but it seemed much farther last night in the dark. He settled down on the bank next to a small tree to wait for the sun to fall away to the horizon and the trout to begin to rise again.

The late afternoon sun was warm, the constant murmuring of the stream and the low buzz of the insects in the meadow was like a lullaby. His head nodded and after a few attempts to resist he dozed off. The sun drifted lower and lower and twilight slowly settled over the valley.

The cool of the evening began to push out the warmth of the day and suddenly he awoke with a start. At first he thought he was still at home dreaming but then he realized that the trout that were rising across the pool were the real thing. Stumbling to his feet he glanced furtively toward the retreating sun and then at his watch. It would be dark in less than a half hour. Damn!

Half way down the pool one of the larger fish was steadily rising just like the night before. With clock-like rhythm he rose slowly never deviating from the right to the left. He stood on the bank watching the rings slowly dissipate in the gathering darkness, and uncharacteristically he found his hands shaking as he watched.

“Perhaps,” he said speaking to no one in particular, “if I move downstream I can cross the stream and come up directly downstream from him.” That way, he reasoned, he could drop his fly in the exact drift line thus eliminating even the remotest chance that minute drag was acting on his fly as it floated over the feeding trout.

Although the stream was not very wide it was deceptively deep. The previous day he had limited his wading to a few shallow places but it should be easy to cross down near the tail of the pool. Quickly he walked downstream a short distance and entered the water. A few steps from the bank the water was already creeping toward the top of his waders. Holding up his vest to avoid soaking his fly boxes he took another step toward the far bank. Unexpectedly his feet began to slip! With arms flailing he fought to maintain his balance, but the bentonite clay was as slick as a greased doorknob. Not unlike the Titanic he tipped up, and with a splash he went under.

Moments later after much splashing, and not without considerable effort he finally struck solid gravel and stood upright thoroughly soaked to the skin. Water rain out of his vest, his waders, which had filled with water since he had forgotten his wader belt, bulged around his legs as he slowly shuffled to shore. Flopping on the bank like a beached whale he removed his vest, unhooked his wader suspenders and pushed them down to let the water out. He was totally soaked and rapidly getting cold. A light breeze began to rustle the grass increasing his discomfort.

Quickly pulling up his waders he reaching into his vest to retrieve his flashlight, but like everything else it was saturated and refused to light. He unscrewed the top and poured out the water, but still it refused to light. The new batteries were in a plastic bag so they were still dry. His fingers were cold and when he attempted to put the top back on the light he dropped it and the bulb assembly popped out and disappeared in the grass. Damn!

As he made his way cautiously back toward his car in the dark he could hear the sound of trout rising, and it seemed that he could hear that old man laughing.

It was several weeks before he thought about going back again. His dip in the cold water brought on a cold, and apparently somewhere along the stream he must have encountered some poison ivy. With the rash under control and the cold reduced to a few sniffles he decided that it was time to return to face his nemesis for another round.

The late summer sun was dipping toward the horizon as he pulled into the spot next to the fence, but there was already a vehicle parked in this spot. He immediately recognized it as the old pickup truck that the old man was driving.

“Probably checking his cows,” he thought.

In a few minutes he was walking across the field toward the stream, but as he approached the pool he saw the old man. He was standing just off the bank at the head of the pool and obviously he was fishing. Obviously the old man did not know that he was there so he moved a bit closer so that he could watch the fun. The old man was wearing hip boots, and it did not appear that he was wearing a vest.

“This should be a good laugh,” he thought. “What chance did this old duffer have against those trout?”

As he watched the old man began to cast, and his casting style was anything but pretty with a wide open loop that slowly unfolded and hit with a visible splash on the far side of the stream. He was just about ready to laugh out loud when the old man lifted his rod and on the far side of the stream a trout boiled and bolted downstream.

The high pitched whine of the old man’s reel and the considerable bow in his rod was evidence enough that this was one of the large fish that he had seen rising in the pool. The old man let the fish run and in the course of the next few minutes he skillfully played the big fish, carefully countering each run by letting him pit his strength against the bend of the rod. After a couple short runs and a head shaking jump the old man lead the exhausted trout into the shallow water next to the bank. Unable to resist a closer look at the fish he hurried over to the old man.

The large trout was resting on its side in the shallow water its gills slowly opening and closing as the old man bent over him. It was a huge brown trout with a massive hooked jaw and the red and brown spots on his side were the size of quarters. Even without a tape measurement it was obvious that this big brown was nearly 30 inches long.

“Nice fish,” he said.

The old man looked up and smiled. “Yep, he sure is a nice one, but I’ve caught bigger ones.” He reached down and slipped the big wet fly from the corner of his jaw, and with a gently nudge of his foot the big trout righted himself and disappeared back into the depths of the pool.

“It’s really easy if you know how,” he said as he watched the big trout swim away.

Without further comment the old man turned back to the stream and began stripping off line.

Walking back dejectedly toward his vehicle he forgot about the mud hole.

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