The Master of Green Cabin Pool
By Neil M. Travis, Montana/Arizona
In those halcyon days before the world discovered trout
streams and fly rods, in those times mourned by many but
remembered by few there existed pools and runs whose
uncharted depths and wayward currents were regarded as
the personal property of a few anglers. Although they had
no deed, nor legally written paper which lesser mortals
require to provide proof of ownership, among their fellows
ownership of certain waters was recognized and honored.
Such was the situation that existed at Green Cabin Pool.
Often on my way upstream to water of my own choosing I
would stop to regard Green Cabin Pool and to glimpse the
master in his element. The pool lay below a grassy hill where
in early spring that eloquent ballerina of the air, the Woodcock,
would dance before his lady love before throwing himself into
the night sky on stubby brown twittering wings to trace his spiral
in the sky. Below the hill a cedar bog from whence sprang a small
spring where watercress grew thick, and toads and spring peepers
filled the night sky with their songs. Beyond was the river flowing
dark and deep against the far bank. Here the water ran against a
manicured lawn that flowed down like a carpet from the Green
Cabin perched on its banks. Now the river paused, and then
gathered itself together to flow through a deep run only to break
out in sparkling riffles where colorful brookies flashed at fluttering
caddis.
Securely lodged against the near bank of the pool was a log
lying parallel to the flow and from this natural bench the master
of the pool could be found setting in anticipation. Here, like a
judge at his bench he sat, his rod laying on the log at his side, a
pipe sticking from his mouth wreathing his head in smoke. In
rain or shine, even during those brief snow showers of early
spring, he could be found there occasionally accompanied by
a fellow angler whose good fortune it was to share his bench,
his company, and his pool.
As the sun approached the pine covered hills to the west long
shadows would creep across the pool, and shafts of golden
sunlight would illuminate the still pool giving the water an oiled
look, highlighting the subtle currents that mixed and shifted
across its expanse. Here and there in mid-current a splash or
a subtle dimple against the grassy bank marked the appearance
of one of the residents. In the shifting light of evening the residences
of Green Cabin Pool would begin their evening rise. From his seat
the master would judge the risers for he knew each one like a father
knows his children. Tonight they might be eagerly sucking in floating
duns or slashing at fluttering, skittering caddis. Perhaps gentle dimples
would mark the subtle take of a spinner or tiny terrestrial floating inert
on the surface of the stream. On some occasions no fish would show,
but the master would keep his vigil until the sun had gone to bed
beyond the hills, and then, rekindling his pipe, he would leave his
bench for home and hearth.
On those nights when the God of Anglers smiled on Green Cabin
Pool the master would take up his position midway down the
expanse, and pausing only to bend on a carefully selected fly he
would work each chosen riser, his long cane rod flexing easily
sending searching casts across the pool. Green Cabin Pool with
its deceptive currents, underwater snags, and slick glides did not
relinquish its treasures easily, but the master knew its moods and
currents well. Sometimes I would linger long enough to see his fly
disappear in a swirl of sparkling water, and hear his reel sing that
song that all fly fishers live to hear.
On those evenings when the chill of cool winds, misfortune or
other duties called me from the stream before the last ray of
light had fled from before the gathering dark I would stop on
the hill above the pool. From below in the darkening valley I
could hear the swish of his rod, hear the splash of a trout to
his fly, or see the glow from a match as he rekindled his pipe.
Sometimes from far off in the dark woods the sound of a
whippoorwill would reach my ears. Smiling, I would depart
for home.
Now that was long ago in days only recalled in memories of
old men like me. The pool and the river remain, but the master
is gone. Gone too are the big golden browns that fed along its
grassy banks, replaced I fear by chubs and miniature versions
of those trout of yesteryear. The grassy hill is gone as well
where woodcock danced. A road now runs there, and people
camp upon the once grassy expanse. Some say the master
moved away to streams where solitude still remains, and some
say he died and is now fishing those streams where you never
want for hatches or trout.
I too have moved away beyond the western hills in search
of singing reels and rising trout, but once before I moved
away I passed close to the stream and the pool. Misting
rain was drifting down from dull gray skies, and since it
was not far out of my way I drove down to the river
above the pool. Pausing on the hill I gazed down into
the valley where the pool and the river lay shrouded in
the mist. As I stood on the hill the mist parted for a
moment and in the hushed quiet of that summer evening
I thought I saw ----------, but no for surely he had been
gone for all those many years. But wait; was that a reel
I heard? The mist closed again over the pool as I stood
for a moment watching, and listening to the sound of
raindrops dripping off the pine boughs. The mist-shrouded
river was clothed in silence. Was that a tear on my cheek
or only the rain? I turned and walked back to my car in
silence. I've never been back. ~ Neil M. Travis, Montana/Arizona
From A Journal Archives
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