PRIDE GOES BEFORE THE FALL
Everyone that knew him considered him an egotist but few would tell him so to his face. He was somewhat of an impressive man with a certain swagger and a commanding presence that generally silenced his critics. Insufferably opinionated on every subject it was when he went fly-fishing that his ego and total lack of tolerance of those that he viewed as somewhat lesser mortals was most prevalent.
It was true that his casting form was nearly flawless with tight loops slicing through the air with apparent effortless ease. His fly tying skills were second to none, and his knowledge of all manner of fish was truly encyclopedic, and if he had not been such an insufferable egotist he would have been a worthy companion. At any gathering he quickly made himself odious to everyone to the extent that he had no friends and always fished alone. Thus it was that he found himself alone driving down a single track dirt road searching for a stream that he had heard about quite by accident in a conversation that he had overheard in a small fly shop. The rubes that were relating the tale were obviously unaware of his eavesdropping, but their description of this particular stream was too tantalizing to pass up.
The directions that he overheard were rather vague but sufficient to provide him with a general idea of where he might look. The area was crisscrossed with innumerable dirt roads and after several fruitless hours of taking one dead end road after another without a sign of anything that looked like trout water he was about ready to give up when he topped a hill and saw, in the distance, a line of trees snaking sinuously along a lush valley. Pay dirt!
Descending quickly down into the valley he came upon a lovely stream running languidly through an avenue of trees and open meadows. There was a fence running along the road and black and white cows eyed him with vague interest as he pulled his vehicle into a wide spot next to the stream. He had not passed a residence in miles, and apart from the cows and the fence there was no other sign of human enterprise for miles around. Certainly no one would object to him wetting a line here.
In short order he had assembled his rod; a top quality bamboo stick custom made to his specifications, complete with a custom made reel, silk line, and hand-tied leader. Donning his waders and slipping on his vest he locked his vehicle and crossed the fence next to the stream. Since he had spent so much time finding the stream it was mid-afternoon with a hot summer sun beating down when he finally approached the water; certainly not the perfect time to find many of the resident trout looking for a meal. He planned to poke around exploring the water so that he would have be favorably positioned to make the most of the angling potential of the water when the heat of the day waned toward evening.
The stream was as beautiful as any water that he had ever seen. The water was gin clear flowing over beds of vivid green aquatic weeds interspersed with stretches of clean gravel. Barely 10 yards wide in most places it flowed across the valley in long sinuous curves alternatively flowing through open grass lands and then burrowing though a tunnel of trees. In places the banks were deeply undercut providing ample overhead cover for the large trout that he had heard about as he lurked behind the displays in that little fly shop. He discovered several deep pools that also held great promise, but his efforts under the relentless afternoon sun produced only a few small chubs and a couple small rainbows. Hot, sweaty but undaunted he returned to his vehicle to wait out the heat of the day.
The sun was toying with the tops of the distant hills when the sound of another vehicle awoke him from his afternoon nap. When he sat up he saw a beat-up old pickup truck parked behind him, and emerging from the cab was an equally weathered and disheveled individual. As the stranger stood looking quizzical at his vehicle he opened the door and stepped out.
“Howdy,’ said the weathered old man, “You lost or broke down? Don’t see many strangers in these parts.”
“No, I’m fine,” he replied, thinking to himself that it really was none of his business what he was doing here.
The old timer craned his neck and looked inside his vehicle. “Oh, looks like your one of those angler fellas. Well, you’re welcome to fish here but I doubt you will catch much. Unless you know how to fool em most guys don’t catch much here.”
Obviously, he thought to himself, this old timer doesn’t have the slightest idea who he was talking too, but he just nodded and quietly smiled to himself. He’d show that old duffer what a real fly-fisher could fool these trout.
“Well, I’ll take my chances,” he said.
“Suit yourself,” said the old man as he climbed back into his truck. In a few minutes he disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.
Donning his waders and vest he picked up his rod, crossed the fence and headed back to the stream. A cloud of midges hung over the grass in the meadow, and a few caddis were beginning to skip over the water as he approached the stream.
He walked briskly down to a large pool that he had scouted out earlier in the day. He was persuaded that this was where a large trout would likely make his appearance at dusk, and as he approached the head of the pool he could see the rings that marked the location where several trout were actively feeding. As he stood watching the rising fish he saw something that nearly took his breath away. Tight against the far bank the head of a monster trout slowly emerged in a classic head and tail rise. As the fish slowly turned down he could see that the distance from the exposed dorsal fin and the tip of the tail was at least a couple feet. In rapid succession several other large trout rose along the bank, each one a worth catch for any angler. With his characteristic bravado he selected a fly, tied it on his tippet, and moved into position.
[To be continued]