A WALK IN TIME
It’s a small mountain stream maybe fifteen to twenty feet wide on the average with small plunge pools and slow flowing runs except immediately after a substantial rain storm. You wouldn’t want to try wet wading in the early spring nor late fall unless you plan on literally “cooling your heels.” Another more unpleasant way to test the waters is to underestimate the slickness of seemingly every bedrock surface in the stream.
It’s probably best fished with a seven foot 3 wt. as the local inhabitants are considered monstrous when in the ten inch range. Overhanging foliage and brushy banks also best accommodate an easy roll cast rather than a typical full blown 10:00 to 2:00 overhead fling. One may also utilize a longer eight and a half foot rod but that would pretty much limit you to underhanded flips.
Foot traffic in the more remote sections of the stream has usually been very limited if past visitations are any indicator of the averages in this regard.
It was therefore an unexpected surprise and a mite startling to hear a nearby voice inquire as to how the fishing was going compared to the catching.
I turned to glimpse an unkempt apparition approaching from behind, trailing specter-like clouds of a very pungent pipe mixture. It was slightly familiar but camouflaged by the sweetness of streamside blooming rhododendrons.
His grey-black hair hung over the collar of a faded patched-elbow denim shirt. Any remaining strands were topped by a frayed straw hat that best described as weatherworn wasn’t even close. At the bottom of his knee holed bib overalls a scruffy pair of clodhoppers rested.
An outfit that appeared to be a cross between a cut bamboo switch and a canebrake bramble was clenched in his pipe free hand. To it was fastened about a nine foot long piece of mono tipped with an unrecognizable bundle of something. Upon query he explained that he always fished with his own homemade trout fooler. Further conversation revealed the “trout fooler” to be constructed of a chicken feather from his farm, a little red thread from his wife’s sewing basket and some dark goat hair when he could get it.
He casually glanced at my $650.00 boo rod and reel combo and opined that all a feller really needed, especially on this stream, was a little common sense and a few home grown snippets of this and that to catch a mess for the fry pan.
At my request he agreed to let me observe his techniques or as he put it he’d be happy to show me how to “fool them trouts.”
With an imperceptible flick of the wrist, his chicken feather fly settled at the tail end of the pool hardly creating a dimple on the water. Three short feet into a drag free drift it disappeared with a splash. He gently lifted the switch and a nine inch glossy rainbow was deposited onto the bank.
Reaching into the taller grass behind him he brought up a previously unseen old willow creel. Pulling up a goodly handful of the tall grass, he dipped it into the cool stream and placed it into the bottom of the creel. On top of the grass was lain the suppertime trout meal and then another watery handful of grass on top would keep the trout fresh and skillet ready.
He said only one or two more that size would be all he and the missus would need for a goodly meal and nothing tasted better then a fresh fried plate with some biscuits or corn bread.
Stating that he’d leave me to try my luck upstream, as he had come from below the place we were at, he slowly disappeared into the overgrown brush behind me from whence he had come.
I assumed he’d be entering the stream below me to fill his creel for that supper he seemed to relish but the thirty yard view downstream remained empty except for a lone Monarch butterfly gathering the sweet nectar from a pink blossom. Continuing upstream I was fortunate to bring to hand a few rainbows and one burnt ochre brown.
Time to go as the sun slipped lower, the shadows deepened quickly and the thick foliage betrayed its presence once more.
I didn’t remember passing any farmstead’s along the way into the small valley leading to or from the stream. Maybe the stranger’s farm was around a bend or through a cut just off the roadway but those options too escaped any remembrance. Oh well - no matter. It was a pleasant day and an enjoyable conversation with the “trout fooler” after all.
Reaching the main highway at the end of the valley road it seemed like a good idea to stop at the little country store and treat myself to a cool drink and maybe even a delicious looking freshly baked brownie from its counter container.
The little lady behind the counter asked if I needed anything else and the answer was no.
Halfway through the screen door I turned back and said maybe there was something she could tell me.
I recalled to her the circumstances of my meeting with the elderly gentleman on the stream and asked if she knew where his farm might be located.
For a long moment she said nothing and lifted her eyes to some faraway place that I wasn’t privy to but which she saw clearly.
With a slight quiver to her words she said that there used to be a family farm many years ago about a mile below where I met the old man. In fact, she noted, he fished that stream almost daily.
She furthered stated that my description of him left no doubt that he was her beloved grandfather and he had passed away some thirty five years past.
Richard A. (Dick) Taylor
aka Grn Mt Man