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It could be any morning, but this happens to
be a Thursday morning, a cold dark 5:30am
Thursday morning. I hear whispers of sound
in the pre-dawn darkness from others that
are with me.
I shiver a little and reflect that I could
still be lying warm in my bed; perhaps with
one of my children curled up against me -
using me as their shield against the unease
of the night. The thought is fleeting however,
as I begin to suit up in my armor to face the
hoped for and anticipated battle of the day.
Long underwear, neoprene waders, felt soled boots,
wool shirts, jacket, fishing vest, polar fleece
gloves and finally I hold in my hands my good luck
helmet, the old felt hat. It is the survivor of
many a crusade, dented and crushed, water
stained - with a drop of blood sprinkled here
and there; some is mine and some belongs
to my quarry. As I tug it into place I feel
complete. All I need now is my fly rod and
I will be fully equipped for the rigors that loom
before me.
The pontoon boat sits at my feet. I feel it gently
tugging at its leash as the river uncoils past. It
has been a trusty steed carrying myself and equipment
over many a river mile with never a complaint; well
that right oarlock does squeak a little when it
gets wet, but it helps to set the tempo of our
stroke, almost as if we have our own walking drum.
A gray curtain of fog obscures any feature more
than a few feet away. I hear one of my companions
softly mutter a complaint; but I know from past
experience the morning sun will quickly burn
it away. But right now, even the energy of the
river as it flows on its way to the ocean is
muted by its heavy blanket.
There is a soft glow in the East, just enough to
give form to the men grouped around me. On this
day I happen to be our leader for I am the one
that knows this river best. On my mind is
mapped its curves and runs; it hidden dangers
that lie in wait for us. I have scouted this
river many a time and while I do not know
exactly where our quarry is, I know the likely
spots it might hide.
I feel a small smile form as I remember other
trips with some of these men - the time three
of us decided to take our annual bath
in 41 degree water trying to save a plastic bottle
with only 5 or 6 dollars worth of flies in it,
rowing as if death himself were after us, our
shoulders popping from the strain, to retrieve an oar
before it is lost downstream, an afternoon lunch on a sun baked
gravel bar as Eagles soared above our heads, the sharing of
stories about other rivers, other trips and other companions who
are no longer with us.
I shake my head to clear the almost dreams from it. I look at the
others as they stand waiting for the intangible signal, not
necessarily from me, but from the day herself that it is time to
start. I surreptitiously check out a couple of new
guys, just to make sure. This is definitely not a time to be ill
prepared.
I step into my pontoon boat and am away with barely a whisper
of sound. Soon we are strung out along the river in a loose line,
those of us that are in the lead slowly back stroking, giving the
others time to catch up. We form a ragged regatta heading for
the first run just down stream.
I lean into the sticks to get properly set up and then the current
does my work for me. With barely a stroke or two I am deposited
exactly where I wanted. I hide a small grin as I watch the others
labor mightily. I myself have struggled here. Perhaps I should
have been a little more forthcoming with the knowledge of that
hidden cross current. No, who knows, perhaps this will be the
basis of some of their remembrances shared with another
companion in another place.
"I remember the time old so and so didn't warn us about the
current and we where swept downstream about half a mile
before..."
Everyone finally gets to the right side of the river and we stalk
downstream on foot. As we go I recount the lay of the river bed
and a couple of bad spots to avoid. This particular run is long and
there will be ample room for all us to fish fresh water. I warn a
couple of the over eager ones not to wade too deep too fast and
remember to fish the soft water at the edges, you just might be
surprised.
I stand on the bank and sift through the countless bits of
information and lore learned from other trips and finally decide on
the pattern to use. I tie on a Silver Hilton and gently move to the
river. I can feel the soft caress of the water here at the edges
and know that this is a mistress who's touch is not so gentle just
a few feet further out. I almost loose conscious track of the
others as my focus narrows down to the task at hand. I short
cast with about 20 feet of line, performing an aerial mend before
my line hits the water. The sink tip does its job and I can feel the
fly swimming through the current. The swing is complete,
no surprises here, I have rarely had success on the
first cast of the day. I lengthen my cast and soon
the routine is set. Cast, mend, swing, retrieve,
step down.
My attention begins to wander with the sameness of the
sequence. I spot a deer, spying on me from the opposite bank,
and see some racoon tracks in the mud and sand at my feet. I
glance up and down the run watching the others. At this distance
you can't really tell the difference in their equipment. It is only by
watching very closely that you begin to notice the performance
difference in the high end rods and less expensive ones, or
perhaps it's not due to the rods at all and just an indication of
the casting ability of the more experienced anglers. The expense
of their gear more a reflection of personal desire than anything
else. It is easy though to tell the difference between those who
have pursued our quarry before and those who haven't. I will
have a few hints to share when we group up again.
Suddenly my whole being is riveted on my line, I detect the
slightest of pauses in the swimming of my fly. Not knowing
if it is the river bottom or if I have a hook up I pull
back on my rod and instantly feel the thrumming on my
line. In concert with the turn of my quarry and almost
without conscious thought my rod is lifted back and
high setting the hook deep.
I feel my heart quicken in my chest as battle is joined. Will my
equipment stand to the rigors of the engagement? Do I have the
experience to outwit the instinct of an opponent whose
ancestors have survived eons of struggle to return to these
waters? All these questions are lost in the fray that I
am involved in. I hear, over the screaming of my drag
another sound and realize it is my own voice shouting
in exhilaration of the experience. Using all my skill
I bring my opponent closer to the bank only to have him
bolt downstream in another surging run as soon as he
feels the gravel beneath his belly. Two more times he
valiantly tries to escape, but my 8wt. rod is to much
and eventually he is at my feet. I lean down and
gently remove my fly. Giving him support, I watch
as his strength returns. Just as my hands begin to
release him back to his world there is a bright flash,
someone has taken our picture. I turn and am somewhat
shocked to find most of my companions gathered
around me, sharing vicariously in my success. I step
to the bank feeling spent and satisfied. There are
shoulder slaps and arm clasps. Someone asks what I
am using, you know, what's the magic fly today? I grin
as I say, "It's a Silver Hilton. But you know
its not the fly, it's whether the god's are on
your side this time."
Soon it's time to move on downstream. Day light is wasting and
just around the bend is another good run.
That's why. ~ Wes, (flyfshfool)
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