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The old man awoke from slumber, the early morning sun
piercing through the blinds to cut the darkness of the
room. He sat up and rubbed his eyes to ease the itch
of dehydration that a case of Leinie's had incurred the
previous evening. Bed springs poked up through the
mattress as he rolled over to find his slippers. They
were not there. Lucy must have taken them.
"Lucy, c'mere girl," he grumbled, sighing as he pulled
himself up and placed his feet on the cold tile floor
of his trailer. A distant click-click-click-click slowly
made its way to his door and a wheezing golden retriever
stared at him with a soggy slipper in her mouth, her old
brown eyes looking sorry and pitiful yet full of life after
her 14 years. The old man smiled, cursed himself for having
left the door open and ruffled through the pile of clothes
across the tiny room to pull out a moth-eaten old beige
sweater covered in bloodstains and burrs. Torn coveralls
and plaid wool socks finished his outfit as he scratched his
old girl behind the ears and pondered what to pick up for
breakfast, or if it was even needed at all for today was
the opener and nothing would be more satisfying and filling
than the first casts over the virgin water in the cool, damp
morning air.
Grabbing a worn vest, a few boxes of Chironomid and Baetis
patterns, his fishing watch, and a favorite Garrison and
Battenkill outfit his son had given him for Christmas the
year before the accident, the old man set out to the stream
alone. He glanced at his watch to check the time, knowing
full well it said 7:03, and smiled to himself. The time on
the watch had been there for the last dozen or so years that
he could remember, and likely longer than that. He left it
there because it marked the perfect time to get on the water
in spring, it marked when he could expect the evening hatch
of the tiny black caddis that the trout would be going crazy
for in a few weeks, and it was the perfect time of morning
for the Tricos of July and August. And it brought him fond
memories, as the watch had died after being dunked in the
Madison while helping his son land a massive Montana rainbow
while showing him how to cast so many years ago. He'd been
so proud as a father then, and swore to his son that he wouldn't
replace the watch until his son had children learning to cast
their own flies, and the watch could die again landing another
large trout. But that chance would never come, the accident
had made sure of that.
The old man shook off the painful memory as the old Ford rattled
its way down the winding dirt road to the river, sunlight just
beginning to penetrate the valley and cast colorful orange light
on the newly budded trees. "Today will be a pleasant day to fish,"
he thought, "but I will not be alone." Opting instead for his
own secret spot, he continued past the river where trucks were
already lining up and veered off on a backroad, headed out to
the pocket-water of the nearest tributary high above the river.
There, he reasoned, the brook trout would be eager and willing,
and stealth would not be as much a concern as it would be for
the others fishing the flat water in the valley below him.
The farmer and the old man had been friends since their school
days so trespassing was not a concern, and the old man parked
his truck next to the gate between the fields. He took care
not to ruin his friend's fields, now carefully plowed to break
the soil loose for planting if they hadn't been already. The
old gate creaked as it swung open and creaked no less as it was
closed behind him, and he made his way across the fields and
through the wood to where the first sign of the water would be
heard long before it was spotted. Indeed, the burbling pocket
water made plenty of noise as it cascaded over small falls and
through swift rocky channels into a few large, slow pools, the
dirty spring water washing with it the various nutrients found
streamside after a long winter.
A flitting image caught his eye and though his old eyes often
failed him, he knew a few of the Olives must be hatching. He
watched for more telltale signs, and soon enough a splashy ring
appeared on the near edge of the pool. Others followed and the
old man selected a favorite pattern that had rarely failed him,
a variation on Quigley's emerger, and knotted it to his 6X.
After watching a few more rises, he made his first easy casts
that settled the fly on the water as soft as could be. An eager
take soon disrupted the drift of the fly, and a spirited little
brook trout was brought to hand. Only a couple more followed
before the pool was spooked and the old man moved downstream to
the next. There the story was the same, and more brook trout
came eagerly to the imposter. The old man treated each as though
they were the last trout he would ever catch, painfully certain
to be sure that the hook came out easily and that only minimal
discomfort came to his fish. And with the same level of effort,
each beautiful little brookie splashed off, making the old man
smile as though he'd seen a miracle despite seeing this thousands
of times in his years.
The morning wore on and the sun drifted higher into the noon
hour and the valley was lit with the colors of spring: gray
bark, brown water, dirty white snow patches, the dull green
of the mayflies and the vivid orange-red bellies of the trout.
The old man was nearing the end of the stream and soon would
be facing the main river with its rainbows and browns. "A
rainbow would be good for the pan tonight," he said to no
one, turning his back to the small stream in front of him
that slowly grew in size as the sun warmed the remaining
snow in the woods. Soon the water would be too dirty to
fish, and far too high to wade safely, so the old man
abandoned the bugs and opted for a larger offering.
The six-weight Garrison easily threw his nymph deep into
the holes of the main river while he mended carefully to
let the fake stonefly drift even deeper, bouncing amongst
the rocks. Twice he hooked what he thought to be the
largest trout in the river, only to never feel a headshake
or a pull - it was real estate, terra firma, the bottom - and
consequently broke off his rig twice. But the third time
he set up, on the fourth drift through the far side of the
hole, his line stopped. Ready for another encounter with
something the local realtor would have been more interested
in, the old man pulled back. The line came tight. Then it
slowly turned downstream like a stick pulled from the bottom,
drifting along as dead weight in the water column, only to
suddenly accelerate as the old Battenkill screamed under
the trout's raw power in the current.
Twice the trout leapt, showing the old man its bright white
underbelly before sloshing back in the water with the dull
whoosh that only heavy fish make. Twice it ran, once nearly
taking all his line out before stopping at the head of a heavy
riffle, and twice it was nearly to hand before darting back
out into the current. The old man's years of experience had
shown him that patience and calmness were an angler's best
qualities, which combined with pressure from his six-weight
to bring the beast to hand. As it lay gasping for breath,
its pink stripe alight in the sun's afternoon rays, the old
man noticed a dark trail leading up under the trout's gill.
He felt a tinge of sadness as he realized this fish would
not live with its gills damaged this badly, not with half
of a side ripped by the large stone's hook during the hookset.
The old man removed the hook as gingerly as he'd ever done,
the mild sorrow making each move more careful out of respect
for the old rainbow. With the rod in one hand and the rainbow
in another, the old man went back to his truck as he was done
fishing this day. He glanced out of habit to see what time
it was; his watch said 7:03.
A handful of gray clouds covered the late afternoon sky as
the old man arrived home with his catch. The truck clattered
and clunked when the engine was shut off and the old man
cursed it for not being as young and new as it once was.
The interior of the trailer was cool, but not as cool as
the spring air surrounding it as the sun had warmed it in
his absence. He replaced the Garrison back in the corner
with his vest and hung his waders to dry over the one
rickety chair nearest the heater, all the while considering
the different recipes for trout he'd come to favor over the
years. He finally settled on a recipe handed to him by his
daughter-in-law, one he'd enjoyed many times before the
accident. While the grease in the heavy cast-iron pan
sizzled, he called Lucy over. She sat still while the
old man quietly scratched her behind the ears and sat
in the other chair in the tiny, dark kitchen. Something
caught her hair and was pulling against his sweater - a
few hairs had caught in the metal clasp of the watch. He
sat for a moment, reached for the watch and undid the clasp,
and set it on the table near the pepper shaker.
He scratched Lucy a few more times before looking up over
the sizzle of the frying pan to check the time.
It said 7:03. ~ Nathan Gubbins
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