David pulled the black Toyota Land Cruiser off the road and into the gravel parking lot at the edge of the field. Killing the engine, he grabbed the vest and the box from the seat behind him. He locked the car and put the keys in the gas tank. He looked around to see if anyone had seen his hiding spot, but only the cows across the road looked back. David removed the fly rod from the front windshield, lifting the wipers first so the reel didn’t scratch the glass. He started down the path through the woods.
“The most fun time to fish Anvil Rock is between dusk and midnight,” Scott told David during David’s first drive to the river. “That’s when the monster browns come out, thirty inches long and as wide as your bicep. The older members like Grandpa Rick think your dad and I are crazy, and they’re probably right David, but you haven’t lived until you’ve stood in the middle of the river in the pitch black of night with the bats flying around your rod and the rises sounding like your dad’s cannonballs.
After walking for a few minutes “Keep the rod pointed behind you so it doesn’t catch on the ground or trees” David came to a clearing in the woods where the river curved and slowed into a large pool before continuing its course downstream. The smooth water shone like glass, reflecting the dense trees and the steep hill on the far side of the pool. David looked for insects flying just above the water’s surface “Trout like to eat hatching flies trying to take off from the surface,” but the afternoon June air was free of bugs.
In the middle of the pool a gigantic flat rock covered the bottom. Waiting just above the rock were the trout. “See the white stripes on some of their fins? Those are the brook trout. The browns have black and red spots outlined in white, and the rainbows have a pink stripe on their side.” The trout were facing upstream “They sit there in the cold water and wait for the river to bring their food to them,” resting in the slow current of the pool. Above and below the pool the water moved faster, the submerged rocks creating white riffles.
David set the rod and the box on the picnic table that sat a ways up the bank. He took his time walking to the top of the pool and carefully flipped over some rocks in the water “See the larvae running away? That’s what the fish are eating now,” sending several nymphs scurrying for cover. He pictured the fly he would use to imitate what he saw. Before going back to the table, he removed an envelope from the right breast pocket of the vest and emptied its dusty gray contents into the water.
“I’m telling you Scottie, David and your boy are just as crazy as you and Jeff,” Grandpa Rick said to David’s godfather over dinner at the clubhouse. “They fished Anvil Rock for a few hours after lunch while I went downstream, and when I came back to get them they were half naked and swimming all around the pool. Of course there were no fish to be seen and when the boys got out they were shaking and freezing, but they had themselves a grand old time in there ruining my pool for the day. Something’s wrong with the kids these days.”
David held the rod on the table and pulled ten feet of line out of the reel. He doubled the end of the line over itself and fed it through the eyelets of the full flex rod. When he had put the line through each eyelet he reached into the lower right pocket of the vest and took out the green nymph box “These foam Orvis boxes are the best-they float, the flies don’t fall out, and they’re impossible to crush.” Looking through the Wooly Buggers and Gold-Ribbed Hare’s Ears, he saw the three remaining flies that Mary Dette “She’s a good friend of Grandpa Rick and happens to tie the best flies I’ve ever used” had tied for him on his first trip to the river. He pulled the smaller of the yellow and black stonefly patterns out of the white foam. He took the needle nose pliers “Always crimp down the barbs of your hooks. You don’t want to hurt the fish any more than you have to” from the lower left pocket of the vest.
David put the line through the eye of the hook “Make sure you make a good knot, don’t rush it and throw four Grannies on there unless you want to lose all your flies and look like your dads,” spun it around itself five times, and fed it through the loop he had made in the line before pulling it tight. His eyes were still good. He finished his knot by putting it in his mouth, his saliva securing the line. He took the clippers from his vest and trimmed the tag end of the line. When the knot was done he opened the box and took out his hip waders. He took off his worn boots and put them in the box. He stepped into each of the single leg waders and used the cinches to attach them to his leather belt.
He made his way back upstream to where he had found the nymphs. He took measured, deliberate steps along the bank “Take your time boys. Rushing to your spot just spooks the fish and ruins the pool. I’d rather take five extra minutes making sure not to spook them than hurry in and catch nothing,” then stepped into the shallow water. He waded over the moss covered rocks “Make sure your wading boots have felt bottoms, the felt grips the wet moss better than rubber boots do,” until he was in the middle of the stream. The waterproof fabric of his waders pressed tightly against his ankles, and he could feel the cold of the water on his legs. The stream stayed shallow until halfway between the two banks, where it dropped off into deeper fast moving water. Along the far bank there was a pocket of still water “Look for boulders underwater, the trout sit behind them and wait for the bugs the current brings to them.” The afternoon sun reflected off the water, but David’s polarized glasses allowed him to cut through the glare and see each step before he took it. He took a deep breath and steadied his footing in the cold current.
David unhooked his fly from the cork handle of the rod. He lifted the rod high above his head with his right hand “Lock your wrist,” while pulling line out of the reel with his left. He swung the rod behind him, stopping just past his head as the line formed an arc in the air “Ten o’clock, two o’clock. Ten o’clock, two o’clock,” then swung it ahead of him and stopped just in front of his head. He repeated this motion four times until he had enough line in the air to reach the far bank. On the last forward swing he continued his motion to send the line and fly shooting towards the bank. The fly landed five feet upstream from the pocket “Always aim a bit ahead of where you think the fish is and let the fly drift down naturally to it.” David let his fly sink in the current and gave the line three quick pulls to make it look like a live animal struggling in the current. As the fly passed the pocket David felt a light tug on the line. He jerked the tip of the rod back “Rip into him!” to set the hook in the fish’s mouth.
Jeff and Scott had just come back from a trip to the river a few weeks after the funeral. “Scott and I had gone to Anvil Rock earlier in the day to spread Grandpa Rick’s ashes and went back at dusk to finish paying our respects. I told Scott to fish the main pool so that he could be closer to his dad’s memory and that I would fish the Chute just above the pool. I had a mouse pattern on like we always use at night was casting across the stream to the deeper pocket of water along the far bank. I made five or ten casts and decided I would move a little closer to the pool. As I was stripping in my last cast I heard a horrible splash some ten feet in front of me, and felt the line come zipping out of my reel at a hundred miles an hour. Scott always got real jumpy in the dark, so when he heard the splash he came roaring upriver ready to dive in and save me from the river monster he thought had grabbed me. I fought this thing for what felt like three hours, the whole time expecting it to break my line and disappear forever, but for some reason it stayed mostly in the same spot until I pulled him in and Scott netted him. It was by far the biggest brown I had ever caught, and I was already picturing it mounted on my wall when Scott told me that he wouldn’t let me keep this fish. I knew he was right, that Grandpa Rick had worked his magic one more time, so with a final look at our fish we let it back into the water and out of our lives.”
David cleared his mind and let his memories and instincts guide him. With the controlled frenzy that comes with experience, he tried to get control of the slack line floating around his feet before the fish could use it to throw the hook. The fish jumped out of the water “Bow to him, good. Now play him, don’t muscle him” and David lowered the rod to relieve the pressure on the line. By pulling the rod back and reeling in the line he gained “Bring the rod behind you and down to the water level” he managed to get the fish close enough to net. David set the rod on the rock beside him and crouched next to the net to look at his fish. He took off his glasses and folded them into the collar of his shirt.
The native brook trout was no more than six inches long “Anybody can catch a big fish in big water, but it takes a real fisherman to catch a little fish in little water.” It had brilliant red and blue spots along its side “You can tell it’s a native from its size-the club only stocks fish ten inches and bigger-and by those colors. A stocked trout will never be as pretty as a little native like this one.” David submerged his hands “Never touch a trout with dry hands if you don’t want to kill it” before gripping it in his left hand as he worked the hook out of the side of its mouth with his right. With the barb crimped down the hook came out without a problem. He was proud of how cleanly he had hooked it and how quickly he had been able to bring it in, keeping the fish from expending too much energy and increasing its chances of surviving the encounter.
He looked at his catch, drawing peace from its wild energy. It smacked its tail in his hands and splashed the cold water onto his face.
The trout’s mouth opened and closed as it sat in David’s hands. Its wet body was smooth, not covered in scales like the bass and sunfish he caught at home, and glistened in the sun. He could feel its natural power and strength as he admired it. Its eye stared through him, unblinking. A sad smile crept into David’s face.
He held it in the cold water, moving it slowly from side to side to help pass as much of the oxygen-rich water through its gills. When the trout had recovered its strength he opened his hands and watched it dart back across the river. David wiped the water from his face.
David stayed crouching in the water. He looked at the three dead birch tress across the water. He wiped his eyes. With a deep breath he stood. He picked up the rod and waded back to the bank.
Jeff, David, and Scott’s son stood silently around the picnic table. Jeff had folded the envelope and put it back in his pocket. The water was clear, and had a light coating of gray dust. Jeff opened his bag and handed a Budweiser and a cigar to the two teenage boys. “I know we’re all thinking about the same thing. Scott loved it here and I know he’s happy to be here with Grandpa Rick again.” The three of them sat at the table searching for peace from the river, each feeling their separate and shared pain. The boys would come to lean on Jeff in the months and years to come, and he gave them his strength until it finally ran out.
David walked back up the slope to the picnic table. He rested the rod against the table, keeping the reel out of the sand. With the clippers he cut the line from his fly and replaced it in the green box. After he had reeled in all the excess line he put Grandpa Rick’s reel in its case and placed it in the back pocket of Scott’s vest. He took his dad’s rod apart, separating the halves and slipping them into the protective sleeve before slipping the sleeve into the maroon rod case. He put the vest back on, picked up the rod case and the box, and walked back through the woods to the car. His aging knees forced him to move more slowly than he had on previous trips to the river.
His heart was heavy but his head was quiet. The shadows of his three mentors had stayed on the river, waiting for him to join them. As he drove away he wiped his eyes again, thinking of all that they had taught him about fishing and living and dying.
No comments:
Post a Comment