The
garden is in and the first sprouts of radishes have poked their curious green
leaves out of the fertile soil. The hay grasses have reached their zenith and
are blowing gently in the breeze like verdant waves.
Tonight my wife, Katie, and I will dine on
fresh dandelion greens and wild leeks, and perhaps, if I am lucky this evening,
a plate of fresh buttered brook trout with a dash of lemon.
It is late
afternoon, with still quite a bit of light left in the day. With permission
granted, I say goodbye to my lovely wife to pursue piscatorial pleasure in the
mountain streams.
I climb into the truck and head toward the mountains, passing through the valley's green fields.
In
Bristol my truck begins the lumbering climb to Lincoln.
I downshift and scout
the swimming hole.. There are many cheerful bodies
swimming, jumping and taking in the late sunlight of one of the longest days of
the year.
Upward the truck winds, paralleling the river as it snakes toward the
headwaters. I find an old road that follows the river and pull over on a gravel
shoulder that balances precariously against a few well rooted tamarack cedars.
The
fragrance of cedar and honeysuckle encircles me.
I stop, climbing out of the
truck to breathe deeply the fresh flowery air.
Climbing
down the steep embankment, I pick my footholds carefully. Not like I did as a
youth, but with the careful precision required for that of a middle aged body.
Stopping
to read the water and immerse myself in the mise-en-scene, I take a moment to
watch the sunlight streaming golden pillars through the canopy of trees.
Upstream I spot a dark pool with a small waterfall spilling frothy white foam
into the head of the shadowed depths.
I attach
a rust colored thorax elk hair caddis on a piece of 4x tippet. I am aware of my
body aging as I use magnifiers to tie the improved clinch knot. Sitting on a
well shaped boulder, I notice my left knee shaking.
Am I getting old or is this
just a sign of muscle fatigue?
I
breathe deeply and say out loud “thank you” for allowing me to reach this age now with 50 years of flyfishing under my belt. I am reminded of a scene from the
movie based on Norman Maclean’s “A River
Runs Through It.” An old man is standing in the river tying on a fly with
wrinkled old hands and the narrative is delivered in dulcet tones “in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all
existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the river and a four-count rhythm and
the hope that a fish will rise.”
For me
flyfishing has never been a competitive pursuit but one that allows me to feel
an absolute connection to the Universe. In the small streams of our Green
Mountain state, I am where I feel I most belong. I pause in reverie.
Focus.
In order
to hit the sweet spot at the tail out of the riffles I must execute a sidearm
four-part cast with a gentle counter cast on the presentation to set the fly in
a drift that will match the current.
The
first cast misses its mark and the fly swims frantically toward a swirling
rock.
I lift
the rod to correct the cast and prepare for another attempt.
But, as
I lift the tip, a dark shadow bursts out from behind the rock and viciously
attacks the caddis imitation.
I raise
my rod and bow to this creature blessed by the Great Spirit to have the most
beautiful colors of all fish. The brook trout.
The
brookie is not really a trout at all, but a member of the salmonid family known
as char. These magnificent little beasts have survived all that this world has
thrown at them since the glaciers retreated. All they require is clear, cold
water and lots of shade.
I play
the feisty fish with all my spirit enmeshed with his own. He runs left; I bend
my rod to the right. He runs upstream; I lift my rod to keep the tension on. As
he tires, he begins to swim toward me and it’s time to strip in my line – fast –
before he can shake the hook.
After a minute or so he relaxes and lets me bring
him to hand.
I gently
hoist him up to inspect his regal blue halos surrounding the burnt orange dots.
His fins reflect in the sunlight – bright orange with white tips.
I raise
him to my lips and kiss his snout. Without judgment for others, I make the
choice to release him back into the pristine waters of the river. He shakes his
head and slaps his tail once as he returns to the deep pool.
On my way out of the ravine I spot a treasure on a bed of decaying pine needles and leaves.
Tonight,
with our salad, we will be eating chicken with chanterelles.
