Even us
whacky ice fishermen who love the cold barren environment on the frozen lake,
share a certain affinity for the second Saturday of April. Known in some
circles as the “Glorious Opening Day of Trout Season”, for many of us it is
simply the celebration of swiftly flowing water and the hope of hooking up with
nice holdover rainbow. For others it means a trip up to the Willoughby River to
watch the spawning steelhead catapulting themselves over the rapids as they
swim upstream to spawn. Still, for others, it is the mere camaraderie of
sharing a hot cup of French roast coffee from a thermos, talking about the long
winter and how many cords of wood we set aflame in our woodstoves. Whatever the
reason, whatever the motivation might be, it is indeed a glorious way to
embrace the spring.
Hope
springs eternal in the heart of an angler. Even though the chance of catching a
tired but hungry trout on a deep beaded nymph fly is remote at best, it is the
love of the fight that brings us to the streamside.
We will
cast all morning long at every possible hidey-hole in the river. Drifting our
fly over the rapids and into the tail of a deep pool, there is hope, there are
prayers, that maybe, just maybe, we might feel that tug on the rod and be quick
enough to set the hook into a big kype-jawed brown. Sometimes, it does happen
on the first day – but it is the hope and faith that keep us there in
conditions that are not amenable to the salmonids. Frustration does not exist.
Persistence and faith are the virtues of the experienced angler.
Much like
the book “A River Runs Through It”
by Norman McLean, fishing for trout is closer to a religion for some than those
who attend church every Sunday. The sheer power of nature as it is reflected in
the hydraulic energy of a briskly flowing stream. The rearranging of pools and
underwater landscapes can be dramatically altered by one ice jam in a brook way
up in the mountains, suddenly releasing its pent-up energy.
If one is
reflective enough to stop and think “how in the world can a trout survive a
winter where the river is locked up and then not get washed out when the giant
waves of ice water cascade down from the streams into the river?” How did this
trout eat all winter? Where did he hide? What is this remarkable instinct that
drives them to expend so much energy to jump up and over the falls? If you take
the time to ponder these piscatorial philosophies, you will inevitably find
yourself with a deepening respect and love for these fish. It is this love,
this respect, that draws out the best in humanity.
We can
return to the stream each year, like a pilgrimage to a watery Mecca, to find
the best of ourselves as we cast our lines into the murky depths and pray for a
connection.
Lost in
thought streamside, hours pass by and we find that we are in what athletes
refer to as “the zone.” It is at this pinnacle of mindfulness that it happens.
Bang! The
rod bends down toward the rushing water and we bow with it, then raise the tip
up quickly but not violently, so as not to pull the hook out of the mouth. The
fight begins. The rod begins to thump and swing from side to side as the fish
seeks to shake the entomological deceiver from its jaws.
Keep the
tip up and enough tension to keep the hook set - but not too much. When the
fish swings downstream, walk with him. When he swings back up into the raging
current, play the rod to the upstream side. It’s like a beautiful choreographed
tango where two beings are mirroring each other, connected by a thin piece of
monofilament line and a tiny hook. Delicate yet powerful.
Finally,
the fish begins to tire, and you gently retrieve the line allowing it to swirl
at your feet. Do not reel. Honor the retreat. Once the fish is brought to hand,
take the time to admire the beauty of this miracle.
Will his flesh nurture
yours tonight or will you choose to release him back to the stream to live to
fight another day? It seems that that the older I get the more I choose the
latter.
