It’s a week after we bought the place and all I can think about is that dark water beneath the willowy far bank. It just has to be infested with big fish, I kept thinking.
So I told her I had business up there, packed a cooler, bought a one-man tent, dashed three and a half hours north. It was cool to drive up, unwrap the rusted old chain that looped through a crooked metal gate. It swung on an odd angle as the bottom caught the hard dirt of the dike road stopping abruptly mid swing. Not exactly a well oiled operation, had to lift the gate and carry it beyond the edge of the road to pass through the opening. Immediately the River flows toward you as you look upstream through the first bend. That same grayed out island in the online photo was now reflecting the blue of the sky, river banks where green and full and the forlorn island was surrounded by lower flows where eddies and riffles and foam lines now held the prospect of many days ahead full of casts and tight lines and short takes and pissed off cuts that tasted the cold steel of the perfectly presented PMD and Hoppers.
Heh, who am I kidding, these are cuts, the clowns of the trout world. Silly fish that rise to anything that’s close and within reasonable reach. Slow at the take and compliant to the point of throwing in the towel midway through the fight. “Take me, please, I’m done”. It’s been offered that when setting the hook on a Cutthroat, you need on mumble under your breath, “God Save The Queen”, to give it a chance to complete the take, and then lift the rod tip for the set. Patience, my boy.
All the same, the scene drew me in.
No comments:
Post a Comment