"That Was A Hell'uv A Breakfast..."

A couple of steaks downed, dishes washed in a tub of hot water poured from the old coffee pot and Mike’s things stowed in the tent. We walked through the path in the grass cut by a weed eater a few weeks back to the hole in the ground where firewood was stacked ready to burn. I guided a match around the bottom edge of the Tee Pee made of wood lighting crumpled issues of the Standard Journal and stood back as smoke billowed into the air. Flames ignited the tinder and then began to consume split logs of larger girth. In an instant the sandy pit was consumed in a blazing camp fire that cast an orange and yellow glow on our faces and the underside of low hanging branches of the Cottonwood trees.

We carried a couple of camp chairs to the site and settled in for an evening starring at leaping flames, discussing a wide range of thoughts and ideas; a scene that had played out over eons, ever since man discovered a means to ignite flammable things and stand next to it for heat and light.

For Mike, as with most visitors to the Ranch, there is a period of decompression from the rush to get there, but then there was that deeper well of stored energy we all carry as a reserve to meet the challenges of our lives from day to day. My advantage, at that moment, came from many days having reduced daily living to essentials by incrementally releasing the stresses and strains resulting from “making it happen”, as we are all required to do. For some of us, this process takes time, days, even, and starring into the calming dance of flames from the campfire was a great beginning of that process for my good friend. When the flames died down we called it a night.

The night sky gave way to morning light as my Circadian Rhythm kicked in; my eyes reacted to the first signs of light. As always, I tried to suppress the awakening, but the urge to get going was too great. I quietly slipped out of the bag, pulled on a pair of shorts, grabbed shirt, shoes and a fleece and parted the tent opening, stepping out onto the open deck.

Lit up one burner on the Colemen and placed the coffee pot full of water to heat up. Pulled out a frying pan and placed thick slabs of smoked bacon in parallel strips inside. Fully cooked and browned on both sides, they were moved to a plate, and then cracked three eggs into the crackling grease. Mike had come to life and was milling around organizing a few of his things. A few remaining taters left from the night before were warmed up. Taters piled on plates, three eggs, sunny side up, flopped from the pan onto the fried potatoes, a handful of thick strip bacon on the side and a slice of bread toasted on one of the burners with butter dripping, were all piled high on two plates. A couple of cups of Pero and a diet Coke to wash it all down and we both sat there forking it all in. The only sound was a slurp or two and the clank of metal utensils scrapping against metal camp plates. That was a hell’uv a breakfast, a far cry from my daily ration of porridge.

The morning warmed and the sky was partly overcast. I took Mike to the upper section of the Ranch where pods of Cutties nose the water surface as they feed on emerging bugs just below the surface film, concentric rings evolve as a result. One the way there we pass that place on the far bank where overhanging willows guard dark water infested with fish. I thought, we’ll save this place for later.

Mike steps into slower moving water upstream and begins to work out line in an effort to reach rising fish above him. It’s a beautiful scene. Standing above him on the dike road, I watch him wade into the middle of the river. He’s a solitary figure penetrating the horizontal plane of the river surface. The night before chatting around the camp fire, he mentioned it had been some time since he cast his rod and thought he may be a it rusty, but this morning the arch of his line was clean and his presentation was flawless as he placed the fly just above the rising fish letting it drift directly into their feeding lane. As would be expected, and this still happens to me, the timing of the set as a cutty rises for it’s subtle take tripped him up as a fish came to his fly. With a reminder of the “God Save the Queen” trick, he began to hook up here and there.

The sky was clearing; the sun bright and action on the upper section had cooled down. It was mid afternoon and that epic breakfast was a distant memory. I called to Mike to come; I had another spot for him to try.

The time had come to introduce Mike to that spot that had over the past month or so become the “sure thing”, that is, since that day of triumph, when the big Cutthroat smashed my bug; this place has been my “go to” run. It never failed. It always produced nice fish. In fact, it became so prolific, that I became self conscious whenever I went there. I played a sort of game in my head. At first, just after I discovered its treasures, I went here first off and often. Then I developed the sense that too much of a good thing could potentially be harmful in some way. So an attitude of restraint was initiated where the place was only accessed after all other runs had been fished first. The idea was, let it rest and then go there and cast into its dark water beneath the willows and across the run to just beyond the steep shelf where fish hide deep and wait for the opportunity to take large terrestrials that blow into the current from the grassy bank next to the run. Somehow this head game worked. What joy came from this form of delayed gratification as Cutties and Bows and one Brown crashed the party rising to Tanner’s trusty pink Hopper pattern. This run rarely disappointed.

We stepped into the rushing water and waded across to that shelf that had caused such grief so long ago. We angled away from the tail end of the island and I positioned Mike at the bottom of the run. After a brief explanation of how the run worked, he worked out line then released a cast that land between the willow overhang and the steep shelf. A good cast, but needed to be a bit higher in the run and further to either side. He recast and the hopper came closer to the sweet spot. His next cast fouled leaving a tangle of tippet material. Mike kindly asked that I cast while he fixed things. I shot a cast high above the run with a variation of Tanner’s wonder bug on top and a small silvery bead head dropper Royce had recommended earlier. We both watched intently as the drift was about over. I lifted my rod tip gently to initiate the next cast when I felt a tug; we both watched a huge flash of silver explode from the depth of the run. At the last moment, a nice Bow took Royce’s bead head just as I was about to recast. It was a beauty, running for cover beneath the willows, as they invariably do in this run, then back across the run to sound in the deep water below the shelf. What a kick. Just wished it had been Mike holding the rod.

But, I knew there where more fish at the top of the runs where the current rushed against the far bank that feeds the deep dark water under the willows and behind the shelf that held the Bow’s brothers and sisters. We moved up further and Mike cast right on the seam of the faster current, perfect placement. At about the second or third cast he gets smacked. His rod bent in half, the fish taking line, he gets it on the reel. It tugs and runs as we watch it flash and turn and run and splash the surface. It’s a nice cutty. Mike begins to back away from the deeper water in an effort to find a better place to land it. It’s all looking great when the floating line pings back at him, limp, as the fish dives out of site. DAMN. This was a well played catch and Mike did everything precisely right. The vagaries of catching fish are many and this fish was the lucky one that day.

 

We fished below the run for a while and Mike hooked a couple of smaller cuts, then we waded across the river and went back to the camp and made plans for dinner. There was more fishing that evening and we hooked some nice fish, but each time we walked past that far bank with overhanging willows, I noticed Mike steal a glance toward its sometimes dark heart. I know the feeling. I’ve lost a few in there too.

I have to say, the few days spent with my good friend and his trusty mutt were some of the best I’ve spent at the Ranch. As Mike and Andy drove away the next day in his black Ford truck, I hoped they'd return again sometime and spend more time at the Ranch..