Round Two

Nothing in fishing can be wholly considered to be preordained. As anglers we may head out with a goal in mind, but there are always far too many variables to predict the outcome of the day.

Tuesday, another cold day along the river, this time lacking the early hatch that had me casting from arrival on Monday. The flies would come, in fact there may have been more of them, but it would tend to be one of those occasions where the trout decide to ignore the feast. The saving grace? Not all of the trout in this reach of water would ignore Nature’s larder.

I had an eye upon the Unobtainable’s abode early, and in fact, it was in that protected zone that I saw a few early rises. Ordinarily, I would place that information in storage for a while and concentrate my efforts on finding more cooperative trout, but not today.

The river had dropped one tenth of a foot since our previous encounter, not the kind of change that would radically alter the wading challenge required to attain a proper casting position. There was a new disadvantage too, inadvertently leaving my polarized sunglasses in the car, I was fighting glare as I tried to negotiate the deep, uneven, rocky bottom. I hiked up my vest and started in.

I made a couple of different approaches, finally settled in a position that seemed tractable if not comfortable, and began to play the age-old game once more. There was no question as to the fly pattern to be employed. The same 100-Year Dun that he had sampled yesterday was secured to four feet of 5X fluorocarbon tippet; the imitation so good that my eye conceived it as an actual mayfly.

The body of this fly was an experiment from last winter, a Hendrickson blend inspired by the writings and patterns of the late John Atherton. I had labeled the compartment in the dubbing dispenser “A.I. Hendrickson” for Atherton inspired. Red fox was the base fur of course, in line with the Catskill tradition, mixed with golden tan Antron and a bit of fox squirrel for the bugginess of it’s barred guard hairs. The hackle was from my prized Charlie Collins No. 1 grade cape, colored Barred Rusty Dun.

I am not clear on how long, nor how many casts were made once the soft broad rings began to appear out there. Like the day before, he was not regular, preferring to dine at his own variable pace; a very confident, comfortable trout in his chosen impenetrable lie.

The breeze would pick up and casting would cease. I shifted position a time or two as the rings moved about in that protected abode of his, and casting stopped when the rises stopped, less one errant attempt spoil the game forever.

The cast that brought the magic felt good, and I tracked the fly most carefully with yesterday’s error vividly in mind. The bulging ring replaced the canted wing upon the mirror of the surface, I took a breath, and struck…

Feeling the steel, a mammoth trout catapulted into the air, there in his abode of many hazards. Once down, I turned him and stripped line with a frenzy, my only chance would be to get him as far away from the snags as possible for, given his girth and power, there would be no stopping him on my light tippet. In the river proper I had only dozens of sharp-edged boulders to defeat me.

This fish was angry, plucked from his lair by one confounded bug, and now he was going to punish it. The Hardy protested each time he charged toward freedom, but each time I managed to turn him from the rocks. Once I found a moment of control, I grabbed my staff and backed toward shallower water and solid footing. Two steps, three, and then the hand rushed back to the reel. We kept that up for a long while, until I finally found level stones beneath my boots. I swung the rod, took a turn, gave several back, and eventually eased him toward the net’s rim. When I scooped and lifted, the weight shocked me, for now, in hand I could see this bruiser was not a leviathan more than two feet long.

The heavy body aligned with the scale: twenty-two inches, but the girth and depth of his flanks convinced me this brown trout would easily exceed five pounds. The Unobtainable posed quickly and shot away with vigor as soon as his fins touched the water!

I was content with my one fish day, marveling at the expanse and duration of the hatch and the lack of feeding trout as I lingered, eyes searching for the next challenge. Touching the magic is always a blessing!