Rust

The angler’s spring, finally commenced and at least partially intact, and I have found myself rushing about trying to make up for what was lost to ridiculously high water and a very late turn of cold, cold weather. It is nearly May and I do have a week’s fishing under my belt, though it hasn’t been enough to wipe away the rust from my skills.

The week began well enough, drifting down the river and noting how wintry the mountains looked, barer than expected more than a month ago when the warm sunshine had me duped to expect that marvelous gift, the early spring. It was hard to shake the feeling that I had missed out on a full, glorious week since I had. I was convinced that no self-respecting trout was going to surface feed in high water flowing much closer to forty degrees than fifty, a position borne of too many cold, windswept, early days upon lifeless rivers. Mother Nature never pays any attention to an angler’s experience, and perhaps that is the only mantra we should retain and recite.

I didn’t encounter a heavy hatch, but there was enough of one to produce some pleasant fishing and some quality, hard fighting trout. I went wading the next day and found that the lower, warmer freestone water quizzically revealed fewer bugs and barely any rises, though I did manage a pair of healthy fish. I took that as a good sign and kept my boots on the ground for the duration, though I couldn’t shake the thought that those trout were actually just the consolation prize.

There had been another opportunity, one that frustrated me for I had failed in something as simple as tying a tippet knot and controlling my admittedly rusty reflexes. I had tied that fresh tippet to my carefully inspected leader in the comfort of my angler’s den and held every confidence when I made that long cast to the very edge of victory. The rise was heavy, one of those whitewater explosions we all dream about, and I struck to feel just a millisecond of that wondrous surge before the line came free. That trout kept both my fly and four feet of tippet.

The rest of the week simply continued to impress me with just how much my timing, condition and attention to detail had suffered during six full months of winter. I found some hatching flies and all that, caught a few average sized wild brown trout, but as soon as I found myself squaring off with the truly difficult trout that I love, I found myself woefully lacking in the nuances of the art. I am not shortchanging those smaller fish. A wild trout taken fairly on a dry fly is one of the great gifts an angler receives from the rivers that define him, but I do feel the effects of age and rust have gotten the better of me this week, and I don’t like it.

Angling teaches humility, and we all get a lesson from time to time. I know that I should have fought off the mental malaise that the longer reach of winter inflicted upon me, should have gotten out more and exercised away more of the stiffness and pain of the sedentary season. I let the winter into my head and allowed it to rob me of my focus.

Friday afternoon I worked through my difficulties, I thought. After subjecting myself to enhanced frustration for the best part of the hatch, I got hold of myself and relaxed. My casting distances increased markedly with the old smooth grace I expected, and I was gifted another opportunity, in fact a handful of them.

The wind subsided and a group of impressive riseforms appeared down river. I stalked them patiently and carefully and my casts fell accurately. These fish were taking the odd drifting dun in flat water, but they showed no interest in mine. Each allowed a single drift before they demurred.

As I stalked the last in the group, I had perfect concentration and clear focus on the task before me, and I executed the cast perfectly. The drift seemed to cover a quarter mile rather than a few feet, but I was calm, intent. That fish took my fly perfectly, and after taking half a breath I raised the rod, sharply though controlled, felt the spark of his energy and watched the tippet-less leader come sailing back to me through the sunlit air.

Let me meditate on that and what should have been…