Numerology

I went hunting this morning, not too long past dawn, and slipped into the river to vanish in the mist. I kept things simple: a 7-1/2-foot Orvis bamboo rod and a classic Hardy LRH. Thunderstorms were predicted and I like the impervious nature of an impregnated cane rod when bad weather is afoot.

I was hoping my early morning stalking would turn up a hunting brownie, change my luck for the better. Sometimes I guess its all in the numbers.

When I was a youngster, God how long ago that was, my favorite number was twenty-five. In one glorious week to begin my spring dry fly season, I landed two exceptional wild brown trout whose measurements aligned with that old favorite number. This morning, I did it again.

I was working a favorite summer morning location when the water exploded upstream and out of range for the little rod I had chosen. That booming attack made me think I needed to clip the size 10 spinner from my tippet and replace it with, well, a meal. Experience said it was too early for terrestrials, they’re never on them this early in June, but I knew the trout that made that explosion was hunting for breakfast.

When I had chosen the right fly and checked my knots two or three times, I began casting. It had been a few minutes since leviathan had awakened us both, so I spread my casts out, knowing from long experience that many of these big hunters are on the move. They will hang in an area to suit their own mood and urgency to feed, but they are often not holding to a particular lie.

The cast I placed out away from the cover in the primary line of drift was the right one. He took with a subtle gulp, I hit him, and that little Orvis rod began bucking while the Hardy screamed! There is a special magic when you are alone on a river with that music in your ears and the cry of battle in your heart.

It took some time to get that fish to come near the net, and I wasn’t able to get him in it until about the fifth try. My heart was pumping as fast as the old boy’s gill covers when I twisted that fly free and rolled him into alignment with the measuring line. Twenty-five inches and a smidge, got to be something about that number.

I recognized that trout. I caught him last summer, hoping that the missing mandible wouldn’t handicap him too much. He must have been hooked by one of those sportsmen who fish saltwater size streamers on 8 weight rods and suffered that disfigurement. He had grown nearly an inch since last year, put on some more weight too, and I am pleased that he is still strong and proud.

I fished my way through the rest of the morning with intent, surgically exploring each nuance of current and each piece of cover. I found success again a couple of hours later.

My next foe came from behind a boulder in fast water, enticed by the movement of my CDC winged March Brown emerger. He reacted to my hookset with violent staccato head shakes as he bulled his way downstream and away, the reel protesting each run.

Eventually I worked him toward the shallows near shore and led him thrashing into the net. The morning sun was strong and lit him up beautifully as I snapped a quick photo in the meshes.

It has been nearly a month since I last brought a twenty-inch trout to hand, a month spanning the prime spring season. I logged many days and hours astream during that month, finding meek hatches and little surface activity. Taking two in excess of that mark on one beautiful Catskill morning was truly a gift from the gods of summer!