Immunity

I walked the familiar path, the morning cool under cover of the clouds, a return to Sanctuary.

It wasn’t long before I saw the yellow sails upon the drift, at least three sizes of them. There was a single rise at distance, clearly a good fish, and I wondered if he would continue while I languished in my approach. Flat, clear water demands patience and stealth.

That trout continued, not on any sort of regular rhythm, but still he fed as the mayflies passed his station. I started with a size 16, tried a 14 and then a short bodied CDC winged fellow with the barest hint of a trailing shuck. I may as well have cast to him with a bare tippet.

I rested him when one of his brethren showed himself fifteen feet downstream, this one taking the fly when I lost it in the glare and opening my hook wide when I tightened.

As the morning passed, my main opponent must have had his fill, either that or he moved thirty feet upstream. There I could see alternately a soft sipping rise and a tip up with a wink of silver. Nothing to be seen save those sulfurs, so I eased into a better position and offered my little menu once more. Completely oblivious to anything I offered, he went about his little dance.

I nearly ruined it with a cast overpowered by frustration. I caught it in midair, whipped it back hard cursing at myself, and paid the price for my folly. The 6X tippet had cut the fly line right down to it’s braided core. I was finished, with no choice but to withdraw.

There was another outfit in the car, a five though, so I couldn’t simply swap the reel onto my four-weight bamboo. Wipe it down, slide it into its bag and that into the pentagonal walnut case good friend JA had made just for me.

It took some time, rigging the five-weight rod and making the walk for the third time. I slipped into the river and crawled down the edge until I could see the lie I had left in defeat. He was still at it.

With the events of the morning being what they were, I fully expected that trout to retire before I could negotiate that last seventy-five yards. Amazingly though, he waited for me to finally ease into position for a long, down-and-across cast. In fact, there appeared to be two trout working along that bank, either that or my sipper and wink fish had grown more adventurous.

I knotted that trusty size fourteen 100-Year Dun, the same fly I had started the day with, and the very same one my friend had ignored. Perhaps it was that adventurous streak that was his downfall.

He had glided away from the bank and I laid a cast down as softly as I was able some four feet above his last kiss of the surface. He glided up, kissed the 100-Year Dun, and I bowed my head and raised my rod.

He started with a hell of a boil, then darted downstream toward some lovely tippet cutting apparatus nature had paved the river bottom with. I countered with a downstream sweep of the rod, bringing him to the top to splash and slash his displeasure. When he ran back up toward his taking place, I got a good look at his long golden flank and flashing white belly, thinking two feet.

I had done away with the morning’s 6X when I rigged the backup rod, and I was happy with my choice. The cloudy weather after a cool night kept the water nice and cold, and this brownie had plenty of stamina. When I rolled him onto the graduated centerline of my net, I found I had missed my guess by an inch.

Slipped into the current, he cozied down beside my boots and cursed me thoroughly.

With a victory in my pocket, I decided to walk and do my best to hunt up one for another try. I found him too. Hooked him, felt the big throbbing head shakes, then felt the hook pull free as he ran behind a submerged boulder.

The next one sat back in an edge of shade, and I gave him a long reach cast and watched the fly dim as it passed beyond that edge. He was a good fish, spirited and hard running, and I thanked him for his service as I retrieved my sulfur from his jaw.

I started the long walk back around four o’clock, feeling the ache in my casting shoulder and back. It had been a long day.