Elation and Misery

I had one of those far too rare chances to fish with my buddy the other day. It was a nice, misty morning that warmed into brilliant sunlight on bright water. I had high hopes for success, but of course realize that doesn’t come around whenever we want it to. It is enough to go fishing…

We fished on through the mist and into the brilliance of full sunlight without a hookup. Our plan was to fish a couple of pools, one early and one late, and JA was moving to the bank as I came slowly down river. I took a moment to make a couple of critical casts.

A long cast was sent on it’s way, the line mended judiciously to extend the drift, as I watched the Grizzly Beetle float down, down, down into the promised land. There was no take that I could discern, but a sudden soft bow in the line told me something was afoot, and I tightened into a state of nirvana.

The river was cold this early and this trout was feeling his oats, ripping the line in mad dashes so that my little Hardy Bougle` was screaming, shattering the morning silence as we danced. JA made haste in his photographer mode while I gave the old boy all of the muscle the eight feet of vintage Colorado cane could spare. Finally tired from those runs, I led him close enough to slip the net beneath.

There are not too many things more beautiful than a gorgeously colored wild brown trout in the glow of Catskill morning sunlight. I eased the fish into alignment with the measuring centerline of the net and smiled as all two feet of him splashed a bit of that cold water in my face; and then the bubble burst.

I spotted my reliable Grizzly Beetle right there in the top of his neb. Had he taken the fly and spit it out by the time I noticed the line movement and tightened? Or had he come up and bumped the fly once a hint of drag betrayed it as a fraud? I’ll never know the answers, just as this wonderful brownie will never grace my log as a fair catch.

This has been a difficult season to say the least. Such are the wages of angling, though I am thankful for every day, each hour that I am graced to wander these Catskill rivers. Perhaps Mr. Neb and I will meet again. A bit of leader adjustment, a modification of fly, or a change in casting angle may prove to be the key to success…