Bookends

In wild places, there are sometimes omens…

Another nice summer morning, early to the river, but not quite the dawn patrol. I heard the eagle’s cry as I began my stalk, and turning, saw his majesty winging upriver and bade him Good Morning. I heard a rise, but my eyes found nothing, so I slowed my hunter’s walk to scan carefully with hope to find another.

Watching the water, the deer’s reflection there drew my gaze upward. She walked the edge of land and water, slowly downstream as I walked up, aware of me, but not worried about my presence in the least.

One event should cause me to pause and consider, and two most certainly made it clear this would be a very special day, and yet while I appreciated the sights and sounds as simple pleasures, I missed the portent.

My eyes caught the second rise, though despite my cast arrived promptly, there was no response. I eased up another few steps and into mid-river and hadn’t needed to wait long. Rise number three required a smooth but swift turn, two back casts and a delivery, so perhaps the rhythm urged my strike to follow too quickly. Nevertheless, I felt him as I pulled the fly away, certain he would not return.

A second miss followed after a time, and now my realization is this could be an irritating day. Still, I remained completely unaware of the omens that welcomed my arrival, and I fished on for a couple of hours, cementing the thought that this may be a fishless day. The third miss certainly proved it.

Convincing myself I might still save the day, I checked my downstream advance near midmorning and worked my way back to the beginning. Remarkably, another hunter was still working the water where I embarrassed myself. The talisman proved it’s magic undiminished, when my small beetle was taken and the battle joined. The Hardy spoke, awakening anyone in earshot that the game was on.

Finally, I drew him into shallow water and finished the game with the net: two feet of brown trout willing to surrender my fly. The elation renewed my spirit, and I fished on with greater care and skill. Still, the morning passed on into afternoon. A few smaller rises were located and covered as the time passed, but no responses were displayed.

When trout rise and searching eyes cannot find the answer, enter the Baby Cricket! That was carved in stone three decades ago. A small rise drew my eye, for where it was, not for it’s own visible merit. I let the ACM have the stage, providing the light touch the rod demands, and the take left no doubt! To the races once more, gaining line then losing it again, the music of the vintage LRH played it’s solos for my ears alone.

Such a day, browns measured twenty-four and now twenty-three, but there was a heavy rise nearby even as I battled him. Once released, the task was to find number three…

Nearing two, I had about decided that his feeding spree had ended, but then a softer rise kept me working the area. Nothing more seen, I backed off as stealthily as I could and waited. I considered turning and heading out, but a murmur spurred me to loft the talisman once more toward a nervous spot of water near the bank… and number three was found!

Halfway through the fight I realized that I was concerned for the 5.5X tippet, the same piece of tippet and fly that battled my last foe; an unduly light tippet for such fish!

In the end, the ACM led him too into the mesh, a heavy brassy flanked, black spotted brownie with that same bedraggled Baby Cricket perfectly in the side of his jaw, another two-footer, a perfect bookend.