I had errands stretching out my morning, keeping me from the river. With those stops made, I turned East, the bright morning sun already high in the bluest of skies. One last stop, as the gas guage was calling me, nagging at my impatience. Standing there pumping gas, I watched the sky. A large bird appeared, flying from the north, and I thought it an eagle. Drawing near, his path right over me, I saw the conformation wasn’t that of our national symbol. This big fellow shone with his black feathers in the morning sun and uttered a distinct croaking call as he passed overhead… a raven!
I took the event as what it was, a spiritual encounter, one that gave me a moment of concern, but also a feeling of good fortune ahead. The Native Americans called him messenger and trickster, and I thought of the portent of his appearance, his call to me.
When I reached the riverside, I called Cathy to keep an eye on our little cat Raven, and asked to be certain that the door to my fly tying room was secure from his entry. Flies, hooks and feathers are not a good combination with a high-spirited little cat. Secure that everything was fine at home, I was confident that my visitor’s message was directed at me, and I knew exactly what to do.
I donned waders and boots, then joined the rod sections of the 66 ACM. The vintage Hardy LRH that belongs to this rod has seen as many years as that classic blond bamboo scepter. I ran the fly line through the guides and started for the path to the river. I knew exactly where to go.
I took in the scene: the flow receded after Friday’s rain, sparklingly clear, still perfect for fishing the tiny dry flies of the late season. I walked along the margins of the water and took a seat on a grassy clump along the shore and waited. I knew that first rise would come, the raven had spoken to me.
The tails of the morning passed quietly under that clear beautiful autumn sky, and sure as expected, that soft bright wink brought a smile to my face. Rising, I eased into the flow, placing each footfall gently and stealthily, lest a rock roll beneath me and break the spell.
The trout seemed to be searching for just the right line of drift. He came three times at intervals, each in a different position. I tried a cast at each, untaken. After a time, he began to sip confidently that he had chosen his feeding lie, and the golden shaft of bamboo arched once more, the tiny dry fly alighting exactly in line.
When he took the fly, I felt a calm, pausing just enough before raising the cane into a full, throbbing arch. He darted away from the bank, leaped into the sunlight, and fought the pull of the rod, the reel speaking unto the silence it’s protests. All of his tricks were thwarted, and I drew him to me and lifted him into the net: twenty inches of wild autumn brown trout!
I waded back to my seat on the riverbank then, took up my vigil with a smile growing upon my face. A perfect morning, foretold by an unexpected messenger. The river lay quiet before me after that, and on into the afternoon. I basked in the warmth of the sun, watched the golden light wash the scene before me, my face still framed by that smile. The dry fly season lives!
