A Few Hours On The River

      I’ve been thinking about life and wondering about the way society treats her men. Where is passion?

    On this late afternoon the air clung hot and close as I wandered through the brush and small trees to the river’s edge. The sun shone bright on the water’s surface, glistening like so many fresh raindrops on a bright day. Upon arriving at the river the air changes feeling cool and fresh. Even in the shade of the large trees that line the banks no trout rise. I sit on a rock, string the rod and check the leader and tippet; they are ready to go.

    The evening before I felt more hurried than I do now. Last night I needed to hook a few fish and didn't linger here enjoying the coolness of the air and the lyric playfulness of the stream.

    Is it society I’m curious about or is it just me? I tend to put things into global terms, often judging with one stroke. I try to be objective but also want to eat the whole elephant with one bite.

    Let’s see: no fish are rising. It’s obviously time for a dry fly and a force-feeding session. I'm not in the mood for a large and bright attractor pattern so I settle on a light Red Quill. The fly looks tight and neat, as quill bodied flies do. It is tied with dark ginger tailing and hackle fibers, a light blue dun wing and a quill from a stripped feather that isn't really red but more on the amber side of brown. The fly is lovely. Last time I fished this spot with this fly the fish thought they would enjoy it for lunch, instead being struck with the metal hook, fought and then released to try again. There’s a delicate violence to dry fly fishing that I don’t understand, but enjoy.

While tying the pretty dry fly to the tippet material my mind wandered. I’ve tied lots of flies to my tippet; while the monotonous rote is pleasant and easy the anticipation of what comes next still makes my hands shake. I’ve been thinking about life and wondering about the way society treats her men. Where has the passion gone? And, is it society I’m curious about or is it just me?

I meet men who work in cubicles, spending the day looking at a computer screen while designing pieces of systems but unaware of the whole. They wander into the fly shop in need of the foil, knowing fly fishing fills the bill. When I ask how's the fishing they respond that they haven’t been, or haven’t been often enough.

The word sanitized keeps coming to my mind. Have I been sanitized to the point that I live in the modicum of mediocrity that seems the lot of so many? Am I too middle-of-the-road to either love or hate with real passion? Rather than being measured by how one lives, success, a word I don't understand, is measured with numbers. Passion is allowed during sporting events, which are watched from afar even at courtside, but not allowed in a quiet place like church, for example, when a profound understanding ought to result in a shout of “Yes! That’s it!”

As I clipped short the tag of the knot and checked its strength my mind returned to the water. The glare and dullness abutted each other depending on the position of the sun on the water. The steep angle of the afternoon rays bring colors to life. The rich and opaque colors linger and deepen as the sun continues to set over the mountains. Still, no fish rise. I have my favorite bamboo fly rod; it wants to be cast and I am ready to obey. This stretch of the river abounds in trout houses and short casts that place the fly in the right current lane will often bring a fish to the surface.

I tried to decide between sitting on the rock, watching the river flow and waiting for trout to rise or wading along the bank and down the stream to another spot I enjoy. I made several casts from the sitting position and decided on the latter course of action. Along the way I hit a few pockets with short casts, then came to the “little river” as Bob calls it. The water here is very shallow until it hits the big rock. Overhanging branches cover most of this area and a rock dam separates the big from the little. Only a portion of the water that begins coursing down the little river stays; the rest runs over the dam and downstream.

There are a few deep troughs in the riffle that begins the little river and I always think a fish should be in there looking up for my fly. I make a few casts, but no fish rise. As I continue moving downstream along the little rock dam a fish rises next to the big rock and I make a cast. A bright rainbow takes the fly and flops onto the rock dam, coming loose.  Once again I’m caught imagining the surprise the fish must sense when it eats food that yanks it out of its hiding spot. At the same time a thrill I don’t understand courses through me; my mind is sharper and more focused. I’m smiling. (During a day when lots of fish move to my fly I become aware of pain in my jaws caused by lots of smiling and wonder why those muscles are so out of shape.)

I continue wading down the river ducking under branches and keeping the rod tip over the water and low so it does not tangle along the way. I make a few casts to big water thinking that a large rainbow may be lurking beneath the rushing current, willing to risk a move for the morsel I’m offering. Nope. When I arrive at my spot I remember the fine rock that’s shaped like a chair; it is waiting to entertain my butt and I oblige. The water near the chair is deep and fast. On the other side there’s a shelf full of large rocks, which provide good cover that’s near the safety of deep water. These are the spots that make fly fishing wonderful. The deep water allows trout refuge from the bright sun, anglers and other dangers while the shelf and shade from the large upstream willow provides cover and closeness to food, which floats down from the riffle above, a conveyor of bugs that must be tasty and provide plenty of calories. Unlike present-day humans, trout want to get fat.

Behind the rock chair is a small rise covered in various types of vegetation. A back cast is out of the question; roll casting is required. There’s something delightful about sitting on this rock while roll casting the line so the fly lands over the shelf and on the other side. Why does the other side of the river always look so darn inviting?

I begin along the edge where shelf and depth meet and continue moving the fly onto the shelf with each cast. The drifts can be long here and line mending is required to achieve them. No fish are rising so I’m searching for someone who will take a look and try a bite of my offering. The fish are there – they have to be – but they are not cooperating.

Those bad old fish.

I’ve told my children that I cuss when I fish. It’s not my norm and once in a while someone takes some video and a profanity leaks out when I miss a fish or break one off. Shit happens. Since the fish are not actively responding to my fly I fall into another reverie of thought. I realize that I often refer to the trout in nasty terms even though I love them. I remember Robert Traver referring to the brook trout in his retreat as my little lovelies or something like that, and realize he had it right. He’s the man that said he didn’t fly fish because he thought it was all that important, but because it was probably equally unimportant as other pursuits of men but more fun. He’s gone ten years now. If we could know, I wonder if we’d find him harboring any regret for the time he spent trying to fool trout with flies. I wonder.

My thoughts jarred into the present when a small fish took the fly. A second passed as my mind returned to the moment and told my rod hand to set the hook. The fish had taken the fly under the surface and the ring of its rise drifted downstream when I pulled back and then landed the bright little rainbow. Our meeting was brief yet lovely. There’s something delightful about small rainbow trout what with the pollution of whirling disease. This stream has the spore but for some reason it has not decimated the wild rainbows as it has on neighboring streams like the Cache la Poudre to the north. While others may mock a small rainbow I take delight in them knowing they’ve survived and are growing out of their parr markings and into adult fish. A trout’s instincts to survive amaze me. They are colored to blend in and built to live in the harsh environs of a trout stream. Flows and temperatures bounce all over the spectrum while predators in many forms, including the neighborhood bullies, attempt to steal life to keep on living. Like so many wildflowers on the hillside above the stream, trout thrive and are beautiful regardless of the circumstances.

I now faced a fly fishing dilemma of my own making: to change the fly or keep on fishing. This is the choice after each fish is hooked and released. I decided a change was in order and sat back down on my rock, tied on a longer section of tippet material and opened another fly box. I’d been eyeing an Adams but hadn’t tied one on in some time. I selected a very small fluttering caddis, then closed the box and returned it to my pocket. The Adams remained in the back of my mind but the small caddis needed a shot first. After more casts, including some very creative fly line movement parallel to the river bed that resembled a very messy Spey cast, and no takes I changed the fly again, this time to a Royal Coachman Trude. It was a small one, though. I think I’d decided against larger patterns for this evening of fishing. I love fishing with them and the water was still pretty high from previous rains; I just wanted to see if I could coerce fish into taking the small stuff.

A large fish took the coachman and I half-heartedly set the hook as my mind continued to wander through a litany of thoughts, including some not-very-nice one’s about past employees and several manufacturer’s reps and their companies. I’ve been in the fly fishing biz a long time now and there are things about it that have always made me crazy. The blend of good old American greed and the grace of fly fishing and the quenching draught it gives those who will take a drink are at odds, rather like the delicacy of casting a dry fly with a soft fly rod, then setting the cold steel hook into a trout’s jaw. Still, I like the people I meet and the influence and encouragement I’m able to offer. I always hope they’ll take a drink and discover the fullness of life that’s found on a trout stream. As a river moves it washes so many things away with it, cleansing and refreshing, then bringing us into the present as few other things can. Loving my wife does it even after twenty-seven years of familiarity. So does music and reading a book, but in a different way.

There have been times in the past when I’m so preoccupied with the thoughts that jumble my head I’ve left a trout stream to ponder them or work them out in writing, napping or reading. This evening, even though my mind is running rampant with various thoughts and arguments, I decided to stay on the stream and work them out while fishing. In the past I haven’t wanted to stay on the trout stream in this condition. It seems to soil the experience. For me, a trout stream is a cathedral of loveliness that I don’t like to dirty with my ugly thoughts. Still, I’ve cussed the fish for not behaving but I learned a lesson on that tonight and won’t do it again. Tonight I will stay and find out if time on the river is redemptive for me, too, as I encourage others.

I leave the confines of my rock chair and begin to wade back upstream. The sun has set and shadows that block its diminishing light now cover most of the river. Fish don’t like looking into the sunlight any more than I do, but they use lingering light to see their food silhouetted against the brightness of the river’s surface. I’m moving upstream now so they won’t see me as they face into the current waiting for the stream to bring them their allotment of nourishment.

I feel sneaky.

On the way back upstream I cast the small Royal Coachman, which I’ve kept tied to the tippet, to the fast water once again in hopes that one of the big fish will come out to play with me. Once again they reject my advances and I continue upstream, not giving into the temptation to cut the leader back and tie on a large dry fly and a heavy nymph dropper, just to find out if they are in there, feeding. Knowing they are there is enough for me. I’ll leave the fish that want to stay near the bottom to their own designs; if one will come to the surface, though, they are mine for that moment in time.

The little river is ahead and to the left. For some reason I cannot leave it alone and wonder if any fish have moved into the shallows above the big rock. Once again I make a few casts to the very slow current below the big rock. A rather large brown comes slowly off the bottom, follows the fly for what seems a long time, then quietly and almost without movement opens its mouth to take the fly. Time is nearly still when this happens, and when the fish spits out the fly it is as though a 33 record has suddenly accelerated to 78RPM’s, and is silly. I miss setting the hook and cuss myself rather than the fish; I’m awed by it’s beauty and caginess. There’s another little twinge in my jaw muscle. I wonder how long all of that took?

Being lost in time is part of the reason I don’t try to figure out how long I fish. Like writing, I fish until I feel I’m done, then stop and do something else; always thinking and pondering the wonder of life.

The riffle above the big rock is inviting. I’m not changing flies for now, so I move a bit further upstream while making several casts to pockets in the big river. No one comes out to play. When I’m in position I make a cast just above the big rock stopping the rod hard so the line moves past parallel and the fly is the tip of the short leg of an upside down “J”. As the fly drifts back a trout eats it; I miss again. This small fish slapped at the fly and disturbed the water and me and probably scared the fly to death. The next fish lying in wait is larger and takes the fly solidly. My hook set is half-hearted once again and the fish shakes free, which is fine by me. I like moving fish and don't really care if they are landed.

Delicate side-armed casts are required to get the fly under the tree’s limbs and I have to concentrate on keeping the line completely parallel to the water so the fly doesn’t travel up and away from the water and into the leaves. Sometimes, like temptation, it seems that tree limbs, grasses and leaves have magnets that attract flies; many are the anglers who sing the blues of fly-eating vegetation. I keep trying to tell people that the fish are not in the trees but to no apparent avail. So many give in to temptation, too.

The current in this riffle runs even, so laying the fly and line on the water at the same time works well. No mends are required as everything moves at the same pace with the current. As long as the fly is on the water I can fish in this spot rather than mending and manipulating the line and then fishing.

Now I’m past the little river, and it is one once again. I move out into the current and shorten the fly line in order to make pinpoint casts into pockets, along seams and so on in search for trout that are looking up for something to eat. Several fish take the fly and I finally land a brown that is about the size of the little rainbow I hooked when sitting on the rock chair. This is another good sign concerning the health of the river and it makes me happy and full of hope. As I continue fishing upstream I look back on a section of water that looks very fishy but did not yield a rise and decide to fish the Coachman as a wet fly. I cast the line across the stream. After a short drift as a dry I pull the fly under the water and allow it swing through the water, swimming with but somewhat against the current.

In many ways that’s how I live, moving with the general flow but against the current of political correctness, which makes me crazy. My mind returns to the thought of being sanitized into mediocrity and frightens me. Am I wasting away, and not flourishing and thriving as I encourage so many others? I’ve always learned slowly but thoroughly and I know I’m in the midst of a lesson that is profound. My wife supports all of it and that’s encouraging all of these twenty-seven years. We’ve decided we’ll keep each other around for a little bit longer as we have for all this time. For me, no woman is more beautiful.

A trout tugs the fly, then tugs again and once more but does not get hooked. I’ve always wondered how something can be so close yet so far from actually happening. When the fly is drifting downstream and a trout makes a pull I have to reject the voice that says, “Lift the rod and set the hook!” and let the fish set the hook itself. I don’t think I threw the fish enough line to get hooked; there must be another message in that thought.

Maybe the jokester had it right in describing fly fishing as a jerk at one end waiting for a jerk at the other. I'm happy with being a jerk.

The far bank is deep with large rocks under the surface of the water. A big pine tree is stationed on the bank, its roots exposed. The water of the river that allows the tree to thrive and drink deeply also erodes its base. Eventually the tree will become cover for trout rather than for birds. Right now it provides shade and big fish live at its base. Just downstream and against the bank a ring is formed when a trout intersects a natural insect. I make an executive decision and execute it by clipping off the Coachman and replacing it with the Adams, which has been pining to float along the stream at the end of my tippet. On the second drift the fish takes the fly. I noticed that the hook might have been a little rusty but tied it on nonetheless. The point seemed sharp to me. After a few minutes – I think this is a large brown trout as it bores deep and does not jump – the fish comes loose. We were both into that moment in time and the fish is free to shake its head and sulk while I’m going to keep trying to hook some of its neighbors.

All of the thoughts that have been rattling around are gone and I’m glad I stayed on the river. The only one that has taken up residence is the one about being sanitized; this is going to keep bugging me. I continue fishing upstream and the trout are cooperating. They like the Adams. One fat rainbow attacks, taking the fly off the water and continuing to launch itself into the air. When I land the fish I tell it how silly that looked and that I’m going to let him go so he can clean up his act and display more trout decorum in the future. The last fish, which is hooked way too early to quit, but I’m done, is such a beauty I hold it in my wet hand for a few moments. It is a small rainbow, perhaps in its second year of being a trout. Its colors are glorious to behold and I’m once again awed and full of delight. I don’t think the trout much cares about any of this but it causes another aching jaw muscle for me.

On the way out I walk slowly, wondering if I'll see a bear by the apple tree. Even out of the river the air is cooler and my mind is soothed. From experience I know this won't last, but the memory of the evening will. I have an active mind that wanders and wonders from thoughts through parenthetic clauses landing from time to time on a solid memory of time on the water.

I've always been idealistic and terribly objective, trying to figure out what is good in situations while wondering how things can be so awful. Apart from faith, which is a rock-solid gift, I can't explain much of it. There are times I feel pretty smart for an old tall guy, still knowing how little I understand, desiring to learn more.