- Brush and tall weeds surround me. The alders,
which shaded me earlier, are now an obstruction to my back-cast. My
eyes trace out the only possible trajectory for my fly line, which
must be high over my left shoulder and between two of the trees. The
forward cast must change direction in the air to align itself with
the target. Since the line and the fly will land in water travelling
at drastically different speeds, there will have to be a lot of
slack in the leader. As I trace and retrace the path that the line
must follow, my confidence falters. There is a brief search for
alternatives. There are none.
- Carefully, the leader is inspected and the 6X
tippet is replaced with three feet of 5X. To its end is knotted a
size #14 low floating Yellow Stone Fly - which was constructed
complete with feelers, tails and flat Fly-Film wings. The colors,
size, and shape matches the real ones hatching from the river. The
fly is not dressed so that it will sink quickly as it enters the
spill below the rock.
- The leader and twenty feet of fly line are
carefully coiled in my left hand. I raise the rod quickly with my
right hand and "cross body" my back cast over my left
shoulder. The coils feed out of my left hand as I shoot line into a
high back cast which beyond all odds slices through the open space
between the trees and hangs momentarily over the tall grass. The rod
tip is then brought forward in a shallow arc and the forward loop
sails out high over the water. The loop changes from vertical to
horizontal with an upward the swing of the rod tip. An instant
before the loop flows into the leader, I push a tiny amount of slack
into the line and the cast dies in the air. The fly line lands on
the water upstream form the fish, with the leader pointed downstream
and the fly on a direct course to the center of the boil below the
rock. There is a quick rush of air from my lungs, and the incredible
tension from executing this impossible cast is suddenly gone.
- The fly drifts a foot and then disappears in
the spill. There is sudden movement in the slick below the rock; I
raise the rod more by instinct rather than observation. The line
comes instantly tight, and there is an explosion of water meeting
the air as the giant caudal fin hurtles the fish into the raging
current. The trout and my fly line are a blur as the white Dacron
backing leaves my shrieking reel.
- The huge trout launches himself into the air
near the far shore and then races downstream into the eddy. Still he
takes line, and the black felt marker stripe signals that fifty
yards of backing have left the reel. Incredibly the fine leader
holds against the pressure of the light rod and smooth drag.
- The trout pauses, and then runs toward me and I
reel frantically to maintain tension on the line so that the tiny
barbless hook will stay embedded in the flesh. The trout shakes his
head in angry violence and I ease off on the pressure slightly. He
reverses his course and the reel spool, which is now small in
diameter from loss of line, turns with unbelievable speed. The shiny
black handle disappears in a blur. A red felt marker stripe signals
that the reel is almost empty.
- Again the trout pauses. There is no accounting
for the luck. A few more yards and I will be out of line and he will
break the light tippet. I must follow him. Immediately downstream,
alders over-hanging the deep eddy block my path. The river bottom is
mud and sticks. Off comes my vest and binoculars, which are tossed
in the grass. I can barely feel the trout as I slide down the bank
into the cool water. I am in the river over my shirt pockets,
fighting my way through a raft of flotsam and midge shucks, which
adhere readily to the fabric of my clothing and the hair on my
chest. I reel myself down to the fish and gain some line. The alder
branches hang nearly in the water. I fight my way through them as
quickly as possible. My feet sink into the bottom and I finally
emerge downstream of the alders in a muddy plume. I crawl up the
bank, still maintaining pressure and gaining line back on to the
reel. The fish is still far below me as the red marker stripe comes
back onto the reel.
- For a while the fish gives ground and I reel
continuously until the black stripe is also on the reel. I am down
stream fifty yards below the riffle.
- I see my fish next as the backing knot comes
into the rod guides. He is only a silvery-green blur deep in the
clear water of the eddy. My heart jumps. . . he is larger than I had
thought.
- For a long time the fish stays deep and edges
slowly upstream along the far shore. He bullies my light tackle with
the force of the main current at mid-stream. The backing knot
seesaws back and forth through the guides. There is a tremendous
down-stream bow in my line, as the fish stays straight across the
wide green river. Finally after many minutes the constant pressure
takes its toll and the big trout starts to give ground. A few
minutes more brings him to my hand.
- He is a wondrous creature, subdued but still
full of life. His body is deeper than my hand is long. I can barely
close my fingers around the waist of his tail as I slide him into
the shallow water. His black-spotted, olive colored back blends with
the skimpy aquatic vegetation and sand. The rose colored gill plates
pump rhythmically. His nose is long and pointed, but the lower jaw
lacks the kipe of sexual maturity. All of his fins are in virgin
condition. He has never spawned. The predominant male red stripe
from whence his species got its name is but a faint glow of the ruby
it will become. The pectoral fins contain this same red tinge. The
ventral and anal fins are tipped with milky white. His lower sides
are silver-amber. Every scale contains a sparkling mirror crescent.
His muscles are hard to the touch.
-
- Energy returns to this body and he starts to
struggle, at first feebly. . .then with vigor. Compete equilibrium
returns slowly. He is tired. I am tired, but relaxed as I turn him
toward the river and he struggles free from my hand. His form
dissolves into the green depths of the eddy. He is free again. And
so am I. ~ Mark Bachmann~
|
The Fly Fishing Shop, Welches, OR
