White Haired Wonder meets Big Bad Brown

The wiley veteran and his two young padres stood on the bank surveying the terrain.  Twenty steps out, across three strong currents, down 32 degrees and behind the large rock, he was there, a well fed, 25 inch brown waiting to play.  They spoke in hushed tones formulating the best strategy.  Much to there chagrin, a young novice, unskilled in the art of crossing, hurriedly rushed out mid stream, poorly suited, and splashed in the hole.  They grimaced and chuckled, huddled,  reformulated.  Then, he stepped forward.  Armed with a 9 foot 4 weight Sage, shin guards in place, sun protective, mosquito repellant shirt tucked neatly at the waist, wading staff in hand, he went in.  Wading cautiously at first, then proceeding with deft speed down river, he took aim.  He cast, then cast again, and again, and again.  With the skill of a seasoned angler, he touched the fly to the waters edge, twitching it gently, baiting his prey.  The veteran brown could not resist the sight of the well placed treat.  He streaked to the surface, retrieving the snack. 

To the bold brown’s dismay, he had been tricked by the wits of a fellow veteran.  His speed and agility would save him he thought.  He raced down stream, pulling his captor along with him, knee deep, waist deep, chest deep then fully under.  He would bring the wiley veteran down he thought, a win for all future fish on the West fork of Kelly Creek. 

Then, just when he thought he had drown the old man, he felt a strong tug on his upper lip.  The trusty wading staff had lodged deep in the crevice between two boulders.  With the strength of just his finger tips, the white haired wonder turned back the tide.  A strong grip now round the middle, he pulled himself to his feet and began to reel in his bounty.  After much struggle, the old brown agreed to submit, proud to have been wrangled by such a worthy opponent.  On the banks, the crowds were a light, fretting at first at the veteran’s disappearance under the water’s ripples, then cheering with delight as he surfaced, fish in hand.  He trudged back to the banks, across the slippery rocks, to be embraced by his two young, proud padres.  They beamed as they helped their teacher, their hero to a grassy seat.  The wiley old veteran would live to fish another day.

Bobble head

He hopped along the waters edge, nimbly, like a frog, bouncing from rock to rock.  No mind to the trees or brush that walled his back side, his line would deftly sweep out across the river and land pointedly at the target.  It was beautiful to watch really.  He was calm and content and yet so focused and eager.  I made aims to imitate his form, as I usually do…golfing, tennis, even bowling… but to little gain.  You are great… for a girl… he would always add, never belittling, always humble, but never his equal.    As I bobbled uncomfortably, teetering on this rock and that, nearly losing my balance as I pushed my way in and out of the waters edge, my frustration seeped into my game.  That was the key, and though I knew this, I could not get past it…I had to relax.  He often became lost in the enjoyment of what he was doing, it didn’t matter whether he was successful or not.  I took a deep breath and eased my line out gently towards the ripple, slow, easy…zing…a nice healthy 12 incher.  I looked over at him, pleased.  He was watching me, smiling, a large bend to his rod…

Catch me if you can

Line flicked out across the brisk river, sunlight dancing off the beads of water that clung to the leader, then settled softly, nestling the fly  in the haven of the eddy.  A quick flip mended the path and sent it bobbing gently down the current.  He was waiting there, watching, selectively eyeing his prey.  He sauntered slowly to the surface.  With a quick flash of his belly, the fly was gone, his for a second, mine to retrieve.  I pulled hard, setting the hook, then hung on.  We were going straight to the bottom, down, down…below the rocks.  I rode his back, catching a glimpse of his hole, now just out of reach, then pulled strong and steady on the line, changing his direction. He dodged left and right vigorously before conceedinging to land  on the bank after a domineering game of tug of war.  A healthy  ”orange throat”, as my daughter would say.  He opened his mouth wide and I spied the fly near down to his belly, gently prying it free with my pliers.  He measured a solid 18 inches…today…tomorrow he’d be longer.  I gave him one last admiring look, then let him rest before turning him free.  He turned quickly, not one glance back, and swam swiftly down, down  to his hole, ready to play again.

Rogue

Steam slipped off my shoulders  onto the clear emerald waters, rising up the river’s bank and dissipating into the foggy mist over the trees.  Plunk, the anchor was down.  The river lapped silently at our boat.   The salmon rolled.  The rods tipped playfully.  A brisk morning breeze brushed my face, tugging at my eyelids and pushing my warm cozy bed at the Boiler Riffle back into my afternoon thoughts.   

My toes tingled with anticipation of a nice King…or maybe it was that breeze.  An osprey snarred her catch just off our bow, circling like a glider on thermals.  She paused to lighten her load, then climbed higher reaching her nest with seeming ease. 

Our guide, a master at threading sardine baited hooks, lured our attention away from the stillness of the rods with catching conversation.  The salmon rolled.

We filled our bellies with spicy sausage, eggs and Tu tu tun mixed berry muffins and… waited. 

The sun broke as we shared our follies from the night before.  The salmon rolled.  Maybe they were annoyed by the presence of our boat, excited by our lures, surfacing to belch, or bumping each other along.  Perhaps they were taunting us or that seal, was that a seal?  Or maybe, they were just salmon.  We would never know. 

We talked about the salmon, talked about our jobs,  talked about the weather, talked about our children.  The rods tip tip tipped.  The salmon rolled. 

We hoisted the anchor and slipped quitely back to shore.  Maybe next time the salmon would stop and tell us why.   Maybe they were just salmon.