I stood thigh deep on the outside edge – the wrong side -- of
a big bend in the river when two things happened at the same time: I caught a
glimpse of a white hat bouncing behind a deadfall laying on the far bank – the right
side – and a fish grabbed my white, olive and chartreuse tube fly as it swung
out of the main current and into the slower water on the outside edge of the
bend. I had enough time to think it would be nice to impress whoever was under
that white hat with my fishing prowess before the fish popped off. This is what
is known as foreshadowing.
The angler greeted me from across the river, speaking in a
loud voice that carried over the wind and the river’s persistent percussion. He
commented on how glad he was to be out swinging flies on such a beautiful day.
I agreed. He asked if I minded if he swung through the hole behind me. I
appreciated his politeness and assured him he was welcome to fish behind me. He
patiently waited while I worked my way toward the deeper end of the run. I hadn’t
fished this stretch of the river in several years and much had changed. The
river used to be crossable just upstream of the bend, but a huge tree had
fallen into the river. The tree’s giant root ball pushed the current more toward
the center of the river and that added flow made it impossible to cross at its
present height and it made the tail of the bend much deeper, as I was about to
find out.
My new colleague slowly waded out to stand next to what was
once the top of the tree that was now redirecting the flow. He only made a few
swings before hooking into a fish. I didn’t mind at all because I was hooked
into one, as well. I’d never had a doubleheader on the swing before and after
we both landed our respective fish, we agreed that sometimes one fish makes for
a great day. He again made a comment about how great it was to just be out on
such a nice day. “I don’t know why I keep saying that,” he said.
He quickly hooked and landed another fish and I missed a
grab. He cautioned me a few times that the wading would get treacherous on my
side, and he made it clear that I was welcome to share the good side of the
river, if I could cross. As I kept swinging downstream the boulders got more treacherous and the river deeper. With
few good options, I reversed field, walked upstream and then cut over to safety
of the shore. I decided to hike upstream and look for a place to cross far
above the bend. The river was high and moving fast, but one small section looked
manageable – except I couldn’t really tell how deep it was against the other
bank. Foolishly, I began to cross – ignoring that the current was too strong
for me to effectively back up if it got too deep. I wished that I had my wading
staff. I wished that I was 10 years younger.
Fortunately, I was able to
navigate the crossing with water only filling my wader jacket pockets and not
my waders. I climbed up the bank and walked back downstream and came in behind
the angler with the white hat. He welcomed me to the good side of the river and
after introducing himself, said he probably wasn’t tall enough to cross where I
did. He offered me a chance to swing through the run, but I said I was in no
hurry and I watched him cast his line across the river, landing the fly beyond
where I had been wading just a few minutes earlier. He was using a 12.5 foot
rod – similar to the one in my car. The lighter 11 foot rod in my hand suddenly
felt inadequate.
He hooked another fish and spryly hopped out of the river and
onto the bank to fight the fish – a sight that I would get accustomed to over
the next few hours. I admired both his fluid movements and the song sung by his click and pawl fly reel as the fish peeled line
off of it. He used the leverage provided by the long rod to land the fish
quickly. I did the neighborly thing and took pictures of him with the fish.
At his insistence, I started fishing from the top of the run.
And he would follow behind me. I’d get a grab or two, and he kept catching fish He was humble. He said that he’d never had a day like this one.
We talked about
the rivers we liked to fish, the impolite wind that was playing havoc with our casting and the poor etiquette of some anglers. We didn’t
talk much. He was too busy landing fish. I watched and tried not to get
jealous. I almost succeeded.
We talked flies and how color didn’t matter, but his brown
was obviously working better than my olive. As his fish total topped double digits,
we talked about how unusual it was for so many fish to be aggressively
attacking flies in a single run. I decided to change flies and hooked a fish
on a black and blue fly. The fish leaped from the water and came rushing
upstream. The line went slack and the fish was gone. The swing king -- what else could I call him -- hooked more fish, including
one that rocketed at least three feet out of the river. He kept hooking them
after he lost his brown fly on a snag and shifted to black and chartreuse. Maybe I
should have changed flies again. But I had swung through the same run several
times and, as is often the case, I wanted to explore new water.
I’m sure a part
of me was tired of being schooled, as well. But I will tell myself that I said my
goodbyes and headed downstream because the swing king had earned the right to
end his beautiful day on the river swinging through the magical run in peaceful, glorious solitude. I am sure he would have done the same for me.
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