Monday, April 27, 2020

The Swing King -- No, Not Me


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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