Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ: By whom also we have access by faith into this grace wherein we stand and rejoice in hope of the glory of God. And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also knowing that tribulation worketh patience, and patience experience; and experience hope.
Day 1
On July 31, with a heat advisory prediction, I arrived
early at Wildcat Shoals Access on the White River, pumped and ready to fish.
With many obstacles blocking my fishing activities this summer, I was happy to
be here. In my haste to string my rod, I tangled my tippet and leader and
paused to counsel patience while I picked it apart.
I perused my fly box and chose a Partridge and Orange soft
hackle for my first effort. I double-checked my gear and headed downriver to my
favorite spot. I settled in, waited patiently, and received no takes for the
first few minutes. My perseverance reaped the reward of small pecks with no
hookups. I speculated miniature browns were the culprits. Sure enough, I
finally captured a small female brown. I missed several more and was never sure
of what the pokes would produce. This routine continued for a brief time, until
my attention diverted to a gaggle of gossiping grown girls in kayaks. They
talked over each other clearly unhappy with another member who didn’t come. I
wondered if they realized their voices rang clearly across the water and I
could hear every word.
After they passed, a group of cacophonous crows
gossiped in their language, also apparently displeased with one of their
members. The thought of the two groups, one human and one feathered, yet
similar, left me smiling.
The fog returned building into a tower resembling a waterspout
whose long fingers reached toward the heavens. I’d never been on the river when
this happened, and it portrayed a magnificent indicator of God’s handiwork. The
display captivated my attention until it dissolved.
A young guide, with clients, raced his boat upstream
with one hand on the tiller handle and the other clutching his phone.
Unfortunately, the device seemed to require more of his attention than his
focus on his job. I marveled at the liability of his actions.
My luck improved and I managed to land more petite
browns while never changing nor checking the condition of my fly. But soon the
hits ran out of steam and so did I. Deciding to rest on a nearby picnic table
bench, I drank water from my small canteen, munched on cheese sandwich
crackers; then looked at my fly. No wonder my takes stopped! There was little
left of it. Most of the feathers were gone and the thread wrapping reduced to
flimsy wisps. Lesson to self—you’ve flunked the basics of fly fishing when you
fail to check your fly.
River life offers unique diversions. After a full
morning of a murder of crows, a gaggle of girls, young phone toting guides, the
spectacle of foaming fog, and incidentally lots of little fish, I decided to head
home.
Day 2
By now the second day of August rolled around with
another heat advisory. I set my alarm to arrive early along with the first
guides preparing for their day. I recognized one of our favorites from our
resort ownership days, a young up and comer, now on retainer with one of the
elite lodges in the area. He and his wife were married on our campground before
we retired. We chatted and caught up on his family.
By now, I’d tied on a fresh Partridge and Orange. Why
mess with success? I thought to myself. I began upriver from my usual spot
and had a strong take on the second cast. That area quickly waned. I returned
to my favorite stretch with a repetitive spate of pecks and misses. A boatload
of spin cast fishers passed me, anchored downriver on the opposite side, and
immediately turned their Country Western music on full blast. The old-school
honky-tonk pieces rapidly reached my last nerve.
The bright spot, however, was the size increase of the
Brown population on this day. I caught a more respectable twelve-inch fish,
nothing to achieve bragging rights for, but better than the babies of the last
trip. While unhooking and releasing him from the net, the fly disappeared.
Grateful that this happened after his return to the water, nevertheless I was
disappointed to realize that I had only one Partridge and Orange left in my
box.
I cinched it up tight and was quickly back into the nudges
again, finally managing to retain five fish in my net and 2 mighty jumpers who
didn’t make it. By this time, my aching back told me to stop and rest. I found
a ledge of grass perfect for sitting and enjoyed the view of the river. When I
rose to return to the water, I discovered my dip net string entangled with my
wading staff cord. Not a simple unwrapping procedure, it eluded an easy fix.
But I persevered, untangled the mess, and resumed casting.
I heard a conversation behind me. Two young dads, with
small children, passed. The little girl arrayed in pink clothing with a
turquoise and pink fishing hat, pink flip-flops, carrying a small,
turquoise-colored landing net. The young boy, dressed in a camo outfit,
appeared more serious and carried a backpack with a net handle poking up
through the top. I called out, “Looks like you gotcha some good helpers there.”
One of the dads didn’t miss a beat. “They’re our fish
netters,” he said, as if those two kids were the special people of their own
magical day. I believed they were!
I laughed. “Well, be careful they don’t fall on those
big rocks ahead of you,” I said. The little girl stumbled once in her sandals;
but undeterred marched on determined to do her job!
I caught more small
fish as quitting time neared. A tall man in waders came by next and I told him,
“I’ve been tearing ‘em up on a Partridge and Orange if you have any in your
box. This is my second trip here this week and both days, that’s worked!”
“I got a bunch of ‘em! I know whatcha mean. I took a
guy downriver last week, to teach him how to fly-fish. While I was helping him,
I caught about 30 on a woolly bugger!”
I giggled, “Well, shoot, I’m not gonna brag about my 7
or 8 then.”
He marched on. “Thanks for the advice,” he called
back.
It was time to head for the car and I gratefully
thought about all the blessings of this day. When I walked up the hill to the
parking lot, I heard louder music. Two young guys had just launched their boat,
turned up their tunes full blast and headed upriver. Some people never get it,
I thought.
Day 3
There were no foul-ups or problems on this outing. But
there were no fish either! We’d had a cold front come through the night before
and the temperatures were significantly cooler. No interest in the soft hackles
or any other fly I threw. But sights and sounds on the White River abound with
joy of one kind of another---as well as people-watching. I observed a guide and
his two clients headed downriver. Neither person was fishing. Both were busy on
their phones. A group of Canadian geese swept down toward their boat … so close
their wings almost clipped the water. The sight of that event brought an easing
to all the world’s problems. The couple scrolled on completely oblivious!
Day 4
A cool September morning and a chance to field test two
versions of Partridge and Orange created by my neighbor. Larger than the ones
I’d been using, but I had success with both, bringing two small stockers up to
the top of the water where they spit the hook and one dink who barely qualified
as more than a minnow. As I began to pull more line out from my reel, I groaned
to see I’d wrapped the line outside of the reel. I sat down on the bank and
tried to push the button hard enough to pull the reel apart. Finally, I had to
use the butt of my wading staff to do it and thankfully put everything back to
normal.
Undaunted, I attached the original fly-shop P&O in
a size 16. On all the previous days, I’d fished the shallows along the
shoreline. I observed a pod of decent sized fish holding in deeper water and
cast downstream from them. The vicious take sang a happy tune on my drag and my
toddler fish streak ended. Surprisingly, he was my first Rainbow since I caught
all the small Browns, a hefty fellow of about 15 inches. He was the only fish
to grace my net this day but worth the trip.
Fishing offers distinctive life lessons. I’ve always
said, God introduced me to fly-fishing to teach me patience. These last 4 days I’m
convinced he smiled at the extra overtime!
