Pick, Peck, Poke a Problem ... and a Partridge

 

Romans 5:1-4

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!

Hope's Heartbeat

                                                      Photo by Diane Mikrut
Romans 5: 3-5...but we glory in tribulations also knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and patience experience; and experience hope: And hope maketh not ashamed because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given to us. 

On a stellar Monday afternoon in June, I drove to Wildcat Access and parked my SUV in the last available slot. As I opened my hatch and grabbed waders and boots, I vaguely referenced a large burly man sitting at a picnic table removing his gear. I sat down at the other table and began to pull mine on. As he walked by, he said with a snarl, “You’re wasting yer time. I’ve tried every fly in my box and haven’t caught a thang. My wife’s down there fishing too and she’s hasn’t caught anything either.”

Somewhat taken aback by his tone, I replied kindly, “Yes, I saw you taking off your waders.” I’ll just show you, I thought. But try as I might, I couldn’t catch a “thang” either. I waded up and down the shoreline, tried multiple flies and met with no success. As the evening turned into dusk, however, the smell of bacon wafted across the river from a nearby resort. Visions of BLTs on fat Texas toast created a mouth-watering picture. I marveled at a heron that appeared, from a distance, taller than I am … his signature long-legged strut always a strange sight. Just as the sun slid down the horizon, six squawking Canadian geese flew over my head … so close I felt like I could reach them with my rod tip. And even though my gratitude didn’t encompass any trout takes, nevertheless, I was blessed by this day away from worries about the Pandemic. By that point I felt a pang of regret for my negative thoughts about the man who failed to see such wonder and magic in this setting. Maybe he just needed a little bit of Jesus! And why hadn’t I provided that witness?

The next day I returned and caught a small brown but nothing else. His size belied his strong fight and I was happy with his efforts. My trip was cut short, however, by a snarled tippet that made an eagle’s nest look tidy. Deciding to quit, I still enjoyed the time I had along the riverbank. On the way back to the car, I was in the process of returning a phone call, when 2 men approached looking woebegone. Cancelling my call, I asked, “Can I help you?”

One said, “You look like someone in the know,” to which I giggled. “We’re here from Michigan staying at a resort up the road and need to know how to fish this place.”

I began by telling them about the various entry points and what flies to try. Then I said, “We used to own a resort and this is what we told our customers: we don’t want to get in your pocket; but you might want to try a …”

One of the men interrupted, “We know … a guide. But we’ve checked with the local fly shop plus our resort people and all theirs are booked.” The two gents shook their heads in disgust. “I knew we should have called a week ago and made arrangements.”

I felt sorry for them and replied, “Let me give you the number of one of our guides.”  Then I suggested some easily remembered guide websites; and told them to use my name when they called.

“Will he take us to catch big fish?” One of the men asked.

“You need to tell him when you call,” I responded. “But it will depend on water levels, weather and a lot of things for him to do that.”

Much happier, they left to go to their car to make the contacts. Maybe I’m just a sucker for people who need help; but we’ve all “been there” anxious to try out a new place without the proper info.

As I returned to my car, I decided that maybe it was no accident that I had to make an early departure. I’d done a good deed for some folks who needed some advice; and maybe after receiving that small act of kindness, they will decide to return to our little slice of heaven.

That night I reviewed the prediction for Wednesday’s generation and was jazzed by the thoughts of minimum flow. Promising myself an early start, I packed my car and set my alarm extra early.

Wednesday I quickly drove to the access and discovered, to my delight, the prediction was true. I could hardly wait to hit the water. As I sat down to slip on waders, two teenage boys walked by and I said a hearty good morning. They responded with a polite greeting. They carried 2 kayaks, set them down along the shoreline and returned to their pickup for life jackets. One stopped to talk as I strung my rod. “I envy you what you’re doing,” he said.

“How’s that?” I said.

“Well you’re going fly fishing and I can’t fly fish from a kayak. I’m gonna have to fish with regular lures today.”

I laughed and retorted, “I can’t fish out of a kayak either. I have to use it as transportation to get to a gravel bar or a spot I can get out and wade.” We both commiserated about our shortcomings for a moment.

Then he said, “But I caught a 26” brown last night at Cotter Access on a black woolly!”

I put my hand over my heart and said, “Oh man I’m so jealous.” He continued to tell me details and how long it fought; then turned to follow his buddy down to their kayaks.

As they reached their boats, I yelled in my best hillbilly accent, “I ain’t yore Momma, but wear those life jackets instead of sittin’ on ‘em.”  They laughed; but as they paddled away, I was pleased to see the vests attached.

By this time, I was ready to go--somewhat buoyed by an enjoyable conversation with two fine young men. I began to fish, vowing to try some different flies and achieve more success than my other 2 days. I tried soft hackles and various other creations with no results. Then I remembered the young fisher’s suggestion. I tied on a black woolly with sparkle in the body and flash in the tail. I found a place where a large dark rock was visible in deeper water and two flat white rocks were embedded in the gravel. As soon as my fly drifted by the rock and into shallow water, a ferocious take rewarded me and I soon had a hefty thick rainbow in my net. The funny thing was, I’d done one of my “normal” operations and tied on an extra-long tippet. I would almost get the fish in and then he’d dart away with too much line to scoop him into my net. Finally I maneuvered him into lower water and made a dip and had him captured. I briefly admired and released him. Within a couple of more casts, I’d garnered his older brother, another stout fellow, with a passion for strong tugs and a brave heart.

By now, I was excited and stood in that same spot catching 5 more, some of the small stocker variety. In my zest, I missed another 7. Finally my aching back reminded me it was time to leave. So I took off for my car, thinking what a fine time I’d had and that I’d managed to last about an hour longer than I usually did.

My husband pulled up in his truck to check on me. “I was getting worried,” he said.

“I caught 7 fish and missed that many more, I said catching my breath. I’d have stayed longer but my back was hollering.”

“Just as long as you’re okay,” he said and drove away.

On the short drive home, I pondered my 3 days on the river. Even though I was unsuccessful the first 2 days, I’d fellowshipped, helped others and given what I hoped was good advice. I was out of the house away from TV’s frightening statistics about the Pandemic. I’d enjoyed sparkling water, glorious sunshine and perfect weather. In addition, I’d had a good dose of some “Joy that comes in the morning.”  I reflected about the man from the first day and that he might benefit from the scripture Ecclesiastes 3: 1 that says “To every thing there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”  Like many of us, he thought it was all about catching fish. Instead the sights and sounds of the river are a gift God’s given us to uplift our spirits and bring us hope. And cherishing those blessings is never a waste of time.

Forwarding Favors

Isaiah 9:6
For unto us a child is born ... His name will be called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

In early November I rejoiced over a warm Sunday and some wadable water at Wildcat Shoals. When I arrived, I noticed my friend Ron McQuay’s truck parked near the boat ramp, with its distinguishable logo Ron’s Fly Fishing 101 Lessons for Beginners on the camper shell. However I saw no sign of Ron and walked upriver to my favorite spot. As I passed by the first good water near the boat ramp, I noticed a fly fisher; and his graceful roll cast caught my attention. I didn’t bother him; and began fishing, enjoying the soft winter sunshine on my face and a few small trout that found my fly appealing.

Later, I overheard a conversation between him and a guide who asked for help jump starting his truck after failing to turn off his lights earlier that foggy morning. The fisherman willingly stopped fishing and they soon had the guide’s truck started. The afternoon passed too soon and the sun’s crawl over the horizon told me it was time to go.

As I passed the same fisher near the boat ramp, he was bent over, appeared to be searching for something, and seemed agitated.  “Did you do any good?” I asked.

“I’ve caught a 23” brown and I can’t find my phone,” he said. “Gotta get him back in the water. Phone might be in the truck.” He pointed to Ron’s pickup.

“Want me to bring it to you?” I asked. His positive answer made me rush to the open window of the pickup, where I spied the phone and brought it back.

“Darn it, not sure if I even remember how to work the thing,” he said.

“Well how about I take a picture on my phone and send it to Ron? We need to get the fish back in the water.”

“Oh I sure would appreciate it,” he said. Within a few seconds I’d taken 2 shots and he waded out, revived the fish and let the behemoth go. We both breathed a sigh of relief.

“Man I’m so jealous,” I said. “What a great fish!” As we talked, I learned he was Ron’s son, Jerry.

Over the course of the next several weeks, I would often see him attempting to catch another giant brown. I would speak and head upriver to try my own luck. During the rest of November, I caught mostly small fish, a few dinks, a stocker or two, but nothing of any size. I was happy to be out, however, after a long summer hiatus. Then the Sunday before Thanksgiving, everything changed. I again noticed Ron’s trunk but no Ron. I saw a lone fisher near the boat ramp but didn’t recognize him.

Relatively low water kept the nearby home’s yard grass from trapping my boot cleats and gave me hope of a better catch. Bright sunshine turned the water to glistening highlights as I threw out a size 16 olive woolly. Within a few seconds, I caught a decent stocker, followed by a tiny rainbow no more than about 6 inches.

I moved further downstream, found a small bit of moving water diagonal to the grass beds and thunder struck in the form of a stout fish. For the first time in months I had a worthy adversary on my line. He made several surges and caused my drag to issue a most satisfying hum. When I dipped him into the net, I was proud of his spirit and character. My choice of water was apparently a wise one, because I soon had another feisty fellow giving me a tussle. My drag sang for the second time and he actually swam toward the shoreline almost getting behind me. I gently guided him back out front and after several more dives, he finally surfaced just in time for me to swoop him into the net. A righteous 16 inches with a sizable girth and enough heft to bring a grin to my face, he was the best rainbow I’d caught in at least a year. I fished another 20 minutes or so but couldn’t duplicate my success. The day started to wane, but I decided to try a girdle bug and a midge dropper. Getting the rig gathered up and attached to my tippet has always been a bit daunting to me but I managed it. Somehow my multi-tasking wasn’t up to par, however, because in holding on to all the pieces, I dropped my bag of strike indicators and before I could react, it sailed downriver.

I yelled down to the nearest fisher, “My strike indicator bag is coming right toward you. Help me please!”

He nodded, turned, gave me a thumbs up and waded just enough toward shore to intercept it. I exited the water and met him near his part of the shoreline. Then I thought I recognized him. (Different hat same guy). “Jerry, is that you?”

“Sure is,” he said and handed me the bag.

“Thanks so much. That’s about $20 worth, right there. One good turn … right?” We both laughed.

I went back upriver but didn’t get a single take on my dropper rig and decided to call it a day. As I passed, I yelled, “Well I’ll leave the rest of them to you, Jerry."

After I walked up the hill and returned to my car, I thought about the joy of this day. Outsiders who don’t understand fly fishers say we’re arrogant, pride ourselves on expensive gear, are unfriendly, unwilling to share, etc. But I say, we’re a compassionate helpful group who take time to give advice, share flies, and assist wherever needed. I’ve found this to be true whether on the Norfork or the White. I’ve lost count of the people who’ve shared kindnesses too numerous to count.

As we enjoy this season of Advent, it’s an appropriate time to celebrate the ideas of sharing, giving and compassion. For the stars still shine silently over Bethlehem. The manger’s message yet prevails: Peace and Good Will still abound on the earth.

 

Calibrating Crooked Creek

Calibrating Crooked Creek

 

 

John 15:11 These things have I spoken unto you, that my joy might remain in you, and that your joy might be full.

 

With late spring flooding sending generation quantities through the roof on both Norfork and White Rivers, wadable water seemed impossible until November. Determined to find an alternative location to fish, I’d driven twice to the new Mark Oliver access on Crooked Creek to check water levels.  At last, an opportunity. The pristine setting has all the amenities other accesses lack: concrete boat launch, sturdy wooden wheelchair ramp, concrete pier, two picnics tables under large shade trees and most important for us ladies, a brand new porta pot. On a late August morning, I found it low enough to wade.

I’d heard about Woolly Buggers versus the often touted Clouser minnows. I began with a strawberry blonde woolly and within a couple of casts, felt a mini tug resulting in a tiny smallmouth of about 4”.  On the other trips I’d made here, I’d observed a quick green streak out from the cement wall and had wondered if it were a baby smallie. Sure enough, the evidence wiggled on the end of my line. Delighted to be on the water after a long hiatus, I smiled at such a small success.

A man stopped with a pickup and canoe attached and was confused on whether he was at the right location to meet his shuttle. I tried to help but didn’t realize he’d said Georges Creek; and he left disgusted with his failure. 

In a few minutes he returned, realizing after a phone call that he was indeed in the right place to launch his canoe for Kelly’s access. He and the outfitter who would shuttle were now in sync and even with his late start, he was enthused about his trip.

He removed his canoe and after several trips to his truck to remove his gear, he rigged his rod and made ready to shove off. Before he left, he shared he was from Missouri, had fished for smallies there and recommended flies like crawfish or poppers. “I have some of those,” I said, "and will try your recommendation later.” Then I told him I’d heard it was farther to Kelly’s Access than the supposed 2 miles listed on the signage.

By this time, he was ready to start his journey. Smiled, shrugged and said, “I don’t care.”

I chortled, “Well at least you won’t have trouble finding this access next time.” He joined my laughter and off he went. 

Once again, with the meandering water all to myself, I carefully moved across and downstream, picking my way along the rocky bottom. The monotonous mantra of the cicadas almost made me drowsy but bird songs I’d never heard at my feeders added a wakeup call. I tried a brown woolly and was rewarded with another miniature smallmouth plus a sunfish about the size of my hand—its colors as vibrant as Joseph’s coat.

Once again, as I often do on these trips, I marveled at the gifts God has given me: the soul-satisfying tranquility found on this stream; songs to lift my heart and the satisfaction of catching fish. After all, I thought, Jesus built many of his messages around fishing, water, and the sights and sounds of nature’s glory.

Finally I chose a large Clouser, black with red resembling a leech I’d seen on some of the “up north” TV fly fishing shows. No takes graced my rod. Also tried a gray crawfish then a green Clouser with no luck.

 By this time I eyed my little cooler left on shore, regretting my decision to forgo the small canteen I usually clip to my vest. Sweat trickled down my back and I decided it was time to wade back across. The obvious quickest route seemed too swift; and remembering my fall at the Narrows, I walked a bit upstream till I found a smoother spot and crossed safely. As I exited the water, I saw a tiny taupe colored frog who blended into the sand quite well until he leapt up the rocky rip-rap. He jumped with not a care in the world.

Spicebush butterflies drank the boat ramp moisture and I stopped to take a quick pic. Two fly fishers arrived and I trudged up the hill where I shared my modest story; then launched into a litany of my unsuccessful flies: Clousers, crawfish, etc. One looked at the other and said, “Well I guess we wasted our money at the fly shop.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “You might do better than I did.”

The same fellow asked if I’d tried the big riffle yet and I said no as this was my first trip. “Think I’ll walk upcreek to it. I did well there last time,” he said.

Good info, I thought, as I slugged down half a water bottle; then began to put away my gear. Double checking to make sure I hadn’t left anything, I drove away thinking what a perfect morning it had been: catching fish in a new location where  I had low expectations, receiving fly tips from the canoe guy and a better wading spot idea from the two men.

Pondering the ideas and advice I’d received, I recalled a sermon from a former pastor who now preaches at heaven’s gates. He said, “Little is much when God is in it.”

Finally I understood God’s message via the miniscule frog: happiness grows from the petite events in our lives like tiny catches, dazzling butterflies and the chance to fish another day.

 

 

 

 

Nasty Narrows

Isaiah 43:2

When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers they shall not overflow thee.

Last year on a hot summer’s day, I drove to the Narrows access. The larger island entertains numerous rock beds and drop-offs. Once known for big browns and quality fish, the flooding of the past several years has taken its toll on the “fishability” of the main island.

I rigged up in the small parking lot. As I always do, I tread carefully down the rock steps; and as I moved off the last one, I realized I’d forgotten my Ziploc bag in which I usually store my phone. Oh well, I thought anxious to fish, it’s zipped in my wader pocket. No problem.

The run next to the island has deepened since the Dec. ‘15 flood so that the former safe crossing spots are treacherous. I found this out when I attempted to wade across a place I perceived as safe. Since I’m a lightweight, I’ve always utilized a sidestep approach that has served me well in past fishing trips. I trekked halfway across and suddenly realized I was in a poor position, balance-wise, to the current. Quickly perceiving the danger, I knew better than to turn around, but instead attempted to anchor my wading staff and one foot then move the other foot along attaining a more stable position. In the blink of a baby’s eyelash I was down and twirling like an out-of-control drum major’s baton. My first thought was don’t let go of your rod. My second was don’t drown!

The water wasn’t deeper than about 2 feet, which didn’t keep me from tumbling under even with my life vest. Each time I attempted to rise, the swift current thrust me back down. The more I tried to get my feet under me, the less successful I became. I didn’t think I would drown as long as I didn’t hit the steep drop-off where the water accessed the main channel. But at the rate I was progressing, that became more tenuous. Somehow I finally managed to get on my knees and crawl up the bank.

I sat and surveyed the damage: multiple water droplets sparkled under my IPhone cover (so much for the expensive “waterproof” case); my wader feet squished in my boots; but my wet sleeves would dry. I emptied my boots and stood on shaky legs. I would survive I thought and headed around the island to begin fishing. I threw my first fly of the day, one similar to a crackleback in a lime green color. The beauty of this fly, given me by a friend, is that it can be fished wet or dry; and I’d never had an opportunity to try it in this venue. When no takes rewarded my cast near the first rock pile, I decided to try something different.

Reaching for my fly box, I found only an empty pocket. This was my favorite filled with 10 years of flies both store-bought and those given me by friends, like Bob Krause, Ron McQuay, young Michael Schrader and others. Sick at heart, I knew they couldn’t be replaced. Discouraged I returned to the spot where I’d sat after falling, hoping the box would be there. It wasn’t. Disconsolate, I decided to forgo fishing and instead concentrate on a safe place to cross and return to my car. I kept walking upstream along the edge of the treacherous run and found a “softer, gentler,” spot. As I exited into ankle deep water, 2 fly fishers met me. I told them of my disastrous morning and urged caution, saying in a mocking tone, “I guess I just didn’t have enough lead in my butt.”

One of the guys, a most skinny fellow muttered, “Well I’ve got enough in mine.” The other guy stopped and commiserated with me when I told him of my lost fly box; and I begged him to return it to Dally’s fly shop in case he recovered it. As I left, I turned around to watch the first lean fisher. He crossed near the spot of my disaster and seemed to stiffen his legs and stalk as he waded, almost like a Blue Heron when it searches the shallows. The sight would have been comical under normal circumstances, but not today.

Chagrined all over again, I tromped back to the car and removed all my gear, thinking of my losses for the day: a full fly box and heaps of dignity and pride. I resolved to come back but stopped at my favorite Sonic Drive-in where I drowned my sorrows in a diet drink.

Two weeks later, I returned, determined to “get back on the proverbial horse”. I crossed at the better spot with no problems, only to behold a fallen tree that blocked the way around the island, unless I tried the swift current again. Refusing to quit, I waded back across and considered slogging the opposite way around the island; then realized it was uncharted territory in terms of current and distance. I chose instead to fish the lesser island where I’d never been before.

I tried several flies but with no results. A guide boat anchored below me but I saw no fish captured in their net either. However, I found some slight drop-offs, some sloping gravel bars and encountered new possibilities there. By this time, the hot temps convinced me to return to the parking lot and call it a morning.

Reviewing the outing, I thought about spiritual lessons God tried to teach me. The struggle to get on my knees to save myself was one of the more obvious. I have an active prayer life and often feel as though I’m chatting with a friend rather than entreating God for a request. Had I lost consistency and continuity in my prayer endeavors?  Has my prayer list not received the devotion those people deserved?  I contemplated David’s words in a new light—“thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” My fly fishing equipment is valuable but not as cherished as my salvation. What have I clutched to myself rather than sharing the story of the cross? In warning the 2 fishers about my catastrophe, had I been a Good Samaritan, while at the same time, seeking empathy from my fellow men or was I just throwing a pity party? These topics deserved further study and thoughtfulness.

But the outings weren’t a total loss. I’d conquered my anxiety about the crossing, found different locations to fish and realized new potential in The Narrows. Most people see only the beauty of fly fishing. I’d witnessed some of the ugliness and lived to tell about it, thanks to God’s grace and protection. Those thoughts lightened my heart and kept my resolve firm. I’d be back.















September's Silly Sucker

 

Corinthians 4:7-8

But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not us. We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in desperation.

 

A fine September day found me immersed in river water to my knees, anxious to fish after the inconsistent generation patterns of the summer months. Perfect weather, floating leaves and a sense of peace flooded my brain as I made my first cast with a Partridge and Orange. With no success, I changed to a Little Randy and felt a small bump but missed it. I flung it back into the spot and waited a bit longer before setting the hook. The fish jumped and I could tell it was small. However, after waiting months to fish, even a dink sounded good to me. As I reeled it in, a rasping noise assaulted my ears. Eager to capture the fish, I should have looked at my rod butt. But in a few short seconds, it was too late as my reel unseated and flopped into the water. Could my rookie days have come back to haunt me? I made a grab for the reel trying at the same time to keep tension on the part of the line that held the fish. My problems only multiplied as the reel sank further and I finally managed to grab it after submerging my arm to the elbow. I couldn’t believe it but could still feel a flopping fish on the now restored line. When I finally managed to get it in, I found a small sucker on the other end. No wonder I didn’t lose this ugly creature. Those thick lips were there to stay.

Much chagrined at this point, I removed the Little Randy and switched to a purple wooly. No success there either, so my new choice was a White River special. An over-zealous guide sped by almost swamping me with his wake. The next people were more courteous. The two fly fishers recommended an olive wooly. I observed their success as they caught fish after fish and I quickly tied one on. Within a few minutes I hooked a stout Rainbow with a robust fight equal to my racing heart. Its vibrant colors graced my day with a beauty to fill any canvas and the 16” length gave me a sense of purpose. The friendly fly fishers were spot-on and another take brought a tussle similar to the first. About the same size and color, he challenged my skills and soon flopped in my net for a quick look and release. The third fish was much smaller but no less appreciated. Since my success rate had been poor during the summer, I was thrilled and several more missed fish kept my enthusiasm going. Somehow, I’d experienced a one-two-three sucker punch in reverse. Could the old thick-lipped piscatorial character have brought me luck?

God often touches our lives in ways we don’t understand. A troubling experience points the way to renewal. A difficult time sends us a friend who needs our wisdom. He is in control though the path we’re traveling seems unbearable at that moment. I often want my difficulties to be removed rather than to learn the insight of the lesson. God is waiting to teach me the difference.

Before the day’s end, my friend Scott Branyan (a.k.a. The Fly Flinger) rowed his drift boat by with 2 fishers and we exchanged hellos across the river. Life could be no better than this: an enchanting day on the water, an incident to give me patience, several strong fish to stretch my line and greeting an old friend. Blessed beyond measure, I finished the day, took one more look around and made my way back home.

Birthday Bamboozle

Psalm 116: 6

The Lord preserveth the simple: I was brought low, and he helped me.

An April Sunday after church I waited till late afternoon for my birthday wish--to fish along the edge of our campground. High water conditions hadn’t allowed me to wade in months. Although I was out of practice, everything went smoothly until I stepped into the water.

The landscape had drastically changed after the December floods had deepened the holes beyond the boat ramp. Where I had previously waded through gravel beds to a shallow place, I now encountered sticky sand and drop-offs. I backed up and began to cast, forgetting about the tree limbs over my head, After 2 casts I snagged one. Climbing up a muddy bank to reach the tree. I was lucky enough to bend the branch down and retrieve my fly.

Thinking I was good to go, I stepped back into the water. Failing to check that my fly was secured to the rod, I soon discovered it lodged on the back side of my boot. This fly was a new creation given me to try. I intended to accomplish that mission. However, the hook was so deeply embedded that when I attempted to pull it out with my forceps, it broke off.

On my way to full-fledged exasperation, I tied on another one of the same type and within a few moments managed to snag a different tree behind me. This time it was too high to reach and I snapped the second fly along with the tippet. 

About this time my husband rode up on the four wheeler to innocently ask how I was doing. I went into full-blown whine and recounted my poor techniques. He offered to tie on more tippet and I gratefully accepted.

Finally after thanking him and breathing deep, I set off to try again. He wisely left and I found a new path through the water near a giant tree root left gnarled by the flooding. With one cast my 3^rd fly of the set managed to discreetly land in the water unencumbered by any more obstacles. Lo and behold, I felt a strong take and a few seconds later captured a small female brown. Even though she garnered no prizes, she fought with a courageous heart and I thankfully accepted my birthday gift.

I wondered briefly how Job endured all the tests God put before him. Surely my difficulties this day couldn’t compare with his tribulations and yet he managed to keep his faith. My hope was to measure up in tiny increments and the challenge was to meet the travail with gratitude.

No other fish graced my net that day; but neither did I bury my boots in sucking sand or embarrass myself further. Memories of my rookie days beckoned but I resisted.

Maybe this birthday was special after all. I’d learned some patience, caught a fish and arrived back at my starting point without tumbling into the water.

Light the candles and bring on the cake. I’m done!

 

 

Of Pots and Pans

Obligations and Opportunities

Hebrews 12:28-29 Wherefore we receiving a kingdom which cannot be moved, let us have grace, whereby we may serve God acceptably with reverence and godly fear;  For our God is a consuming fire.

Last fall Murphy’s Law ran amuck in our household: 2 flats on hubby’s truck, a Turkey Buzzard’s collision with my windshield, and a TV which fried then died. Dealing with insurance, car repair and hanging the new TV on the wall bracket tested my endurance beyond measure. I wondered how often we test God’s patience.


By Friday, I was determined to fish regardless of circumstances. But despite a prediction of zero, Bull Shoals Dam actually generated one unit. By mid-morning, work-out and chores completion, I discovered that the water had been shut off. Suddenly I realized my fishing license was outdated and detoured to purchase one.

Finally at about 1:00, I reached my favorite White River spot, The Narrows, to find the small parking lot jammed full. Stubbornly believing my special fishing place would still be available, I quickly parked and began to gear up. A man crossed the lot and as we spoke, I recognized him as my friend Bob Krause, a writer, excellent local tyer and active fisherman. We chatted as I finished preparing. He had been invited to help with a class in Africa, but instead decided to send the teacher some materials including the recipe to his favorite fly, the White River Special.

Before I left, Bob gave me one of his creations. As I reached the water, I quizzed the next group of fishers who were leaving. One young man showed me what he’d used, a fly similar to the Little Randy I’d already attached. “That looks like this Little Randy,” I said.

He laughed, “Well my name’s Randy. So maybe you’ll be lucky.” The walk to the upper end of the island was a long one given the fact I’d worked out and done chores. But the afternoon sunshine glimmered. A light breeze tossed fall leaves across the river and the fish were rising!

I reached my favorite riffle only to find it holding three fly fishers and a guide with a boat pulled up onshore nearby. So I moved to another pool upriver and began to cast the Little Randy. On the second cast while stripping it slowly, I felt a fierce take and began to reel in a strong fish. As I caught a glimpse of him, I realized he was bigger than I’d hoped. He appeared to be a Brown as skinny as a Musky. Suddenly he tired and I easily scooped him into the net. His mouth drooled long strands of green moss and I speculated he’d been lying in one of the large moss patches as my fly drifted past.

The guide stood next to his boat with his back to me watching his clients. I couldn’t resist a quiet “Wahoo” as I rushed to shore with the Brown to get a photo.

I quickly laid him out next to my rod on a grassy knoll and guessed he was 18-20’ long--not the largest Brown I’d ever caught because of his depleted girth, but definitely the longest. His hooked jaw gave him stature. My two digital photos didn’t capture the pronounced jaw line or do him justice; but I couldn’t take the chance to wait for another opportunity when he needed to be back in the water. So I hurriedly waded out, held his tail for a few seconds while I pushed him back and forth. On the second push, he flicked his tail and surged away reassuring me of his quick recovery.

Eventually the fishing slowed on the Little Randy; and I tried a green Anna Kay, a green Wooly and a Partridge and Orange with weak results. By this time the guide and his clients were ready to leave. He looked upriver at me and we both realized he needed to back his boat out near my area. “Come on ahead. You won’t bother me. I know how hard it is to get out where you are,” I said.

“Thanks, ma’am,” he said. And carefully backed out as courteously as he could. By now the only fisher left in the pool had moved past the rock pile bordering the riffle and my heart beat faster as I moved back into my favorite location.

Remembering my latest gift from Bob, I fastened his White River Special and was into fish immediately. For the next hour, I caught feisty small stockers about every third cast. Bob’s fly, worthy of a trip around the globe, had definitely lived up to its reputation on OUR river!

By 4:30, my aching back convinced me to leave. On the way I stopped and talked to a man in a small western fly fishing hat and asked him how he’d done. “Not very well. I think my western flies are too big for this river.”

“Well here’s what I caught my big Brown on today,” I said. “If I had another, I’d give you this one.” I held out the Little Randy for him. Somehow in the exchange, he dropped the fly into a large clump of grass. I stifled my dismay and watched as he squatted down and began to comb through the grass attempting to find it. Finally I said, “Listen, don’t worry about it. The fly shop has plenty. I’ll stop and get more.” I wished him good luck and headed toward the car. I speculated how often God grants us gifts when we live our unworthy lives and ignore his outstretched hands.

I sat down at the edge of my car seat and began to remove boots and waders. Just as I stood to put them in the trunk, the westerner and two buddies crossed the parking lot. He approached me with a half-smile on his face. “You’re not gonna believe this,” he said. “But I pulled that whole clump of grass up and found your fly at the bottom.”

“Well, bless your heart.” I laughed and this time held my flattened palm out to make sure of the fly’s retrieval. Can God’s grace be passed to complete strangers on a riverbank in Arkansas? I’m sure God provides opportunities for us to witness in small ways totally unrecognizable to us.

Despite a week loaded with obstacles, I’d renewed a friendship, received a gift of a new fly, and witnessed countless examples of God’s blessings in my life.

Yes Randy, some might call it my lucky day. God simply calls it grace!

In June the fly fishing community lost an icon. Dean Darling’s contributions to NAFF and Sowbug were stellar. His down-to-earth personality and wry sense of humor blessed everyone he met. Dean’s Little Rules for Life might be summed up this way: Keep your loops tight. Always put your boots on wet. And never wear a belt with your Levi’s.

Make Mine Brown Darling
On December 26, 2005, Dean Darling didn’t think of shopping any after Christmas sales. White River conditions were just right: water low for wading and temps in the 40’s. Dean and his buddy Bob Chapman decided to go fly-fishing. Partly cloudy skies didn’t dampen their enthusiasm. They drove to the upper part of the White River downstream from Bull Shoals Dam where they strapped on waders, vests, and equipment and waded across the gravel bed. Darling’s fly rod was a Sage nine foot five weight piece of fish-catching engineering accompanied with a Hardy reel and 4 X tippet. For most of the morning, catches were light. In fact, only two small Rainbows summarized time spent for the two men. Up until about noon they had few braggin’ rights. Deciding to change his luck, Dean tied on a Ginger Prince Nymph and made what became the cast of a lifetime. The savvy fly fisher observed a fish swirl and turn on the bait. A large spawned-out female German Brown trout accepted the princely challenge, clamped the fly in her mouth and attempted escape to deeper waters. At first, Darling couldn’t tell how big the fish was until she ran upstream. After feeling a couple of powerful surges, the trout-conqueror knew without a doubt he held a trophy at the end of his rod. For ten minutes Dean battled Queen Brown, keeping up the pressure until he could lead her to the shallows and horse her in. By now Bob heard his shouts, ran as fast as waders would allow and assisted Darling with the landing. “It was the biggest fish of my life,” said the wide-eyed fisherman. The German Brown measured thirty-one inches in length with a sixteen-inch girth, and by best estimate weighed sixteen to eighteen pounds. After completing measurements and assuring himself he’d captured quality pictures of the amazing female, Darling freed the fish. When asked what part of the event affected him physically, he responded, “I didn’t realize how big she was until I let her go. When I watched her swim away, that was my heart-pounding moment!" Dean believes in the protection of the fishery and fly club conservation goals. Like most ethical fly fishers everywhere, an additional thrill comes with the knowledge that some other person will receive an opportunity with this fish. Although the two men brought cameras, the best photo came from a resident near the river. Not only did he bring a digital camera to record the event, but his entire family arrived to watch and applaud the efforts of Dean and Chapman in landing and saving the prize. The good neighbor even took the time to E-mail the picture to Darling. The casting duo spent the remainder of the day escorted by only five other small Rainbows at the end of their rods. When Dean complained of their low numbers, Bob impolitely told him, “You got your fish; go sit on the bank!” After a month of tall tales and pictures, Dean’s wife asked how much longer she’d have to listen to these stories. Dean’s reply didn’t make for marital bliss when he told her, “Honey that’s not the bad news. The bad news is I’m gonna take these pictures and make wallpaper from them and decorate, so everywhere you look, you’ll see me and this big fish smiling down on you.” As for next year’s after holiday sales, Dean will probably skip them again. But you can bet your lucky fishing hat he’ll be dreaming of a Brown Christmas and looking for more wall paper paste.

God Bless you Dean Darling. As you fish the heavenly rivers, may you find slow currents, light breezes and a big Brown lurking in every riffle.

Buried

Isaiah 41:10 Fear thou not; for I am with thee:  be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.

After 20 days of 100+ temps, the August weather greeted me with a crisp fall-like morning. I prayed my usual prayer: “God, just keep me safe.” The long walk to my favorite fishing spot was pleasant with little wind. The river welcomed me with only a few foggy curls but several fishermen. I hiked toward the end of an island and found my favorite place already occupied by a man and his 3 teenage boys. Their canoes full of gear rested high upon the bank. Dad directed his boys on where and how to cast their spinning rods. Two boats full of clients with their guides drifted above the next site. So I stationed myself between the two boats and the canoers.

I tied on a Little Randy, named after a local guide who ties them. I had one take, a small Rainbow stocker, but no other interested parties. Next I reverted to my go-to fly, a Partridge and Orange. Several tiny pecks let me know small fish were intrigued but no hook-ups resulted. Growing frustrated I noticed a lot of surface action and tried a zebra midge with a silver bead and was rewarded with another small Rainbow.

It was time to add tippet and I was hungry. I walked downriver and passed the stringer of the canoers. The fish were in much too shallow water and most were already dead. The guys were gone but I could hear them talking upon the island. One of the boys hid almost lost in tall weeds reading a book unaware of all the activity around him. I stopped to rest on a grassy knoll, cleaned my fingers with a wet wipe, sipped from my small canteen and munched a golden peanut caramel bar. By this time the sunshine stole all the fog away. I absorbed the view from my perch and took a deep breath, grateful to be alive on such a stunning morning. Could life be any more perfect?

A fellow fly fisher stopped to talk. From Louisiana, he spoke in a soft accent and told me that he visited the area usually twice a year and enjoyed fishing when the river was not crowded. “I’m not like some of those guys who say, ‘look at me I’ve caught the biggest fish,’ he said. We spoke a bit longer sharing fly suggestions and stories and then he traipsed on upriver. By this time I was anxious to return to the water. I often struggle with my surgeon’s knot; but after 2 attempts, the new tippet held. I attached a green Anna K with dark wings and hooked it into the small eye near the rod handle as I always do when I finish.

As I stood, I reached for the rod with my right hand. Somehow my momentum created a sliding motion and a sharp bite occurred. My eyes widened as I saw the hook buried in the soft pad underneath my index finger. I quickly sat back down and stared at the problem of my own making. Multiple solutions rampaged through my brain. Should I cut the line, gather my gear, walk back to the car and drive myself to the ER? I tugged gently trying to back the hook out. Don’t faint. But the hook held fast. I pushed the opposite direction hoping maybe I could pull it through. No luck! I began to wonder if I should seek help from my fellow fishers. Whom should I choose? Mr. Louisiana self-centered? How about one of the teenagers or their dad? Dead fish indeed! Did I really want a stranger pulling this fly out? I tried to think rationally. Thank God I‘d just had a tetanus shot 2 months ago! Thank God the hook was barbless!

Deciding to attempt one more withdrawal, I fumbled the forceps into my left hand, closed my eyes, gritted my teeth and pulled. Nothing … one more time … much harder. At last the hook came loose in my hand. Relief and gratitude washed through me. I knew I hadn’t accomplished this by myself. My earlier prayer for safety echoed in my mind. I cleaned my bloody finger, wrapped the wet wipe around it and applied pressure. I seriously thought about calling it a day. But the morning was young and I was stubborn. God had given me another chance. Why not use it? There were more fish to be caught and cool weather might not show its face for another month. I applied more pressure, swirled the finger around in the cold river water and began to fish.

The green Anna K outperformed my earlier flies. Sore finger quickly forgotten, I caught fish after fish. Grateful for another opportunity, I fished until heat and hunger forced me back to my car.

On the drive back home, I couldn’t resist calling my choir director friend, Terre, who I knew would be working in her office after staff meeting at our church. As soon as she answered the phone, I began to sing to the tune of the old railroad song.



I’ve been fishin’ on the rivvvv er

All the live-long day.

I ran a hook

up in my finger

And it went in

all the way.

Don’t ya know

I had to get it?

But I pulled it out

real slow.

Rolled around

in the gravel.

Yelling oh oh oh oh OH!



Of course I took her by such surprise she began interrupting my singing:

“Did you have to have stitches? Are you alright?” And soon the entire story rolled out with multiple questions until I reassured her I was fine.

At our choir picnic the next evening, I sang it again to my alto buddies. What was serious only a day before became another great tale from my fly fishing escapades. But as usual on my adventures, I came away with new bits of knowledge: Always begin each outing with a prayer. Don’t panic. God will provide a solution. Keep your head. Consider your options. Accept God’s second chances.

And never … forget your wet wipes!

Yearning to Yield

Matthew 28:6 He is not here; for he is risen, as he said. Come, see the place where the Lord lay.
Dreaming of low water became a reality recently with zero units at Bull Shoals Dam. I quickly quaffed a big breakfast planning an all-day trip.
A lonely parking lot with only one vehicle greeted me. Wonderful! Almost the whole river to myself. I pulled a fleece jacket over my head, wrapped a headband around my ears and shoved my winter hat on my head. My rod came together easily. The wind whistled at my back as I noticed my tangled fly line within the reel. The prospect of pulling the reel apart by pushing the button caused my sore thumb to protest. But there was no option. After a couple of fruitless tries, I saw the owner of the vehicle arrive. I asked how he did. “Pretty slow,” he said. We spoke and I continued to struggle, but decided I wasn’t too proud to ask for help.
He quickly pulled the reel apart and told me what flies he’d used. “I’m gonna rest my back awhile. There are a few Caddis hitting the water.” The last comment changed my battle plan and I decided to start with a large blue/green soft hackle with sparkle to the tail. This character captured lots of fish during the last Caddis hatch.
As usual, since I hadn’t fished in several weeks, it seemed to take forever to gear up. I longed for my feet to fly across to the main channel, but had to satisfy myself with a slow steady walk across two shallow gullies until I reached my chosen spot.
The soft hackle warranted only one small take which I missed. After that it produced nothing. I did notice a few Caddis dance on the water where trout gobbled the tasty morsels; but I observed nothing quite as exciting as the frenzy exhibited during a large hatch.
I switched to my old standby Partridge and Orange with no greater results. Within the next several hours, I fished with an emerger, a Green Butt and a Caddis Sparkler. Eventually I switched to a strike indicator and alternately tried a pink jig, a white jig, and a pink midge.
My frustration built. Would all my waiting and hoping and longing for low water reap no results for this day? Finally I realized my tippet had shrunk and it was time to tie on more. I made my way to shore, sat on a grassy hump to rest myself and tied on an extra-long length.
This time I thought long and hard about my fly choice. I hadn’t tried a yellow Anna K, so named after the granddaughter of my friend and fly tier, Ron McQuay. Maybe, just maybe this would “represent” those little Caddis to the right trout.
Within 2 casts, my choice was rewarded with a small Rainbow. Since I’d tied on extra tippet, my line was now too long to get the fish into my net in deeper water, so I backed up into shallows and quickly landed and released the fish. My pulse thrummed after catching a fish on this long day of failure.
Over the next hour, I tried several spots where I’d been unsuccessful the whole morning. Each one produced only average stockers but a lot of fun. Finally one take seemed particularly vicious and I could see a thick Rainbow fighting to lose my fly in the deeper water. Again I had to back into shallower flow to work with the longer tippet, but landed a fat feisty customer around 14” who was starting to develop the big head of a much larger fish. This was worth the whole day, I thought.
A couple in a canoe with two small dogs paddled by, headed straight for a large rock. She paddled while he used his paddle like a rudder and they managed to miss it. They pulled up on the large gravel bar downstream and the dogs jumped out to play. Within a minute, another couple in a canoe swept by. She crouched in the bottom with head against the middle seat while her partner did the work. “Looks like the lap of luxury to me,” I called out.
She hollered back, “I’m lovin’ this.” They joined their friends and the dogs, spread a blanket and had a picnic.
My sore muscles told me it was time to head home, but I saw one more spot in a different rock bed that I hadn’t tried. The current was faster there and I picked my way carefully over slick rocks and the harsh push of the water until I arrived at my destination. After a couple of casts, I landed another small Rainbow. The wind kicked up even harder than the morning and I decided to quit, go home and prepare for church the next day.
Sunday morning I arrived in the choir room to unexpectedly learn that I was helping serve communion. I mentally reviewed the tasks from the last time I’d assisted the minister. When the appropriate time came, I carried the plate of small “wine” cups and bent to each kneeling member, held out the tray and said, “The blood of Christ shed for you.”
This simple task always strikes me as a humbling experience. Not only am I acting as a servant of God, but am allowed a closer observation of the faces of those who kneel. They communicate through unguarded expressions eagerness, gratitude, and something else … yearning for the forgiveness and restoration that this experience brings.
And as I return to the choir loft and we begin the last hymn, I carry those looks within me as tears cascade down my cheeks and realize that in those yearning-to-yield faces I find my own.
Are you trudging through your own gullies of sin and worry this Holy Week? Have the dark winds of despair swept across your spirit bringing no answers? Easter Sunrise calls to us across the river. The risen Christ stretches out his nail-scarred hand. All we have to do … is clasp it in our own.

Muddy Monday's Messiah

Luke 2: 12 And this shall be a sign unto you;Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

The Monday after Thanksgiving I rushed to do my chores and catch up after spending the holidays with family. After a two-week hiatus, the dam was shut down and I was anxious to fish. Just as I finished my work, however, the rain began. For about ten minutes, it poured buckets and gobs; but finally stopped in time for me to gear up, grab my old rain jacket and mount my trusty four-wheeler.
Several weeks before, I had changed to a different access point, as the steps on my neighbor’s property had fallen into the gully. Another gracious summer-home owner had cleared off a spot next to the river and encouraged me to enter there. Much steeper than my other spot, it required some caution descending until I could reach a small knoll and approach the water.
On this rainy day, I inched my way down, careful to watch my feet and use my wading staff as a mud-detector. Just as I passed the knoll, however, my left boot took a mighty slide and I flopped on my back side. Pausing to catch my breath, I found no wounds except a tiny bit of ruptured pride; then consoled myself with the idea that I could wash off my muddy backside by wading out a bit further than I normally do.
The second gully I needed to cross was swifter than I had hoped. Not feeling confident at this point, I nevertheless tried twice but had to turn back on the second try as my cell phone rang. I couldn’t maneuver and answer before the caller disconnected.
I eyeballed the ditch, chose a different point and made it across. Two weeks before, I had caught twenty-five fish per day during three days of fishing soft hackles fifteen yards below the end of the gravel bar. Today the same spot with the same flies produced nothing.
I trudged upriver to my favorite riffle. A thin mist kissed the river. Silence comforted me with no boat motors or chain saws to interrupt my enjoyment. My cast flew smooth and true with no wind gusts to tangle my line. My favorite Sims waterproof hat with the chin flaps kept me dry. Droplets waltzed quietly from the brim.
I changed from my Orange and Partridge to a larger soft hackle similar to a Green Butt. Casting below the rock piles, I allowed it to drift before beginning to strip the line. In a split second a large fish struck on the fly’s upward move; and in my excitement I missed the take. I tried all the other runs with no results.
The day was too perfect to quit, so I walked further upriver almost to the end of the gravel bar where the ’08 floods had gouged a deeper cut. Changing flies again, I chose another soft hackle I had never used, a yellow color not quite the same as an Anna K.
Remembering my earlier mistake, I cast and waited until the fly began to ascend again. A fish struck and missed. I didn’t move but corralled my beating heart and waited. The second time he didn’t miss and neither did I. When I lifted the rod, he took off for deeper water. Since I stood on the precipice of the run, I carefully cranked with the proper rod tension and waded toward shallower water.
I glimpsed golden color when the fish heaved and twisted and knew I had a Brown. When I captured him in my net, I reveled in his perfect color and his attempts to throw the hook. Only about 15”, nevertheless he had put up a worthy battle. I quickly laid him down, snapped a picture and released him.
Within seconds, I threw into the same spot and reaped the reward of another Brown whose courage surpassed the first. Believing he was larger, I exercised even more caution until I’d duplicated my earlier efforts and scooped him into the net. Pausing, I again admired his vibrant colors, reversed the net and freed him.
I decided to quit for the day. Upon beginning my ascent up the hill, I reminded myself of my earlier debacle. I had almost reached the crest and safety when both boots slipped at the same time throwing me down on one arm and elbow. I wheezed out a strangled cry; and for a moment thought I’d fall to the bottom. Somehow I made it to my knees and finished the climb in that position; then stood to assess the state of my equipment. Mud smeared both sleeves of the blue rain jacket as well as my gloves. Sticks and copper-colored pine needles coated my waders and grit covered my reel.
As I staggered back to my four-wheeler, I focused on the day’s events through the perspective of a Christmas journey. As we prepare our hearts for the coming season, are we stymied by a non-producing spirit of despair? Do we stumble through the rocks and gullies losing sight of the stable we seek? Do we miss the vibrant colors and breath-taking sight of that starry night so long ago? Are we afraid to wade the muck to the stable and look in the tiny infant’s eyes? One courageous step up the path is all it takes.
He is waiting.