It was a strange thing. There were no trees nearby, only large, smooth granite slabs folded and rolling toward the water. And there was no question of it flying, it couldn’t be called flight. One moment there was only crisp, mid-morning autumn air, and then there was the arc of descent. It caught my eye as I scanned the rocks above. Rather, it bisected my vision, falling at terminal velocity, looking like re-entry. It was no different than a small pebble fired from a slingshot on the ridge. What was it? Plop. Small ripples fading away, then nothing but sheet-glass surface. No discernible motion, no discernible object. Silence except for the bubbling, breaking, gurgles of the river gathering itself and running away well below me. Did I imagine it? Wham! A large white maw, obscenely bright in the early morning light, parted the waters and inhaled something, leaving a larger wake radiating from it. What was that? What did it matter? Stripping out line, I began false casting, breaking the rhythm with a sudden arrest of forward motion that was matched only by the sudden arrest of my back-cast in dried weeds pushing up out of the rocks. Ugh. Agony followed by roaring silence. Autumn arrived just hours ago. The long ride up through the valley in the dark, passing orchards and shuttered fruit stands had given way to foothills, then forest. The ride up the Sierras had been matched by falling temperatures until a Middle Fork to the left and a North Fork to the right made parallel lines running down as I raced up. Then there was the torturous, winding drive down to the powerhouse, followed by the hike along the after-bay. Big leaf maple made cascades of gold against the emerald canvas of sugar and ponderosa pine. The air was sweet yet tangy with the onset of mulch from falling leaves.
Back to the river, pulling the ostrich herl and elk hair free of the clutching, grabbing interloper, I heard it again. Not the gulp, but the plop. Then a gulp and a wake. What the hell? What was this invisible hatch? What would it take to unravel this mystery? A beetle, that’s all. Clipping off the dry, I tied a large black rubber bodied, rubber legged “fly” to tippet and this time made the pitch on water, not land. The river opened up and swallowed the bug, and then all was right with the world. Several large browns appeared, swallowing my celestial terrestrials. Text and photos Copyright 2006 by Gary Watt |
There was so much promise in the air. After all, it was
a weekday, a workday. And there was no other vehicle at
the trailhead. I had it all to myself, at least for now. So
I hurried down the path, ducking the pale crimson and lime leaves
of poison oak leaning toward me and scurried past the Beach and
the Rock Garden, left the Cable Hole behind, and pulled up right
about where my fly wrapped itself around the powder-dry remains
of vegetation rooted in rock. |
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