With no great confidence, and sizable aspirations, I left the parking lot and walked upstream. I had a theory. Or perhaps it was only an excuse formulated in the wake of a recent “unproductive” evening. I decided that the bend below the Powerhouse Riffle might fish better from the “far” bank. I positioned myself just below a slough that dripped in from the east side, and tied on a Pale Evening Dun. The first rises began as a couple arrived across the water, having walked down from the powerhouse. He got in about 80 feet upstream of me. She got in almost directly across. They were both wearing cowboy hats, not something that I consider a good sign, but that probably says more about me, than them. Neither one had made a cast when I hooked up. The small fish shot into the air, its vermillion sides metallic in the dying sun. A good beginning. Better lucky than good they say. Lucky? Good? Neither? Who knows? Oh sure, there have been moments. But was that luck, or skill? Was I lucky, or good? Did it matter? The next fish was decent, and took some line a fair ways toward the lady. It tumbled on the surface, startling her, and then ran back to me. They were both watching as I released it. Then the whispering began.
The next fish was solid, more so than I expected. It ran straight down the middle of the Creek, way downstream. When it threw the fly it hit the water so hard it sent waves to both shores. “Go on, will you ask him what fly he’s using?” he implored her. “You ask him” she rejoined. “Ask him, for heaven’s sake,” he rebuffed her. “Nice fish” she said to me, smiling. “What are they taking?” she hazarded. “Pale Evening Dun” I returned, “fished with the Hat Creek skate.” She was mystified. “Hat Creek Skate. Not sure we have any of those” she said, shaking her head. Another nice fish rose midstream. I looked at her, looked at the rise. I remembered the time I began pulling my tippet off the reel, trying to feed it through the guides. I remembered how Ron could have made a big deal of it. He didn’t though. The fish rose again. I thought of how Harold used the most modest gear, tied the most exquisite flies, and caught such big fish. How he always offered up the best water when things got too far out of hand. How he shared his secrets. “Here,” I called out, “take this one,” casting all the way across and above her. She caught the line with her rod, and pulled it toward her, looking at me quizzically. “Go ahead, clip it off and tie it on.” I told her. The frogs were just starting to croak, the mad final minutes just beginning, when she cast to the big fish. “Why didn’t you get me one?” he implored her. I didn’t look back, walking quickly and wanting to be at a certain chalky bluff while there was still enough light to work the ledge. There was a big fish down there. A huge fish. I had never hooked it. Lucky, good, who knows? But I heard her reel singing and him telling her what to do. Text and photos Copyright 2006 by Gary Watt |
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“Ask him what fly he’s using” he said under
his breath. “Go on, ask him.” “I
don’t want to ask him, you do it” she replied.  |
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