“My dad first took me fishing here when I was ten,” says Frank with that trademark grin and gleam in his eye.
“So you’ve been fishing here for over sixty years now…wow,” I say with a shake of my head.
That was on my first trip with Frank, and that has been some years now. Frank is a little older than me – by almost thirty years – but such an age difference is of little consequence in this friendship and I think of him as a contemporary. Those extra years, however, seem to make him a whole lot smarter and wiser than me.
It’s a small creek, only eight or ten feet across, but I’ve been amazed at the rainbows and browns that that stream holds. And although we don’t always catch them, we usually do indeed get into at least a few.
Frank is part of a group of fisherman formed by his dad and his dad’s friends who started fishing this little stream almost 100 years ago. When wading upstream on a quiet early summer day sometimes I can hear, besides the drone of the buzzing insects, the whispers of the thoughtful fishermen who have come before me. They urge me to “step over there, cast that number 16 caddis over just by that square rock…that’s it!…steady..get ready..”
When Frank and I arrive at the creek we pull off the road and kill the truck’s engine. As the mechanical sounds fade away the natural sounds pour in. The foliage fluttering in the soft breeze, the gurgle of the nearby creek. As I step out into the tall grass I hear the clucking of a few turkey hens on the mountainside above the stream. We speak quietly, if at all. I’m not the consummate fisherman that Frank is so I’m always asking him things like, “what do you call this fly? I forgot.” He peers over, and careful not to answer too quickly –he’s a very considerate man – he’ll say “I believe that’s a Royal Coachman. That’s a good one!”
Rigged up and wearing shorts and old wading shoes –the creek’s too shallow for waders and besides it’s not too cold anyway- we go our separate ways. Frank typically puts me on the lovely center portion of the stream and he goes downstream a ways. We agree to meet, “up by the bridge at 11:00, unless the fishing’s really good downstream. You might not see me for a while in that case!” says Frank.
I cross the meadow, through the high wet grass, through the rusty gate fastened by a section of worn chain and a ten penny nail driven into the chestnut fence post. I creep up to the water silently, reverently. Small trees and shrubs crowd the creek at this spot. Stepping into the water I think I see a fish break the surface just upstream. A few tentative casts and the Royal Coachman lands in what looks to me like a good spot.
It’s a half hour later and I have successfully caught several trees and bushes, and clumsily disturbed some otherwise fine little trout pools. I’ve hooked no fish, but ahhh is it nice out here, and hey I still have the Royal Coachman on the end of my line. Heading upstream to another likely-looking pool I cast the dry fly with as much grace as I can muster. It alights onto the glassy surface of the pool and it looks just right, to me anyway. Another try, this time a little closer to the grassy bank, and wham, an enthusiastic twelve-inch rainbow goes for it in earnest. I set the hook successfully and start to giggle uncontrollably as I play the fish. During its crisscross flight of the pool it leaps completely into the air and my delight erupts anew. A few minutes later and I’ve carefully released the stunningly beautiful fish back to the pool.
An hour later and I’m really into the peaceful fishing mode now. I’ve caught and released a few more trout, and I’ve also added to my 5X tippet and tried some different flies. I lost the Royal Coachman in a locust tree, but I’ve got a number 18 attractor –I think it’s called a Chew Toy- on the line now. It’s bound to be irresistible to some hungry Brown Trout. We’ll see.
I cross under the bridge and see Frank wading through the undergrowth to meet me. We exchange knowing grins, and he joins me in the stream bed. Now we fish in tandem, slowly continuing our walk upstream, taking turns casting and catching the energetic trout. We don’t talk much, just remark as to the perfect beauty of the day and the remarkable fishing. We chuckle in delight when either of us hooks and plays a fish. We enjoy this game for an hour, then poke into one more quiet honey hole. This spot is so overhung with foliage that we have to roll cast with utmost care to get a fly into position on the smooth surface. There’s one last eruption of delicate splashing water and dancing of a small rainbow trout before we gently release it and call it a day.
Back at the truck, as I peel off my wet shoes and disassemble my rod, carefully wrapping it and placing it into its case, we revel in the serenity of the day. Without a word, only a nod of his head, Frank points out a pair of wood ducks flying overhead.
I really like fishing with Frank. It’s a blessing.
By John Robinson [email protected]