For those who know my local river, the gunpowder. It is a scenic, beautiful world class tail water. Seventeen miles of first class year round fishing thanks to a constant release chute at the base of pretty boy dam. The upper sections are catch and release only and have some of the prettiest wild brown trout I have ever seen in my life. The lower sections are "put and take" and stocked with rainbows in the spring and fall, brown trout can still be caught in this section of river but the lower sections are also home to many species of other fish as well.
My farm just so happens to back up to this lower section of river and while I frequently catch large wild brown trout there, who aren't as "fly shy" as their upper section brethren trout. For every trout I catch, I'm probably catching ten fall fish in between. But the photo shown here is by far the largest fall fish I have ever caught, and definitely one of the most memorable fishing excursions I have ever had.
It was late in the afternoon, the summer heat of the day still blazing and I had just gotten off work. As many hot days after work I decided to go fishing. I rounded my gear up and set out for the three hundred yard stretch of fields behind my house, and then a sloping decline of river hills to the banks of the gunpowder. As I said it was summer so shorts, a tee shirt, bare feet, and a small camera bag with as much terminal tackle in it as it could hold, was my go to setup for my frequent evening fishing excursions on the river. I waded in the emerald pool, the tips of brown boulders poking above the rivers current, like icebergs surrounding me the only ripples on the still surface film caused by them as well as my own presence. The crisp, cool water was so refreshing after a long day at work. I reached down and submerged my forearms, letting the waters life flow into my limbs. Cupping some of the water within my palms I splash my face, washing away the beads of sweat on my forehead after my heated walk. The afternoon river seemed so relaxing, refreshing to the soul. I picked up my rod, my palm finding that familiar place of memory where it had resided for countless hours on past days. My other hand stripping out line off the reel, the coils surrounding my feet residing like swirled paint strokes floating on the surface of the water. My arm extends backwards pulling along the majority of line connected to the tip of my rod, then with the flick of my wrist the rest is swiftly expelled off the water and cast backwards with a quick whistling sound. The mist of the water sprayed forth within the air. Some grazing my cheek as the line propels by. My eyes glance backwards watching the form of my back cast, the graceful unraveling of the large loop. Disappearing before my very eyes to a straightened elongated plane the tip of the line still unraveling now a tight consistent loop. The perfect moment in which my arm propels forward. Abruptly launching the cast forward, the tip of my rod accelerating the line forth at the precise moment the back cast coil rolls over my leader, tippet, and fly. My cast is perfect, like a piece of artwork, like a fine glass of wine. Something that can only be appreciated by the ones who's dreams and emotions are worn of the edge of their sleeves. The line stretches outward, reaching for far more than the goal of a trout. Unraveling an opposite coil mimicking the exact one formed within my back cast. The fly, tippet and leader seemed to descend upon the surface of the river simultaneously a slight ripple on the film created by the placement of my fly upon the deep pool. The fly line following closely behind, within the blink of an eye descending upon the water and with the quick flicking of the rod tip back and forth. Snakelike coils flow from rod tip towards fly eventually ceasing where the line began to rest upon the waters surface. The perfect cast! The perfect drift! The fly floating along the tide, the buoyant line flowing closely behind. The perfect coils I laid upon the water as not to hinder the drift of the fly begin to serve there purpose. They slowly unravel as the line and fly are pulled downstream. Mother nature seeming to help me, alluring the fly downstream like a sirens call. Drifting it within eyesight of a hungry trout residing on the rivers gravel bed, eyes fixated on the surface for the exact deception I entice.
The take! A receptive fish! The grace of an unknown underwater adversary only seen by the slight splash of a rise stirs so much emotion within my soul. The excitement rushes over my entire body but seems to congregate most prevalent within my right arm. Instantly the instinct of a fly fisherman takes over. My finger pinches down the fly line against the rods cork grip, my hand tightens and arm and rod are accelerated upwards towards the heavens. The line between rod and fish propelled likewise, expelling a line of mist upward creating a rainbow between the skyline and the waters surface. The whip and whistling sound of the line flying upward is abruptly halted by the tension of an unsuspecting fish on the other end. The fly as quickly as it was received by the fishes open mouth, is pulled outward and up and by the grace of fate is pierced within the upper or lower lip of the now fully aware of what's happening fish.
The fight! The fish dives towards the bottom, the flash of scales can be seen through the water by my hopeful eyes. Where hoping to see a slight flash of golden brown, the puzzling size of this unknown fish with a coordinating flash of silver is seen. The fish runs the line upstream, my right hand elevating rod in air. My left hand placed palm on reel properly providing the right amount of tension for the fish's fight. I pinch the line tight with my forefinger against the cork stopping the run. The fly pulled back with tension on the line, and the outburst of thrashing silver can be seen underneath the surface of the water. The anger and frustration of the fish by my abrupt halting of his retreat is felt in forceful vibrations throughout the length of the fly line, to the tip of my rod, down through the shaft of the rod and absorbed by my hand on the handle. The failed attempt to loosen the fly from his lip with his flailing twist and rolling abandoned and replaced with a swift run downstream. Another attempt at a foreshadowed battle between angler and fish persists. I strip in line with my left hand, pulling the slick and water glistening line through rod guides and forefinger. Reapplying the pressure with my fingertip after each stroke of line careful not to slip and allow the fish to regain any line, regaining ground in an essence on this aquatic battlefield. This act brought the fish closer to me, this time only feet away when the slack of the line was reached by the failed downstream run of the fish. With tension and resistance again on fly the fish once again begins the dance of trying to free the hook from his lip. The flashes of silver and sight of fins can definitely be distinguished now, not a trout my mind thought. But fall fish? My mind questioned, for this was a fairly large fish. Most of the fall fish I've encountered on the river on average range from 3" to 8" not saying they can't get bigger than that, I've just personally never caught one. The slight disappointment in my manner that it was not a trout ceased with the reassurance of the size of this particular fall fish. The rod tip bent, the tippet, leader and line bouncing in the sky as the fish pulled and tugged continuously trying to prevail in his fight to make it downstream. I waded in the pool deeper, my bare feet slightly slipping down the algae covered rocks. My toes embedding into the loose gravel and pebbles firmly planting my figure withing the rivers current. The fish's fight began to weaken, I could feel his play was starting to cease. I stripped in more line, enough to once again have an artistic display of fly line residing at my side. As if the water's surface was my canvas and the line my brush and paint. I elevated my rod higher into the air, at the same time protruding the tip backwards behind me bringing leader and tippet forth from the depths of the river. The fish could be fully seen now, what a brute I thought! But as my confirmation in the size of the fish was confirmed by my sight. It was swiftly stolen by the panic riddled splashing and swirling of the fishes body, as it breached the waters surface. The water was propelled into the air, fins, splashes and a sole tail was all that could be seen within this mass of aquatic confusion. The fish tried to run once again, but lack of strength and denial of line held him steadily within arms length. I slowly reached around for my net, fastened at my side on a quick release clip. Smoothly bringing the net up from underneath the fish, and as soon as it was seen by the fish the whirlwind of splashing pursued. Another run! An even more failed attempt to free it's lip from the bond between fish, fly and man for the fight was truly over. The fish once denied this final flee, gently floated within the waters surface. I lifted the rod tip up once again, the fly slightly pulled above the surface film bringing along the head of the fish. As I slide my net under the fish once again, the golden eyes of the fall fish peered into my soul. Lips gasping for air while tail still resided within the water, I completed the netting of my worthy adversary. My net protruding underneath and past the fish's tail and in a smooth stroking scoop, I lifted the fish from his aquatic realm. A few wiggles of the body as the fish resided within my net, as I carried the brute out of the deep pool and closer to the shallow water of the bank. I laid my rod, net and fish down within the water, only a couple of inches deep just deep enough the gills would be covered and the fish could breath. Now I can admire this beauty. A bow of a fall fish! A king of its kind! His lips slowing opening and closing, reentering the oxygen within his body that was stolen throughout our fight. His yellow eye seemed locked on mine, following every slight movement of my hands. His large, silver scales glistened in the sunlight. Shining like a knight with armor on as his scales seemed more reflective when wet. Briefly my mind wonders thinking of the trials this fish had faced to live this long and to grow this big. What has this fish seen in the years of it's life, and how many other aliens to his world have plucked him from the river as I have and held him within their hands. The mystery and wonder is quickly halted by my compassion for the fish itself. Concerned for the safety and well being of the fish that is that of a speedy recovery became the prevailing act at hand. So quickly I removed my fly, held him deeper within the water to let him breath a little, propelled him one final time above his aquatic kingdom, snapped a quick photo of this amazing fall fish. And waded back down within the depths of the pool fish in hand. I held the silvery god there, allowing the cool, crisp current to revive the life within his fins. One hand on belly, the other on tail as not to let him get swept away potentially afflicting further harm if he was not ready to swim and was battered against rapids and rocks. So I stood there, fish in hand the emerald waters of the pool surrounding us. Time stood still, I rocked the fish back and forth very slowly as if cradling a newborn baby and rocking him to sleep. Back and forth, back and forth the motion and the flow of the water across his body seemed to be the remedy. For a brief second I felt his scaly body stiffen up, the tip of his nose began to wiggle. And with a flash and a splash from the tail, he released himself from my grasp sliding across my palm and back to his freedom. I rose up, watching him drift across the rocks like a dream. Slowly fading with distance and depth, until my friend could no longer be seen within the emerald pool.
I waded to the edge of the bank picked up my rod and gear and decided to head home. Proud and honored with my encounter on this rivers eve, satisfied enough with the balance I struck between nature, man and fish that I was content enough to let all other potential receptive fish be free for the night. To rest within their kingdom, and greet the king who has returned. Now to many this encounter may be silly, that to be excited for the battle of a fall fish, a junk fish be anything but a nuisance in their pursuit of a worthy trout. I have no begrudging, only a sense of pity. For I feel that then they have truly lost something that is the essence of the fishing experience, the bond between a fish and a man. The feeling of their souls connected however briefly through a line and a fly. The magic that the river has to offer. And while one day I dream of moving up in the fly fishing world, on to more challenging endeavours and bigger fish. Possibly a life's dream of mine, of one day fishing a great northern stream casting a spey rod and fighting a gigantic salmon. I will always remember and hold dear in my heart my adventures on the gunpowder. My evenings on the river, fighting fall fish...
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