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IMPORTANT
SITE UPDATE:
Visit the relaunched
Fish & Fly at fishandfly.com
The Last Day
Our November 2001 contribution from JM Hruby
For many river fishermen in the northern hemisphere, the closed season has arrived with all its usual withdrawl symptoms. Everyone who has fished the last day, will be in sympathy with JM Hruby's The Last Day.
I rose before dawn on the last day, as I do every day I fish. Early rising is not required by the fish, at least not where I went fishing on the last day. There is too much enjoyment for me in that hour before dawn. I cannot sleep it away.
In the dark, I attempted to find silently clothing items from the heap of wool and fleece I had arranged scientifically on the bedroom floor the night before. Operating without the aid of light was necessary though, lest I invite the wrath of the non-fly-fisher who shares my life. She is very indulgent, letting me fish without complaint, right to the last day. I stroked her soft cheek and said goodbye. She barely stirred in the darkness.
I tried to stumble quietly down the stairs, in the process making exactly twice the noise one would make if one were not trying to be quiet. Safely on level ground, I turned on the kitchen light and fiddled with the coffee machine. The cat's head and half-open eyes appeared above the rim of her basket. She sat up, loosed a huge yawn, and ordered me to feed her. She no doubt pondered the reason for this early awakening while she ate her chicken-flavoured breakfast.
The coffee machine churned away as I busied myself preparing breakfast
and packing lunch. Right next to the fly-fishing gene on the DNA ladder
is a little-known gene that makes fly fishers fix twice as much lunch
as necessary. I believe genetic scientists call this the "In-Case-Fishing-Partner-Forgets-His/Her-Lunch"
gene, but I would have to check on that to be sure. Lunch is prepared
and packed in plastic bags so it can be properly smooshed in the back
of a fishing vest before it is eaten. The toaster delivers the two perfect
slices of wheat toast required by the two eggs frying in the pan. The
coffee machine has produced a jumbo-sized mug of black elixir that I will
enjoy with gusto now with my eggs and toast. I will curse said jumbo mug
of black elixir exactly 28 minutes after I put my waders on.
My bag containing waders, boots, vest, hat, and far more clothing than
I'll actually need, is sat at the ready on the kitchen floor. Crowning
this heap of fishing kit is the rod tube. Positioned like a flag atop
Mt Everest, such that it would be impossible to leave it behind. Not that
I have ever done such a thing.
I gathered in my arms the fishing kit, lunch, drinks, and rod tube and stumbled out to the car. With everything arranged in the car, I ran once more through my mental checklist to make sure all the necessities were present and accounted for. Including the rod tube, not that I have ever left it behind. I wish you would stop bringing it up.
The drive to the river took me east towards the usual spectacular sunrise.
The roads were empty and I wondered how anyone could stay inside, asleep
in bed, when they could be doing just what I was doing. Driving toward
the rising sun.
My fishing partner Jeff was already in the car park, punctual nearly to
a fault. Jeff's ancestors came from Finland and his Finnish traits make
him an ideal fly fishing partner. He is patient, thoughtful, and oblivious
to cold, wet, wind, and darkness.
Jeff lives near the river and had fished it just two days before in the
rush to cram in enough fishing to last the long closed season. We discussed
the water level, water colour, flies, hatches, leaders, tippets and the
thousand other things fly fishing friends talk about. We pulled on our
waders and the other uniform pieces worn by fly fishermen the world over.
I never manage to even remotely resemble the neat fly fisherman presented by the fashionable mail-order catalogues. My waders have survived several encounters with barbed wire and some type of wader-eating thorn bushes. They bear the Aquaseal battle scars as proof of bravery beyond the call. I don't own a purpose-built wading jacket or one of those fly fishing-type felt hats worn by the people who look like they know what they're doing. Hopefully there won't be a fly fishing dress code enforced anytime soon. In my baseball cap, patched waders and tatty vest, I would surely be shown the red card and be sent off the river in disgrace.
My vest has seen better days. I was thinking of replacing it this season, but it would take two weeks to clean everything out of the pockets. Besides, re-arranging the carefully organized filing system of paraphernalia in the 56 pockets is not something one wants to do in mid-season. The result would be having to frisk myself constantly in mid-stream to find where in the new vest I had squirrelled away the blessed fly floatant. Perhaps during the closed season...
We walked down the steep hill into the river valley and started down the trail beside the river. Only the sound of our footsteps in the frost and dry leaves broke the silence. The sun was just beginning to spill over the edge of the valley and it was still cold at the river's edge. We followed the path beside the bank and walked downstream. The early start meant that we were alone, so we would leave the heavily fished water near the car park for the late-comers. There is always better fishing a mile or so down the river.
The path comes to an abrupt end as the valley walls narrow to nearly sheer cliffs. We crossed the river by the aptly named First Crossing riffle. Back on dry ground on the other bank, the path leads us to Felled Tree Corner, a deep silent pool with a huge dead tree lying in the far end. Felled Tree Corner absolutely must hold some huge trout, but no one I know has ever managed to catch anything here. I don't know any fly fisher who could pass this pool without giving it a go. The fish probably moved out to escape the constant noise created by every passing angler being unable to resist flogging such a likely looking pool.
We waded across the river again and followed the path a little farther. Finally we stopped and rigged our rods to fish a half-mile long run of nameless riffles and deep pools. So perfect was this place, with the orange sun creeping into the valley and the anticipation of the fish that simply must be present in the pools at our feet.
We spread 100 yards apart, waded in and began fishing our separate pools. The last day began like most of the days from the beginning and the middle. Jeff gracefully cast his three weight St. Croix with tight loops and confident ease. Within a few drifts, he was playing the first brown of the day. I cast my favourite five weight carefully and fretted over back cast timing, fly selection, leader length and presentation. It took much longer and five or six missed strikes, but it is hard to go wrong with a hare's ear and I managed to bring one lovely little brown to the net. Managed, in fact, to bring it to the net just as Jeff was releasing his fifth fish. It would not be a shutout today.
And it went that way all day. Jeff was easily doubling my numbers and there was no way it could have mattered. The sun was bright, the air was cool, and there was fishing as good as I could ever hope for on the last day. We fished perfect pools and perfect riffles as we worked our way slowly down the river. The Straightaway, the Cliff Hole, Big Island Run, High Riffle, the Power Line Run, No Name Run, the Forked Corner, the Quarry, the Groove, Kendall's Run, the Corner Hole, Three Fish Run, we fished them all.
We ate our properly smooshed lunches on the sunny bank, each noting the irony of it being the end of the season when we had brought enough food to stay here several more days. A single deer must have found her nerve in our absence from the middle of the river. She waded silently across the river a 100 yards below us. We watched her pause for a drink in the middle and then disappear into the forest on other side.
Jeff had caught and released 22 browns before lunch. I had caught and released considerably less. Let's leave it at that, shall we? Not that Jeff was refusing to share his secrets with me. His fly selection, leader length, tippet size and every other variable that should have made it possible for me to duplicate his success were readily disclosed. Everyone who has ever fished with a fly rod will understand what I mean when I tell you I just did not have it. Whatever it was, I must have left it on the bench in the kitchen.
I spent the afternoon wishing, hoping, praying, and begging for just
a small hatch so that I could find redemption on the last day. I tried
nymphs, woolly buggers, terrestrials, emergers and some wet flies whose
names I can't remember. I tried upstream, downstream, cross-stream, across
upstream, Czech nymphing, and several techniques so creative that, had
they worked, I would have named them after myself and sold an article
detailing their use to one of the fly fishing magazines. I brought a few
fish to my net, but I could not find the entrance to the trout motorway.
Jeff, on the other hand, had just cruised past the 30-fish junction.
It really did not matter. It was impossible not to enjoy just being there.
The sunlight painted everything golden and the wind never arrived. The
river just did what it has always done and always will do so long as we
care for her. There wasn't another soul near us.
We started back up river at three in the late afternoon and surprised three fellow fly fishers at the Power Line Run. They were dressed straight from the fashionable fly fishing shop in town and they fished only dry flies. Dry flies cast upstream, with tiny lines and well-practised casting strokes. It was fun to watch them casting gracefully in unison, but they did not look too happy to meet fly fishing brethren this far down the river. We made "nice day" noises and continued past on the bank. Doubtless leaving them to speculate as to whether or not we were responsible for the lack of rising fish in the run.
The sunset comes too early on the last day. We settled in to fish the last of the fading light near where we had spent the morning. Jeff continued to catch fish on emerger patterns. Blue winged olive, elk hair caddis, it did not seem to matter for him. I worked hard for just one more fish for the season. I wanted to feel the take one more time and set the hook once more. To play one more little brown in full fall colours and bring him to the net before the season ended.
It happened then. I was looking down river at the shafts of orange light cast by the setting sun falling through the tree tops and not really thinking about fishing at all. The air filled slowly with white insects gently taking wing from the surface of the riffles. The trout began to rise. I could hardly believe it. A hatch on the last day.
I fumbled to switch to a long length of 7X tippet. If you have ever tried
to quickly tie a blood knot with 7X tippet in fading light, I don't need
to explain any further.
I squinted at the water and the insects in the air. What were they? I
had no idea. Everything I had ever read about insect identification deserted
me, completely and utterly. The names of the flies in my own fly box deserted
me. Precious seconds ticked by. I could see the trout rising out of the
corner of my eye as I scanned my fly box for the right fly. Or anything
close to the right fly. The sun continued to sink. The moment of truth
had arrived on the last day.
I did what any reasonable fly fisher would have done: Match the colour, guess at the size.
So I struggled to tie a #20 Pale Morning Dun to my tippet. All the while I was trying to slow my heart rate by repeating to myself, "Stay calm. Don't rush. Don't start your forward cast too soon. Don't get tangled in the brush by the edge. Don't slap the water with your false cast."
"Oh, and don't screw this up." Nothing like a little self-motivating pep talk to get your confidence up.
The first drift was ignored as the trout rose all around the fly. I mentally questioned everything about my fly selection, tippet length, leader size, casting technique, and my general direction in life. Pick up, back cast, false cast, false cast, and ease it down.
"Watch the drift. Don't take your eye off it," I reminded myself. The fly drifted slowly downstream and it seemed to get more difficult to see with each inch of down-river progress as the light faded.
Pop. The fly disappeared.
"Easy," I actually said it aloud to myself as I fought the urge to set the hook too hard. The stripped line slipped through my finger and I gently eased tension on the line and raised my rod tip. Fish on.
I fought the little brown as if it were a salmon. I let him take line when he ran and stripped the line back gently when I could. Finally he turned and shot past me upstream. I applied enough pressure to stop him a rod-length above me. I did a quick draw with the net that would have impressed any old-west gunslinger. In one smooth motion, he was in the net.
I gently unhooked him, holding the net so he stayed in the water. I know. One is supposed to release fish immediately, but I had to hold him in the net for just a moment. I had to admire his bright spots and perfect colouring in the fading amber light for just a minute. Then I turned the net over and watched him slip away.