My dictionary features a perpetual list of definitions for the
word “success.”
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| Photo by Matt Reilly. |
One is manifest by the personal discovery of large, wild
fish in an otherwise humble setting.
There’s a river in southwestern Virginia that fits the bill.
I didn’t discover it. That honor belongs to Daniel Boone, or one of the
uncelebrated pioneers of central Appalachia. I didn’t discover the tremendous
smallmouth bass fishery that exists there, either, though I’ve discovered it
personally this summer, and have likewise reaped the rewards.
My success has come in its upper reaches, where the channel
stretches no more than 30 yards across and winds quietly southwestward through
the Valley and Ridge to rendezvous with its sister rivers in Tennessee. During
the low, slow flows of late summer, an angler of average height can wade for an
afternoon without wetting his thighs, should that be their wish. And so the
game becomes identifying those holes and runs that would wet a thigh—and the
shady banks of sufficient cover—and approaching them stealthily through
ankle-deep water to present a fly.
On one such afternoon, when I was indulging myself in just
that challenge, I encountered a hole chest-deep
under the solar protection of an overhanging riparian canopy. A riffle headed
its body and supplied it with the rich supply of dissolved oxygen that doesn’t
go unclaimed in late summer, and three current fingers carried little foam
saucers like rafts upon a quaking sea down into the tail.
From it I pulled three smallmouths of several pounds—each
respectable and seeming novelties for the size of the river. Their spirits were
strong, but hampered by the oppressive season, but I fought them quickly and
released them to rebuild their spirit, as I have countless bass before them.
I recall that afternoon while standing idly on that river’s
bank, crouched in a sea of reeds.
The Native Americans themselves, who inhabited and thrived
in these river valleys for centuries, also constitute a definition of success
in my dictionary.
It was during my pre-teen years that I learned of the
Natives’ practice of turning river reeds into arrow shafts, obsidian into
arrowheads, and the trunks of sapling basswood and elm into longbows to be strung
with woven hair or sinew from harvested game.
I tried to replicate the process using raw materials from my
backyard—shale in place of obsidian, beech limbs instead of river reed. The
attempt failed, and I retired my efforts to the sound industry of crayfish
trapping, and took on a new, practical appreciation for Native Americans and
the skills they developed to succeed and thrive while leading a naturally
sustainable existence.
Beyond the river reed, the river ran lower, slower than when
last I visited, exposing the brown scaled back of yet another of my definitions
of success. In just six inches of water, the pulsing body of a common carp of
about 14 pounds inched along a gravel bar just feet from dry land. Every few inches of upstream progress would bring
a gill flare and the flashing of a pale pectoral fin as it sucked in water to
digest a tiny morsel found on the streambed.
Omnivores, they eat anything. As large, spooky adults, they
have few predators besides man. And as generalists hailing from the sluggish
waters of the Old World, they can reside just about anywhere, and have come to
do so the world over. Their attentive eyes distinguish more effectively than
our own, and their highly efficient hearing mechanisms can detect the sound of
monofilament vibrating in the wind.
An aesthetically humble species, sure, but the carp is a
master of its environment, and thus, a worth adversary.
I hide in the reeds, watching the fish’s forward progress,
playing a game with myself to see if I can predict its next movement. I analyze
its body language. Is it feeding? Yes. Has it seen me? Perhaps.
The fish’s track has taken it several yards upstream of an
overhanging sycamore, and I decide to make my approach. Fly rod in hand, I dip
a timid toe into the river, cringe at the gritting of gravel, and pause. The
fish goes about its business unfazed.
Not wishing to take any more steps than necessary and risk
detection, I see my opportunity and I take it. A 50-foot cast unrolls and
places a leader and tippet just a foot to the right of the fish. The fly plops
down softly a few feet ahead of it.
The carp’s head encounters my fly and jerks towards
mid-river. With a firm thump of its tail, it disappears to hide among mid-river
structure, and success evades me once again. I grit my teeth and my heart
sinks. Next time, perhaps a bit more observation from the reeds and success
will be mine.□
*Originally published in The Rural Virginian
