Every year, around the same time, when the air begins to
chill and crispen, and the leaves of silver maples and paper birches are consumed
into a red-yellow blaze by the dying embers of summer in the Northeast, a
steely character wanders south along the River Clyde into town for the season
from his regular residence, Lake Memphremagog.
His appearance is a phenomenal mystery to the townspeople, apart from lore
that it began long before the river was dammed along its course; but the town
takes note of his arrival, and succumbs to a feverish restlessness upon it. He rolls in unannounced, like a
shadow--deliberate, like a life-long local.
The habits he keeps are only attempted to be understood by those seeking
to make contact with him, if only briefly; and still others simply observe him
sulking in his regular hangouts in accepted ignorance. Such is the alluring nature of salmon.
He brings with him a posse of thousands from the mother lake
to the north. In years previous, there
were others mightier in the River; but after a gluttonous summertime, this
year, beautifully adorned with muddy-bronze flanks and dime-sized black spots,
he emerged as the strongest in the order, entitling him to first choice in a
lie.
Salmon are a fish like in appearance but unlike in habit to
trout, in that a trout’s lie and dining preferences can be entirely
predictable, while salmon seem to act completely at random. That is not to say that salmon are without
character, for the opposite is true, particularly in the case of large
salmon.
The Foreman, as he was called by the townspeople and
familiar anglers, chose his lie in the belly of a meadow bridge pool. The pool was really the tail of a much larger
elbow pool, which moved slowly from the head, under the bridge, where a narrow
band of current adjacent to relatively-still water cut down through a foot of
bedrock and flowed into the limbs of a downed tree sweeping into the current, opposite
the approach of most anglers, where he could retreat from danger. Fifteen feet downstream from the bridge’s
center, an orange traffic cone laid, opening upstream—an allusion to past road
construction.
A pillow of sub-surface current rolled on the mouth of the
cone, creating a micro-eddy; and that’s where the Foreman held, motionless,
save for the occasional subtle turn to take an imperceptible insect tumbling
along the streambottom. His 12-man crew
flanked him, all much smaller than he, and would move upstream and higher in the
water column to feed when tempted; but their overseer remained immovable.
All of this was easily observed from the overpassing bridge
which, apart from his size, was probably the reason the Foreman was regarded
with such prestige. If the largest in
his crew went four pounds, the Foreman went 12.
Yet it was evident that he fed most sparingly and lazily.
When one ambitious angler positioned himself to take his
shot at the talked-about salmon of the traffic cone below the town bridge, the
town’s population in full arrived to wish in his favor as if a silent alarm had
been wired to each one of their homes.
To get a promising drift, because of the slow surface current and faster
sub-surface current running along the streambottom, an angler had to make a
long cast upstream with a fly weighted to allow it to drift naturally to the
bottom without lodging in the shelf rock on the bottom prematurely. If this was achieved without snagging the
full-figured apple tree on the backcast, then a strong mend had to be placed
upstream to prevent drag on the fly, allowing it to sink to the desired depth.
It was rare this would happen, and when it would, perfection
was rewarded by the Foreman simply nosing the fly to the side or allowing it to
tumble over his nose without reaction.
After several hours of this—if the angler’s wits lasted that long—the
onlookers crowding the bridge would return reluctantly to their homes, and the
onlookers’ vigil would be reopened to vehicle traffic.
To visit the bridge pool after fishing hours was
enchanting. When the water appeared
black and the graying sky became peppered with insects hatching from the
riffles below the tail of the Foreman’s pool, the town’s residents who perhaps
understood the steely veteran best, and were often fishermen themselves, would
emerge to take in the scene from the bridge strikingly empty in the pale
evening light. If it was a particularly
special evening and the Foreman was in good spirits, the delicate rise-forms
dimpling the tail of the bridge pool would erupt with an explosion of water and
the august form of the Foreman enjoying the day’s concluding meal. Such is the nature of salmon. □
Originally published in the Rural Virginian
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