I had a dream, once, of a stream I knew only by name.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
Given
the statistic in hours I spend regularly pouring over, scrutinizing every
faint, squiggly blue line of even hopeful consequence, this is not an uncommon
occurrence. Its very form—its tributaries and bends—gave way to brown trout of
beastly proportions, chasing streamers meant for the likes of them. The best
part was…no one else knew about it.
In my waking hours I put more logic to the illusion.
The flow in question is a tributary to a wild trout stream heavily fished in
Virginia. It’s long and runs a hollow elevated more than a half-mile above sea
level. It’s stocked in a short, half-mile portion, and I had reason to believe
that the water downstream, leading all the way to its mouth, remains cold
year-round. All of these elements are indicators of a potentially great wild
trout stream.
So I put boots on the ground. I spent a rainy fall
afternoon plying its dark corners with a meaty fly. One with enough seduction
and substance to persuade the kind of fish I was after, the kind of fish I had
dreamed about.
As such fishing is, the action was slow, until, about
halfway through the morning, I saw a dark, trailing figure explode on my fly as
I was pulling it from the water to make another cast. There was no good
hookset. No real contact. And so the fish was lost to the raindrop-stippled
depths and the wondering, hopeful realm of my mind that manifests itself
physically, actually, sparingly.
But I wasn’t fuming. I didn’t smack the water in
disgust. As any fisherman knows, a brush with a beast is encouraging, bordering
on infectious. What was an ambitious hope was realized as a more-than-possible
reality.
But was it the only fish? Were there more shouldered
wild trout cruising the creek of my personal discovery? Was it a fluke? A river
has many faces. A single trip is not sufficient in defining a river. So, what,
in fact, had I found?
I’ve known and had tremendous success on other rivers
like this. Rivers few others fish, but hold many fish, trophy fish, regardless.
One such water I fished for the first time at an
average streamflow, on a bluebird day in early October. Local lore fills the
runs and bottomless pools with trophy brown trout—the largest brown trout, it’s
sometimes said, in the state of Tennessee. I never believed it, not based on my
own experiences angling it, which could be counted on a single hand. But the
rumors persist, and flames don’t burn in the absence of fuel.
Four months after my orientation on said river, a
window of opportunity arose. A thick layer of snow fell in early February and
covered the valley irrigated by the river. Runoff brought the river’s flow up
several feet. A few days after it began to recede, I had a free afternoon.
Figuring high, falling water would be the time for any
monster brown trout in the river to show their faces, I packed my biggest stick
and fly box and headed for the stretch of river I knew best. I had never caught
more than a handful of average-sized fish there, but the roiling current gave
me hope.
The second cast of the afternoon roused anger in a
foot-long brown, which hammered a brown Woolly Bugger swung against a
hemlock-lined bank.
In the next pool, I met the rumors. She was holding
perfectly in dead-still water, affected by a limestone protrusion several feet
from the near bank, nose pointed into a ripping run. When I set the hook, not
much moved for several seconds. Then she surged upstream, and then down,
creating long, deep pulses in my fly rod. I couldn’t chase her downstream, and
when she was finally tired, I lost her to the ripping current and a hole worn
in her mouth by the hook.
The next day I returned looking for the rumor I had
lost. She was nowhere to be found, but, from a deep pool, I managed to pull a
half dozen wild browns over 12 inches, along with several smaller ones.
The following day, I caught, and saw, nothing.
On this cold, windy February afternoon, there’s little
to think about but the fish I haven’t caught, and the rivers I haven’t
known. I spend hours studying my maps,
guessing at the potentials of various rivers and streams. I think about the
places I have fished, once, maybe twice, and what they have to offer that I
haven’t seen. I think about those secrets out there, waiting to be discovered,
and the ones I may never get to. And when night comes, my eyes don’t close.
I am haunted by waters. □
*Originally published in The Rural Virginian
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