Somewhere out there

 

Somewhere Out There

4/11/22

 

  I parked along the side of the road and looked through the bare forest trees towards the crick. It reminded me of the front of a birthday card my oldest son gave me back when. Inside he wrote “Somewhere out there we find it every time.”

  I put together my 4 weight 7 ½ foot Powel fly rod fitted with a L. L. Bean reel with DT line. I grabbed a few cigars and walked down through the forest. The shallower narrow crick was now flowing wide, fast and deeper than normal this time of year due to the recent rain fall. It was only 39° in the morning but was suppose to get near 60° in the afternoon. Though I could have waited for it to warm up some, the sun was already rising within the blue/gray sky.

  Scraggly trees overhung the sides of the crick with branches warning of casting hazards. The flow of the current was of interweaving waves caused by exposed boulders and subsurface flat rocks. The clarity was good and with the much wavy current should hide my presence with long casts.

  As I set foot in the crick I felt the under current pushing against my lower legs. I felt the cold crick water instantly around my stocking foot hip waders and didn’t take long to feel the chill through the neoprene booties.

  Being the second week of the opening day of trout season, and the constant rain, I figured the trout, that escaped the onslaught of fishermen, should be scattered. I already had a streamer attached to a quick-snap and my plan was to fish my way down crick with long thoughtful casts. It didn’t take long for the first trout to grab onto the swinging Woolly Bugger. I played him towards me as he fought hard in the oncoming current. I was surprised it was a brown trout. (Most trout I ever caught in these waters were brook or rainbows.)

 

  I continued casting streamers side to side letting them swing. I gingerly waded the crick downstream walking over the unsteady millstones not to lose my balance. It was if walking in the children’s play room, in soft moccasins, over spilled marbles and wooden building blocks..

  A trout strikes the streamer just before the line straightens. I feel the strike within my guide fingers, holding the line, but also notice the curve in the fly line pull away. I pull back the line and wrist set the hook. The trout tries to swim downstream but I hold the line tight as the rod bows towards the trout. The rainbow leaps in the air like a fledgling trying to fly. Back into the current it wrangles with the line and disappears as I hold a limp line.

  It’s not easy bringing trout to the net in fast current. Trying to maneuver a hooked trout around exposed boulders and subsurface ones is a challenge in itself. Other times I can’t raise the rod high because of the low hanging branches. I continue to enjoy the day hooking trout as I wade downstream.

 

 

 I find myself pretty far downstream away from my truck. The sun is in full view of the water as it sparkles like a freshly waxed floor under bright lights.

  

 I call it quits, wade out and light a cigar. I weave my way through the forest downed trees, twisted branches and bent limbs. I notice deer scat and hoof prints on the softer forest ground. I travel until the mountainside doesn’t look so steep and start to climb following a well worn path. I’m surprised that, almost to the road, I’m only a couple of yards from my truck. I drop the tailgate and unload my gear.

  It was a pleasant peaceful outing. Though a bit scary at times wading over uneven, and sometimes movable millstones, I caught trout.

 

~doubletaper