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3. UP Against The Wall

The asphalt hugged the river so tight that almost every corner offered a chance at the kiss of death. The road, with its narrow shoulder, was set high above the river below, and the solid rock embankment was precariously pitched to a near vertical descent. Guardrails where placed, only as an afterthought, at locations which claimed the most victims. Far and few between was a place to pull over and park, and from the average fisherman’s point of view, why would you want to. Descending to and ascending from the river’s edge was more fitting to the rock climber’s genre. And once at water’s edge you aren’t going to wade, as the river bottom is invisible despite the water being crystal clear. This mountainous river is host to a seasonal onslaught of fly fishermen, once the winter snow begins to recede, and I think many would agree to call it pressured water. But even during the many blizzard like hatches, this stretch of river sees few artificial presentations; as the indolent crowd packs into the easy pickings of a more hospitable access.

I happened onto this first time experience during an early-spring month-long hiatus from the Wisconsin doldrums of mud and slop. The midge fishing was, as always, to my expectation, but a calling for something different, something a bit more challenging, was begging with behest. That’s how I found myself walking the narrow shoulder staring down into the many, pockets, pools and back eddies, created by the numerous giant rocks and boulders jutting from the river’s depth. It didn’t take long, from my perch on high, aided with the warming sun’s rays and the requisite eye ware, for the fish to reveal themselves in mass. I passed on the first few fish, as the precarious approach seemed daunting, but I would soon discover that the effort was justified in terms of success.

I made my first approach from behind a nice brown that was nymphing in a narrow current tongue formed between a series of rocks and shore. Sidestepping my way down amongst the giant jagged rocks was fraught with the planning of each step, and the obvious realization that the waders and assembled rod were in constant peril; the equipment always taking precedence over life and limb in true fly fisherman fashion. Kneepads, hiking boots and rappelling should’ve been the call, but I was fishing, not partaking in some pansy sport. As the waning distance between me and the brown succumbed to the physical effort, waxing was the sense of excitement, but haste is better left to the lesser of fishermen and is not part of the lexicon of the greater. So I checked my youthful nimbleness, in mind only, and engaged my cunning prowess of age. Sneaking into position I set my left knee and shoulder into the rock wall and gained purchase with a right-foot hold, setting up, as best I could, my casting platform. The barbless number twenty-four concoction was unhooked from the third eye up from the winding check and the half loop of leader was released from around the reel. The fly and leader fell free to the water as I swung the rod tip downstream behind me. I stripped from the spool my guesstimate, coaxing line through the tip with a jiggling wrist, until the current took hold of the line and pulled taut to the reel. After a few fine-tuning adjustment my focus turned to my target and the tension cast was made. My distance was good but I missed my mark to the outside of the narrow current tongue’s center. I let the drift continue past the fish and picked up the slack with a full extension of my arm and a quick flick of the wrist. Swinging the rod tip out away from the rock wall I checked my cast and let settle, the line behind me. I halted any further effort, hoping I hadn’t spooked the fish, and was shortly relieved when it moved forward and into the feeding lane then sidling back from whence it came. I let fly another tension cast and short drift, but this time I settled into a staccato of casts and began the barrage toward my target. During this attack the fish continued its forays in and out of harms way, but my timing seemed out of sync. My relentless pursuit continued over enough time to where I felt I knew exactly where my fly was at any given moment in the drift. I knew that we had just missed our connection by mere inches more than once, and then, as if in slow motion, it all came together in perfect harmony. The sixth sense had revealed itself in the unfolding. The fly was delivered on target precisely; only in my mind’s eye could I see it sink and pick up speed in the turbulent confines of the current tongue’s grasp, gathering like a funnel the fodder on which the fish would feed. My imagined image of the fly’s progress intensified and my expectation grew exponentially as I saw the fish gain forward momentum, angling into the melee of turbulence and darkness. All that remained of the fish was a ghostly figure of reflected light, distorted through the undulating prism of the water’s surface. Don’t ask me how, but a reflexive reaction caused a lifting of my rod hand and forearm through no visible stimulus of which I was aware. The backward sweeping arc of the rod tip was halted and reversed course, changing into a throbbing dance just as the fish broke water. Just as quickly the fish disappeared in a splashing belly flop, then, gaining traction against the current, it began stripping line creating a zinging whir of the clicker as it tried to keep time with the blurred reel handle. Heading upstream the fish took a hard right turn around the rock forming the mouth of the feeding funnel, and then, with the u-turn compete, the line was pulled tight around the rock as the fish hightailed it downriver. I saw it coming, and there really wasn’t much I could do. The music stopped and the dancing rod tip froze mid step. I smiled and launched a large looping mend in hope of freeing the line from an abrasive retrieve, but to no avail. I grimaced as I rewound the spool, thinking only of the rock grinding away at the line’s smooth and polished texture. And just as the line rounded the corner and the current tongue took hold, accelerating the following leader in tow, it stopped.

I pulled with ever increasing tension until I felt that all telling give, and wound all that remained onto the spool. I broke the rod down into four pieces and with all the enthusiasm of a young kid I scurried the wall to the top and began again.