Old Mountains, Old Bones, Old Trees, and Old Flies

35 Whelen

Senior Member
"From my own experience I can say that a bad back makes you hike slower, stove-up knees keep you from wading confidently, tendinitis of the elbows buggers your casting, and a dose of giardia can send you dashing to the bushes fifteen times in an afternoon, but although none of this is fun, it's discernibly better than not fishing." ~ John Gierach
 

NCHillbilly

Administrator
Staff member
"From my own experience I can say that a bad back makes you hike slower, stove-up knees keep you from wading confidently, tendinitis of the elbows buggers your casting, and a dose of giardia can send you dashing to the bushes fifteen times in an afternoon, but although none of this is fun, it's discernibly better than not fishing." ~ John Gierach
Gierach is one of my favorite writers. I can relate with all of the above except the giardia. :)
 

Pig Predator

Useles Billy’s Fishel Hog Killer ?
Thats nice, real nice! 1000 ft elevation in a mile aint no joke. And coming out with the brakes on the whole way is even worse than goin in!
 

Old Yapper

Senior Member
I cast to the head of the pool, dropping my fly into a seam that will let it float the whole way down without dragging. I don't know why I feel that this hole is different from the countless other ones I've fished today, but something inside me tells me to fish it as perfectly as my ability will allow. It seems important, so I listen.

As the fly floats over the slot beside the big rock, I see movement deep in the pool. More movement than I would normally expect in a little jump-across creek this size. My heart rate speeds up. Could it be that I actually saw what I thought I did?

I take a minute, and wait. Then, I carefully flick the fly back into the same seam. It floats down, and yes, there is definitely movement this time. A disproportionately large head comes out of the water, then disappears along with my fly. I set the hook, and the rod bends deeply. 15" of fat rainbow trout launches out of the water like a Polaris missle launched from a submarine, writhing in midair seemingly in slow motion, flinging water droplets that arc and sparkle in the beam of sunlight shining down through the canopy. The next second, it is burrowing at the bottom of the deep pool, shaking its head and trying to dislodge the stinging thing in its mouth. The next second, it is over the small falls at the tail of the pool, and headed downstream. I give it the reel, and it takes line as it streaks through three more pools and small sets of falls. Finally, I drop the rod horizontally, and apply side pressure to it. I start to regain line. When there is only a rod length of line out, I reach back for my net, raise the rod, and soon, it's in the bag of the net. One of the biggest small-stream wild rainbows I've ever caught in the Park on a dry fly.

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I admire the fish, and marvel at how it reached this size in this trickle. Most trout here live an average of two or three years at the most. This one is an old matriarch. Behind its gill plate is a healing wound, perhaps from an otter or heron. Life isn't easy in a torrent of icy falling water.

After that, I fished on half-heartedly for a little ways, then stopped at the bottom of a beautiful pool fed by a small set of falls. Light and shadows played on the water, and the water seemed to whisper and speak to me as it gushed and gurgled. I sat down on a boulder, fascinated by the beauty of the scene. I sat there for a long while. I suddenly noticed that the light and shadows had lengthened and slanted. Much time had evaporated, and I realized that I was done for the day; and that I was physically slap worn out, sore, and weary. But, also spiritually and emotionally refreshed in the way that only a wild mountain stream and wild trout can nourish my soul. I hooked the fly back into the keeper. I didn't even make a cast into this beautiful pool. To do so would somehow have not been right at the moment. Ahead of me was a steep climb out to the trail, a long walk back down the mountain to my truck, and a long drive home once I reached it. But I still sat there a good while longer, just watching the play of the light, and listening to the voices in the water.

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Fin.
You have quite a talent for writing.
I know and appreciate that, because I have quite a talent for it myself, but I don't think I can equal the quality of your work.
I really admire and appreciate what you write here. You have my full attention and salutes!
Keep 'em coming...this is GREAT stuff. In some cases, pure poetic genius. (and I am not one who is easily impressed either)
I enjoyed these epistles immensely.
(y)(y)(y)(y)
 

F.A.R.R.

Senior Member
You could easily make up a book of your stories and sell it.........but I’m certainly glad you share them here. Your as talented of a story teller as you are a trout fisherman
 

NCHillbilly

Administrator
Staff member
You could easily make up a book of your stories and sell it.........but I’m certainly glad you share them here. Your as talented of a story teller as you are a trout fisherman
I spent years selling magazine articles. All it did was eat up my tax refunds. :)
 

Thunder Head

Gone but not forgotten
I saw you posted this last weekend. I just haven't had time to sit down and enjoy it properly.

I was not disappointed!
 
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