Grizz
01-26-2005, 10:48 PM
The fisherman awoke early, 4:30 to be exact. Instantly his mind was filled with the promise of the up-coming days celebration. The last week in his life had been filled with turmoil & misery, but today that would all wash away. His lifes troubles would drift far down stream as if they were ancient drift woood riding the current's of time. He put a pot of coffe on, shagged the morning paper & turned the radio to his favorite pre ffishing station. The news print only confimed that when it rains, it pours. After a few more pages, he put the paper down. Today, no news would be good news & he was sickened by the spewings of a biased media. He wondered what, if anything, would warrant a daily news page with good news only.....His frustration was interrupted as the coffee pot whistled the sweet song of morning nectar. He poured a cup & made his way to the fly tying table. He rummaged around through the feathers, skins & thread & found a #10 200RBL, his weathered fingers fumbled a bit & placed it in the decrepit Regal vise. He drifted for a moment & pondered, how many days have fell from these jaws? How many smiles has this old vise brought to me & the many I have fished with? How much longer will this poor 'ol vise let me spin happiness? The music on the radio had been interrupted & the there was a news caster telling of yet more bad news. He reached over & switched it from radio to cd & placed a disc of mellow morning bluegrass in. The blended sounds of the fiddle, banjo & guitar assured him that there was more than bad news in this cruel-cruel world. He scrounged up a half a furnace saddle just the right size, a grizzly saddle to match & a small ball of muskrat fur. Two days earlier he had recieved a call from old fishing companion, his friend had told the story of gray mayflies the size of sparrows & trout the size of whales. He put the bobbin in motion & began to craft the days work. 2 Flies would be it today, 2 & 2 only, have to have a back up, right? He drifted off again & began to re-live the many days that started just like this one. 2 hoppers, 2 crickets, 2 ants, 2 of this & 2 of that. After two good cups, a half dozen foot tapping sweetgrass songs & a bowl of fresh strawberries & cream he was ready to travel. He loaded his gear into the back of the truck, whistled for the dog & drove down & away from that lonely street.
As he drove the familiar back roads to his fishing haunt, his mind was filled with the memories of fishing trips past that had all but shadowed the earlier weeks events. The leaves were just begining to change in to their fall colors & the morning mist was lifting above the rivers surface. The drive alone was therapy & he began to fill the butterflies well up in his stomach as they had since he was just a boy. Something on the old trucks am radio turned his thoughts again to the worlds troubles. He reached over, turned it down, reached in his shirt pocket for a camel, & beagn to solve the worlds problems via ffishing. The old man had a hunch that if the worlds leaders were all fisherman, the world wouldn't be such a wreck. The only problem with this was; 9 out of 10 of them would always be "gone fishing", so nothing would ever get accomplished, but if you get 'em the same room for a sit down, good things would happen. Well, that was that & such is life. He turned the radio up & the morning music had resumed for the final leg of his drive. After turning off onto the dirt road & taking the secret left that was hidden by the big 'ol willow tree, he had arrived. The sun was waking up & painting some whispy high clouds a majetic purple color. He thanked God for his wonderful gifts & drifted off again in the mornings picture. It looked as if the weather was going to smile on him today. The air was crisp, crisp but sweet, & his cheeks tightened as he began to string his rod. The rod was older than the vise & had been given to him by his sweet wife many years earlier. A tear welled up in his eye as he remembered that morning so long ago & the timless beauty of his wife who was now deceased. The rod had brought an endless amount of happiness, but nothing to compare with the loving happiness that this wonderful woman had brought to him. He threaded the rod, tied onto the end one of the mornings creations & applied a small drop of bug dope to the hackle. He opened his thermos & poured another cup of coffee spiked with the irish whisky his friend had given him at the funeral earlier that week. The coffee had a sweet bite & put a little fire in his blood. He slipped into his waders, tied the laces on his holey boots & made his way to the waters edge. He sat down in a mat of fall grass & wondered if a deer or elk had slept there the night before. A muskrat was swimming the far bank with a mouth full of bottom weed, a bald eagle was perched atop a burnt & dead ponderosa down stream a ways & he could here a bugling elk off through the forest. He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a another camel & sipped his coffee in the magnificent morning. He rembered many years earlier, sitting in this exact spot with his beatiful wife, the sun had been hot that day, too hot for fishing, but not to hot to make love in the wonders of nature. These thoughts also brought a tear to his eyes, but he could almost feel her soft hands & taste her bitter sweet lips. Those thoughts were overcome as the bald eagle had left its perch & crashed into the river to secure its morning meal. The old man congratulated & cursed the eagle as it flew off with what looked to be quite a fish. He layed his head back into the soft grass & began to daydream. He dreamed of the past, the future & of all things good in his world. It must have been a few hours when a crows cry fianaly woke him, must have drifted off, "damn irish whiskey" he said. The sun was now high in the sky & he figured it to be around noon, mabye later. He gazed out over the water & was delighted to see that his friends information was confirmed. A large western fall Drake hatch was in full swing & the river was wide awake with the dimples of rising fish. The sight of spotted noses sipping these monster bugs from the surface was enough to once again bring a little fire to the old mans blood. He released his fly from the catch, payed out 4 pulls of line & began to cast. In no more time that it had taken him to pay out the line, his rod was bent & a wide grin adorned his face. The Cuttthroat played a little sluggish as some do, but gave a couple complimentary tugs at the end for good measure. He admired the magnificent colors & porportions, removed the hook & slid his prize back into the river for another day. He said "till we meet again, my finned friend" & wandered carefuly up the bank. He decided to see if an old friend was eating this great day. This particular fish & the man had been friends many years even though the relationship was mostly give & take. The old man would give the fish a fly & then take him from the water, he always appologized & handled this friend with the upmost respect. The old man had held a million fish, but none as wonderful as this one. The fish lived far under a overhanging bunch of rushes towered by a strong & majestic pine. Most of the year a cast into this fishes lair was impossible, but with the lower fall flows, it looked as if a cast would be possible. He moved slowly into position & cast his fly a few feet above the undercut. The fly bobbed & turned with the current as it approached the strike zone. Just as the old man had dreamed earlier, a burst of color exploded from the bottom & his friend bit the fly. A good fight ensued as always, the fish shot with bursts of power towards the undercut, jumped through the dead fall hanging feet above his home & ran up & down, then up & down again. The old man finally steered his friend to his feet & reached down to gently cup his prize. As he lifted the fish from the water, he noticed a crimson fluid running down the side of the trout. a closer look revealed that the fish had taken the fly deep on the bottom of its mouth & was bleeding all of his life out quickly from its heart. The old man held his friend as the last bit of blood pumped from its heart. He wondered, what now? To think that he could take this fish home & cook it as well as his passed wife could was out of the question & would only add to the miserry of rememberence. There was no one around to offer it to & he had brought no ice with him this day. He looked up & across the river & saw a family of river ottters spying him & his catch. He layed his old friend in the grass & walked up the hill behind him. It didn't take long & the otters had crossed & were talking up quite a storm around the old Cutthroat. He sat & watched as they took turns eating this wonderful fish & the fish was quite a meal to say the least. He decided on that note that he would call it day. His mind was healed & the thoughts of his beautiful wife brought only smiles now. As he drove that old highway home, his mind drifted off as always & he wondered how long it would be before his time would come & he would reunite with his wife & his old freind. One thing was for sure, his time would come.
Peace
As he drove the familiar back roads to his fishing haunt, his mind was filled with the memories of fishing trips past that had all but shadowed the earlier weeks events. The leaves were just begining to change in to their fall colors & the morning mist was lifting above the rivers surface. The drive alone was therapy & he began to fill the butterflies well up in his stomach as they had since he was just a boy. Something on the old trucks am radio turned his thoughts again to the worlds troubles. He reached over, turned it down, reached in his shirt pocket for a camel, & beagn to solve the worlds problems via ffishing. The old man had a hunch that if the worlds leaders were all fisherman, the world wouldn't be such a wreck. The only problem with this was; 9 out of 10 of them would always be "gone fishing", so nothing would ever get accomplished, but if you get 'em the same room for a sit down, good things would happen. Well, that was that & such is life. He turned the radio up & the morning music had resumed for the final leg of his drive. After turning off onto the dirt road & taking the secret left that was hidden by the big 'ol willow tree, he had arrived. The sun was waking up & painting some whispy high clouds a majetic purple color. He thanked God for his wonderful gifts & drifted off again in the mornings picture. It looked as if the weather was going to smile on him today. The air was crisp, crisp but sweet, & his cheeks tightened as he began to string his rod. The rod was older than the vise & had been given to him by his sweet wife many years earlier. A tear welled up in his eye as he remembered that morning so long ago & the timless beauty of his wife who was now deceased. The rod had brought an endless amount of happiness, but nothing to compare with the loving happiness that this wonderful woman had brought to him. He threaded the rod, tied onto the end one of the mornings creations & applied a small drop of bug dope to the hackle. He opened his thermos & poured another cup of coffee spiked with the irish whisky his friend had given him at the funeral earlier that week. The coffee had a sweet bite & put a little fire in his blood. He slipped into his waders, tied the laces on his holey boots & made his way to the waters edge. He sat down in a mat of fall grass & wondered if a deer or elk had slept there the night before. A muskrat was swimming the far bank with a mouth full of bottom weed, a bald eagle was perched atop a burnt & dead ponderosa down stream a ways & he could here a bugling elk off through the forest. He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a another camel & sipped his coffee in the magnificent morning. He rembered many years earlier, sitting in this exact spot with his beatiful wife, the sun had been hot that day, too hot for fishing, but not to hot to make love in the wonders of nature. These thoughts also brought a tear to his eyes, but he could almost feel her soft hands & taste her bitter sweet lips. Those thoughts were overcome as the bald eagle had left its perch & crashed into the river to secure its morning meal. The old man congratulated & cursed the eagle as it flew off with what looked to be quite a fish. He layed his head back into the soft grass & began to daydream. He dreamed of the past, the future & of all things good in his world. It must have been a few hours when a crows cry fianaly woke him, must have drifted off, "damn irish whiskey" he said. The sun was now high in the sky & he figured it to be around noon, mabye later. He gazed out over the water & was delighted to see that his friends information was confirmed. A large western fall Drake hatch was in full swing & the river was wide awake with the dimples of rising fish. The sight of spotted noses sipping these monster bugs from the surface was enough to once again bring a little fire to the old mans blood. He released his fly from the catch, payed out 4 pulls of line & began to cast. In no more time that it had taken him to pay out the line, his rod was bent & a wide grin adorned his face. The Cuttthroat played a little sluggish as some do, but gave a couple complimentary tugs at the end for good measure. He admired the magnificent colors & porportions, removed the hook & slid his prize back into the river for another day. He said "till we meet again, my finned friend" & wandered carefuly up the bank. He decided to see if an old friend was eating this great day. This particular fish & the man had been friends many years even though the relationship was mostly give & take. The old man would give the fish a fly & then take him from the water, he always appologized & handled this friend with the upmost respect. The old man had held a million fish, but none as wonderful as this one. The fish lived far under a overhanging bunch of rushes towered by a strong & majestic pine. Most of the year a cast into this fishes lair was impossible, but with the lower fall flows, it looked as if a cast would be possible. He moved slowly into position & cast his fly a few feet above the undercut. The fly bobbed & turned with the current as it approached the strike zone. Just as the old man had dreamed earlier, a burst of color exploded from the bottom & his friend bit the fly. A good fight ensued as always, the fish shot with bursts of power towards the undercut, jumped through the dead fall hanging feet above his home & ran up & down, then up & down again. The old man finally steered his friend to his feet & reached down to gently cup his prize. As he lifted the fish from the water, he noticed a crimson fluid running down the side of the trout. a closer look revealed that the fish had taken the fly deep on the bottom of its mouth & was bleeding all of his life out quickly from its heart. The old man held his friend as the last bit of blood pumped from its heart. He wondered, what now? To think that he could take this fish home & cook it as well as his passed wife could was out of the question & would only add to the miserry of rememberence. There was no one around to offer it to & he had brought no ice with him this day. He looked up & across the river & saw a family of river ottters spying him & his catch. He layed his old friend in the grass & walked up the hill behind him. It didn't take long & the otters had crossed & were talking up quite a storm around the old Cutthroat. He sat & watched as they took turns eating this wonderful fish & the fish was quite a meal to say the least. He decided on that note that he would call it day. His mind was healed & the thoughts of his beautiful wife brought only smiles now. As he drove that old highway home, his mind drifted off as always & he wondered how long it would be before his time would come & he would reunite with his wife & his old freind. One thing was for sure, his time would come.
Peace