Grizz
09-12-2005, 10:04 PM
The old man woke to find the sun already rising in the mountain sky & shining directly in his eyes. It took a moment for him to remember just exactly where he was, but that was quickly washed away as flashes of yesterdays fishing bounced in & out of his foggy mind. A quick look around his camp eased any suspicion of late night food thieves. The fire had burned down & frost still clung to any thing the sun hadn’t reached. Some dry wood scattered around the pit made for a fast fire that warmed his aged & frigid bones. He scattered some coals & put the coffee on. He ate an apple & chewed some elk jerky he had received earlier that year from his son. The jerky supply was running low, but he knew the hunt was just around the corner & his son would once again replenish the stores. They had fished together earlier that summer on a high mountain stream & the day was filled with beautiful Cutthroat eager to take heavily dressed dry flies of a royal flair. They had laughed about the ease of the fishing & had deep discussions as fathers & sons do. Those days are worth it he thought, the best days. His son had grown into a very proficient fly angler & this made him proud. He poured a cup of coffee & gazed out over the wonderful meadow. His camp was perched so as he could enjoy miles of majesty in every direction. The river unfolded like a mighty serpent for as far as the eye could see & the morning fog had all but burned off. His rod was still strung from the night before & the mouse pattern on the end was ripped & tattered. He picked it up & fell into a dream…
The night before had been a righteous play on his senses. He hadn’t planned on the adventure, but a few pulls from his flask around the fire had put a spark in him. Spur of the moment fishing had always been his gig. The previous day he had noticed an abundance of mice scurrying about on the rivers edge & the trout he had kept for dinner had two ½ digested in its stomach. His grandfather’s words rang in his head, “lil’ tike, big fish love mice”. His grandfather had introduced him to the pass time of fly-fishing & the art of rigging live mice to hooks & floating them on balsa wood to unreachable places on the river. Years later, he would learn to turn mice patterns on the vise. He had spun two nice mice for this particular trip. He had roped his rod to 0x, tied on one of the mice, fired up the ‘ol Coleman lantern & wandered to the waters edge. The lunar moon-glow lit the surface & he could make out a few remaining Caddis doing their mid-night dance. He made out the tall far bank, payed out some line & made a cast. The mouse pattern made an audible plop as it hit the surface. He began his familiar jerk strip retrieve, strip-strip-strip-pause, strip-strip ….WHAM! The fish was on, the sound & ferocious nature of the take had startled him a bit, but he managed to strike back & set the hook. The fish instantly began to take line, he could see it ripping through the moon lit water & his heart began to race. The fish broke the waters surface, thrashed in the air, splashed in again & began another fiery run. The reel was screaming in the dead calm stillness of the meadow & he feared he might draw the attention of the ever-present Grizzlies that frequent the rivers edge. The fish slowed enough for him to grab the lantern & he made his way down the bank with the fish leading the away. Suddenly, the fish turned & jumped again. He quickly set the lantern down & began to retrieve line. It was a miracle the fish hadn’t threw the hook, he had the chance. He finally began to gain the upper hand on the fish & began steering it towards the bank. The fish was thrashing in the shallow bank water & he started to make out its proportions in the lanterns glow. It was a huge Cutthroat, at least 5 pounds he thought. He knelt down, was barely able to tail the huge beast & lifted it out of the water. He moved it up & down & from side to side admiring its magnificence. The mouse pattern was lodged deep in its mouth, “careful now” he thought. He finally got the mouse out & released the fish, but not before the beast put a few slices in the old mans thumb for good measure. He sat back on the cold bank & tried to regain his composure. He remembered the countless nights sitting in this exact spot with his grandfather. Listening & learning & admiring the skill his grandfather harnessed. The old man had fished until the end.
He cut the mouse from the end of the line, said a good word for grandpa & stuck the pattern in the nearest pine tree for good luck. He scaled down the leader, tied on another hopper & made his way to the river. As he walked past the spot from the night before, he noticed some fresh Grizz prints, “must have came down to see what all the ruckus was ‘bout” he thought. He began casting from the high edge & decided he would dedicate the days fishing to his grandpa.
peace
The night before had been a righteous play on his senses. He hadn’t planned on the adventure, but a few pulls from his flask around the fire had put a spark in him. Spur of the moment fishing had always been his gig. The previous day he had noticed an abundance of mice scurrying about on the rivers edge & the trout he had kept for dinner had two ½ digested in its stomach. His grandfather’s words rang in his head, “lil’ tike, big fish love mice”. His grandfather had introduced him to the pass time of fly-fishing & the art of rigging live mice to hooks & floating them on balsa wood to unreachable places on the river. Years later, he would learn to turn mice patterns on the vise. He had spun two nice mice for this particular trip. He had roped his rod to 0x, tied on one of the mice, fired up the ‘ol Coleman lantern & wandered to the waters edge. The lunar moon-glow lit the surface & he could make out a few remaining Caddis doing their mid-night dance. He made out the tall far bank, payed out some line & made a cast. The mouse pattern made an audible plop as it hit the surface. He began his familiar jerk strip retrieve, strip-strip-strip-pause, strip-strip ….WHAM! The fish was on, the sound & ferocious nature of the take had startled him a bit, but he managed to strike back & set the hook. The fish instantly began to take line, he could see it ripping through the moon lit water & his heart began to race. The fish broke the waters surface, thrashed in the air, splashed in again & began another fiery run. The reel was screaming in the dead calm stillness of the meadow & he feared he might draw the attention of the ever-present Grizzlies that frequent the rivers edge. The fish slowed enough for him to grab the lantern & he made his way down the bank with the fish leading the away. Suddenly, the fish turned & jumped again. He quickly set the lantern down & began to retrieve line. It was a miracle the fish hadn’t threw the hook, he had the chance. He finally began to gain the upper hand on the fish & began steering it towards the bank. The fish was thrashing in the shallow bank water & he started to make out its proportions in the lanterns glow. It was a huge Cutthroat, at least 5 pounds he thought. He knelt down, was barely able to tail the huge beast & lifted it out of the water. He moved it up & down & from side to side admiring its magnificence. The mouse pattern was lodged deep in its mouth, “careful now” he thought. He finally got the mouse out & released the fish, but not before the beast put a few slices in the old mans thumb for good measure. He sat back on the cold bank & tried to regain his composure. He remembered the countless nights sitting in this exact spot with his grandfather. Listening & learning & admiring the skill his grandfather harnessed. The old man had fished until the end.
He cut the mouse from the end of the line, said a good word for grandpa & stuck the pattern in the nearest pine tree for good luck. He scaled down the leader, tied on another hopper & made his way to the river. As he walked past the spot from the night before, he noticed some fresh Grizz prints, “must have came down to see what all the ruckus was ‘bout” he thought. He began casting from the high edge & decided he would dedicate the days fishing to his grandpa.
peace