On The Morrow by eDIGImag

he sun gated low on the horizon as the shadow appeared on the far bank of the small stream. In mid cast, Grant Peace took note of the arrival and kept his cast on-target.

A light breeze had been eating away at the smooth water over the last hour. The irritation of that fact was beginning to wear thin. There was a note in the air, of impending increase; this didn’t do much for his irritation. It irked him, but still, it didn’t dissuade him. He kept up his pace. He was on the hunt. Grant was a determined fellow; not much got under his skin--but wind on the water when he was posting dry flies only--that did it. This one thing, seemed an inevitable flummox, haunting his hunt for a big brown trout trophy. He’d begun to believe the rumor: he was jinxed. Rounding a tight bend in the river, Grant noticed a slick portion of water, leading into the upper lip of what he knew to be a deep hole. Ahead of the lip he saw the tell-tale circle of a just-eaten surface insect. By the looks of the winged offerings whirling about him, the meal was most likely a delicate mayfly. His next fly-from-the-current-menu was duly plucked. He took up post, in the shadow of a willow, on the east bank and made fast the new offering. Drying it good and applying a liberal application of Gink to the tippet, leader and front 4 feet of this fly line. He wanted this entire train to run in the highest portion of the water column. Reducing, for maximum potential, any chance of drag. This brownie was a big one and he wanted to capture – not just give chase. In the center of his focus was an active, rising trout; a massively kyped brownie; sucking down new hatch like a vortex sweeper eradicating carpetbound bread crumbs. Three solid false casts established both distance and needed line, the forth cast sent the fly on to its intended target. The fly landed within 2 meters -upstream- of the brownie's targeted feeding lane. The drift was good and ontarget. The shadow, which he had largely ignored, continued to prostrate across the riparian line. As if it would mow down every plant in its path, it increased in size, girth and density. Ominous? Well, to Grant, it appeared to be; as usual. But, he knew now, that was only fear conjecture. Reality was likely to be worse. Grant recognized the shape emitting the shadow. "Stone the flaming crows, Are you ridgy didge with that cast? Surely, you're just pulling my leg and having a lend with me, if you think that old brownie will take."

Grant didn't even blink concentration. His focus discriminated only the fly, the trout and, the nail-in-the-coffin of this shadow-from-the-past. He was going to nail this brownie, then nail his father's arse to the nearest wall.

The Introduction Coolness nipped at the back of his little neck. Making the standing hairs even more sensitive. He shivered. But it wasn’t the cold that made him shiver, it was the excitement. He couldn’t help it. Since he was a little boy he just took to the sound of water, the singing of his father’s casting line and the sight of a nose, breaking the surface of a feeding lane to sip in the moment’s offering. “Are you watching him close, Grant?”, asked his father “Yes sir!”, whispered Grant, so full of excitement he was near bursting “Good. Do you think he’s going to stay in that feeding posture for a while yet?”, quizzed his dad. Young Grant thought on the question. Reviewed the trout’s moves of the last 5 minutes and replied, “I think he may be good for another 5 minutes, Dad.” “What makes you think that line of reasoning, son?”, asked his dad. “Well, he’s a big trout and those are little mayflies, for one. For another, he’s pretty clumsy. He only seems to be catching one bug for every three times he tries! I’m surprised he’s as big as he is. It must be that he just doesn’t give up.”, Grant chuckled in reply. He was chuckling even more in his head at his own ‘wittiness’ when is father replied. “Good observation son. Let that last comment be a lesson that you don’t forget”, urged his dad. “What part?” asked Grant a bit taken off-guard, because of his basking in his own humor. “The part about, ‘...he just doesn’t give up.’, that part. If you can remember to be that way, too, your life will be a grand effort with a lot of successes. It’ll be good and a lot of fun”, said his dad with his warming smile and hearty wink. Grant loved it when his dad did that; smile and wink-like-that. It just made him feel special; like nothing else in the world. Well, maybe fly-fishing and the whole world of events that go with that, are a close tie. But of course they are, that who his Dad was. Fly-fishing is how he knew his Dad. It was everything between them. Life was good. “Is he still feeding?” asked his dad. “Yes. But he seems to be slowing down,” replied Grant.

“Do you think he’s getting full,” asked his dad. “Honestly dad, I don’t see how that fat old brown trout ever gets full, but I think he’s getting picky. I think he’s looking for something bigger; to make his swim worth the effort,” replied a mature-sounding Grant. His father glowed. He loved these times with Grant. For a five-year-old he was well beyond his years in understanding of nature. And at times, he had to remind himself that this little companion, was but a small boy. It was all of this that just made him truly appreciate how blessed he was as a father and thankful there was something, so special between them and it was fly-fishing and the love of being outdoors. Just thinking about it made his heart leap. Dad grinned and said, “So. You think he looking for this?”, holding up a fat, #8 Humpy, pinched between his index finger tip and thumb. Young Grant looked at the fly with the scrutiny of a Lefty Kreh, rubbed his chin like a Bob Clouser and replied with the deft of a John Gierach in-the-making, “You know dad, I think his eyes see a bigger meal, maybe a #4. It’s gotta make him slobber so much his brain just acts,” he popped with a big grin. Richard Peace could no longer contain himself. He howled with laughter, sat down and leaned back on the bank. Grant stood there hoping what he’d said wasn’t stupid, but was funny; he’d thought it was funny. “Grant you are genuinely something else! WOW! I couldn’t have said it better myself. Settled. A #4 Humpy coming up.” said his father amid chuckles. With that his dad pulled a #4 Humpy from his fly box; tied the night before; unbeknown to Grant, for just such a moment; his dad was like that; sort of spooky at times; and tied it to an 8 foot, 3-section, step-down tippet. Then he Ginked that head of the Humpy, the entire tippet and 4 feet up on the leader to insure that old Humpy had a nice ‘high-riding-profile’. Richard pinched the Humpy’s hook between index finger and thumb pads, held up for a clear view, winked at Grant – waited – Grant winked back. It was GO! In lock-step, synchronized movement, the two guys turned to observe the trout. They both noticed his cadence had slowed as they watched him for a couple of minutes. Richard moved forward, to rest on the balls of his feet in a duck-squat position, then inched, in a surprisingly smooth duck-walk, a couple of feet closer to the

stream edge. Here there was a nice transition of gravel and sand into the water from where to pick his casting path; and he began. He cast a smooth, side-to-side; in upstream-to-downstream movement, adjusting the length of line he’d need to make an on-target-cast. He steadily dolled line, out to roughly 25 feet. Richard had figured, the distance between the water’s edge and the sipping trout, to be roughly a 14 foot, point-to-point, cast. The feeding lane, was just distal of his current position, and influenced by a solid down-stream current. He knew his cast would have to be just upstream of the big trout, leaving only enough slough in the line to make up for the off-set in currents between them; hoping for the witching-moment of as natural-a-drift as possible, while the Humpy bore down on the trout’s line of sip. Grant was taking all of this in. From the funny, but graceful, duck-walk his dad would do, to the amazing side-to-side cast, getting line out without casting behind him; there definitely wasn’t any room back there! But he knew the best was yet to come. Each time his dad made HIS special-cast, the hair on Grant’s arms tingled! And he knew it was about to happen. With the line out at-length. The current flowing left-to-right. Richard took the cast, at the end of the downstream portion, into a speed-drawn counterclockwise circle, making two full rotations, then at the top of the beginning of the third rotation, with an abrupt push of the rod tip toward the water and downstream, simultaneously releasing the two loops in his left hand with the flow of the rod, and watched as the line laid out in a perfect drag-free path, heading right into the big trout’s field-of-view. Ohhhh! There they were. The goosebumps. His dad was a magician at casting a fly line. He hoped, one-day, to be half as good. It was his goal. The #4 Humpy rode high on the water. Drifting as natural as all the other spents and spinners; only 6X their size. So? Would this be a good choice or a big blunder. Fishing is, as every serious fisherman knows, a gamble. Equally known, that as in all gambling, only those willing to stake big risks ever reap big rewards. The Humpy had landed in a near-to-perfection, parachute-drop-landing about 15 feet above the trout; a quick 6 second float time. The big trout was on a 5.5 second routine and had been the last 5 minutes. As the big Humpy landed, the big brownie had just eaten. Would it be? Only time would … BAM!! Not only was it in time, but the big bull brownie, rushed out of his feeding lane and nailed the Humpy at 4.5 seconds; swimming at least 4 feet to insure HE got it! And the dance was on. His dad’s ticket had been punched, the music was jacked and his partner was in full display! It was a sight to see.

The big brownie dove; then ran; then zigged and zagged. He took out line and gobbled it back. With each move Richard performed as a magical ballet dancer. Giving and taking with each move of the trout. Grant was taking all of this in. He was working – not even consciously so – on his own steps that, would one day, come. Finally the big brown tired of the chase and allowed himself to be lulled into the shallow water and the net. Richard had Grant come up close to his side so he could see the trout. Then carefully readying the hemostats, he gently removed the barbless hook and replaced it in the keeper on this rod. Richard, then took the time for a bit of two-birds-with-one-stone action: (1) biology for Grant, pointing out the various parts of the fishes’ external anatomy, while admiring the beauty of this amazing creature; (2) and allowing the big brown trout, who barely fit within the confines of Richard’s generous landing net, regain strength as it rested in the quiet waters within. Sensing the fish being recovered, Richard lowered the net rim and the big brownie, slowly swam outside; held position for a moment, turned and looked at the two humans on the other-side of the air-water barrier, stared a moment, then spun-around and swam-off, out-of-sight, back into the darker deeps of its home currents. The guys just stood there. Richard, reliving the moment of the brown’s take, the good fight he gave and that parting glance it gave him and Grant before swimming off. Grant was rewinding every moment. Working to memorize each detail. Knowing he would need to remember the entire scenario again; many more times; to become as good as his dad. If that was even possible. “So. It seems old Humpy#4 was a good choice after all kiddo. What do you think?”, Richard invited. “Yes. And did you see him rush at that fly? I almost jumped out of my seat, when he did that. Like a monster bustin’ out of the shadows!! What fight! And WOW Dad! You’re amazing. I hope I can be as good as you one day!”, gushed Grant. Richard was blushing and beaming at the same time. “Thank you son, that means a lot to me to hear you be so enthusiastic and aware. You’ll go far kiddo. You’ll go far.”, said Richard with a few buttons in danger of becoming dangerous projectiles! “How could I not be with you as my mentor”, beamed Grant as they walked to the car.