Fisherman's Tail

I fish because I love to because I love the environs where trout are found which are invariably beautiful;

because , my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion;

because only in the woods can I find solitude without loneliness;

because bourbon out of an old tin cup always tastes better out there;

because maybe one day I will catch a mermaid;

and, finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important,

but because I suspect that so many other concerns of men

are equally unimportant

and not nearly so much fun.

~ Robert Traver

The good words of the Michigan judge pretty much summed it up for me except I sometimes wondered about the "mermaid." Although times are changing women on a trout stream are still somewhat rare. Surprising in a way, because you see it is a "gentle sport."

The fly-fishing version of it especially belongs to people who like to walk. From riffle to pond to run and on to the next riffle.

The farther from the road you go the fishing can only get better and better.

There is an etiquette involved in this movement as well. You don't expect to see other people but sometimes it happens. The rules are:

(1) If they are actively fishing a stretch of stream, "DO NOT DISTURB." This can spook the fish they are casting to and really piss them off. They were there first.

(2) Your choices are to wait till they finish and move on or leave the stream and pass around them at a sufficient distance that they don't even know you went by.

(3) If they are not actively fishing, perhaps changing a fly, sipping some bourbon or trying to remove their lure from a tree, you may approach cautiously. Greet them and ask how the fishing is going. Most like to chat. If the response is minimal move on past them to the next pool.

So on that particular evening the "Little Fox" had been giving up brown trout quite readily. A small hatch of stoneflies was coming off and "Little Yellow Sally's" were working very nicely. I was casting up stream and looking forward to the next pool. It was one of my favorites. That when I noticed another fly fisher approaching downstream from around a bend.

At a distance of about 200 yards I thought, at first, it was a young boy. I decided to wait and sitting on a mossy bank took in the warblers floating above the stream. Returning my gaze to the aforementioned pool, I realized that the person testing the waters of my favorite spot was definitely not a boy with a cane pole. Small, but it was definitely a she who was casting side-arm with a fly rod.

I knew why the side arm cast and therefore what the problem was. Brush and trees sere close behind, a cliff face was across the small stream and a there was log jam too boot. Tricky casting, but well worth it if you could hit the right spots. I watched intrigued.

Finally after much frustrated effort she managed to get hung up on an overhanging branch. I approached cautiously.

She broke off, and I heard a soft, "Oh shit."

As she turned I managed a smile and "Not your day is it?"

She couldn't have been five feet tall. From under the Australian bush hat cascaded red hair almost down to her waist. A few freckles and all the right female contours in just the right proportions to match her small size. I was entranced.

"You can say that again," she responded. "There are a couple of big brown's sipping out there too. I just can't reach them."

As she sat down on the bank to re-tie, I peered intently at the stream. Sure enough they were working downstream from the logjam.

"Have you tried any Sallies," I asked

"Nope," she muttered. "It's the cast though that I can't figure."

"Did you try a roll-cast," I queried.

"What's that?"

"Can I show you?"

I walked downstream about twenty yards. Didn't want to take her spot, of course. "Cast out. Lift your rod drawing the line toward you. Then "flip it" in a rolling motion towards your target. This avoids the back cast and all those trees and bushes." A couple most demonstrations and I heard, "got it." She was ready to try it.

"Here's a Sally for you. Give it a try."

With that she tied on and moved down to the water. I took her place on the bank and watched. She leaned forward a little staring intently at the logjam. My eyes tended to focus on the tight little butt pointing right at me. This was fishing at its best!

There is such a thing as serendipity. The little squeal of delight told me she had made a perfect cast with perfect results. This woman knew how to play a fish and following the huge brown as it rushed downstream she fought it to a standstill. I slipped my always handy digital out of my pocket and followed her at a

distance.

Five minutes later, she stood cradling the brown, which must have approached ten pounds. I quickly snapped their picture. The brown tint, dark spots and yellow markings were almost iridescent. So was her smile as she knelt and carefully released the huge fish.

"Now it's your turn," she said excitedly.

So I went back to the same spot to see if her fish had a big sister. She did but that's another story. As I turned to look for her shouting, "I got one too," she was nowhere in sight.

Then from the next upstream pool I heard, "Here. That looks like a dandy."

There she was standing naked in the middle of the pool. No mermaid there. Nothing fishy about this fly fisherwoman. She was, I'm sure, a nymph. Perhaps like The Lady of the Lake, who gave Arthur Excalibur she had given me my trout of a lifetime.

She waved at me while holding her fly rod above her head. Slim calves, soft thighs, perfect little hips centering a small red bush, white breasts with rosy nipples partly covered by flaming red hair. Maybe not a nymph though, perhaps a goddess. And then she was gone.

Landing "big sister" I took out my camera for a picture. Then released the fish back into the sparkling water. Exhausted, I sat down again on the bank. I gathered my thoughts and again looked upstream for my new found friend. The camera I thought. Go back one picture. She"s got to be there cradling her big trout.

I hit the back button on my digital camera. There was a picture of her trout. Huge, leaping perfectly horizontal above the water. Suspended in time and space. All alone.

"So how was the fishing, dear," my wife asked later.

"The best ever," I responded honestly. "Dry flys didn't work at all today. But nymphs, you wouldn't believe how well they worked today.

"What are nymphs again," the non-fisher wife asked.

"Oh you know. They live in the water. The larval form. My best imitations were the small sizes today. I think I'll go back tomorrow and try again."