One Fine Day

The sun was hot on a clear blue afternoon, a time customarily considered non-productive for trout fishing.  My bicycle lay in the tall grass on the small flood plain behind me and after the five-mile ride it felt very nice to be standing up to my thighs in the cold water of the Bow River.

I was on a section of the river that is locally well known.  The 22x bridge had just been built to connect the east west highway on either side, which made access to the east side of the Bow now simple.  Down stream from there the Bow makes a hard turn to the east and I was enjoying my wade in the elbow of the turn.  Standing in the slack water I was lazily shooting a large and heavily weighted black Maribou Leech upstream into the strong current.  I would let the fly sink as it passed in front of me and begin the retrieve in long slow pulls of line.  When the fly would reach the break between the fast and slack water I thought I had a number of takes, but was not sure.  The tail of the fly was quite long so perhaps the fish were biting short, it could also be true that with the weight of the fly it was merely touching bottom.  In either case I felt enough ‘bumps’ to keep my interest piqued.

After a time I noticed another fly-fisherman about one hundred yards downstream fishing the flat water before the Bow makes another hard turn south.  His casting was perfect, line shimmering in the sun as it smoothly moved forward and back.  I could tell his equipment was top notch and he knew how to use it.  As he worked his way upstream and came closer, I noticed more and more about him that made me realize here was a fly-fisherman I had often read about and seen in the advertisements in the magazines.  He wore neoprene waders, the first I had ever seen, and his vest was short so that he could wade well past his hips without getting it wet.

I began to compare myself to this stranger.  My fly rod was a seven and a half foot, four-piece fiberglass pack rod I had purchased for a dollar per foot at Woodward’s department store, served by the legendary Harry Horner.  My reel was a Japanese knockoff of a Pflueger Medalist, held a seven weight sinking fly line for which I paid five dollars each.  I did not have a vest, instead I used an Army surplus canvas bag, which I slung over my shoulder and in it was everything I owned for fly-fishing; a 100 yard spool of eight pound test monofilament for leader material, one fly box with both wet and dry flies, a pair of DAM scissor/pliers my great uncle Om Klaas had sent to me and another knockoff reel with a seven weight dry line on it.  To top it all off I was standing in the river with my cotton pants and running shoes feeling the water gurgle past my legs and between my toes.

As the stranger came nearer my effort at casting increased, pumping out as much line, with a ghastly heavy fly on the end, as that poor rod of mine could handle.  For some reason I had to show what I could do, so I cast ever farther into the churning current with the result that the fly line came zipping downstream without the fly ever getting deep enough.  Increasing the angle of my upstream cast I finally got the fly to go down and with each successive cast I found myself creeping ever deeper into the river.  Soon I was in that dicey zone between solid footing and floating away, but I carried on regardless of the potential for danger.

In my desire to show this stranger how far I could cast I was soon casting so far upstream that as the current pulled my fly and line down and rushed past me I had quite a bunch of slack line to deal with and in the back of my mind I knew sooner or later I would get snagged on the bottom through losing contact with the fly.  My heart sank when I finally felt the line belly downstream with the current and my rod bent with the steady pull of water pressure.  I’m on the bottom, damn.  And that stranger was watching too, probably smiling having predicted my situation.  And I knew it, as well.  Double damn.  I resigned myself to the specter of losing my fly and leader while the stranger looked on from twenty-five yards away.  I pulled in all the slack line through the guides and let it fall into the water and gave steady pressure in the hope that it was a small rock the fly was snagged on and I could attempt to roll it over and get my precious fly back.  It did not work.  I had to break it off.

Just then I felt a couple of thumps telegraphed through the line.  Was it the rock rolling over, or had I perhaps snagged a waterlogged stick on the bottom and it had now jarred it loose?  I told myself to go slow, that I wanted the fly back at all costs.  Suddenly my line started to go downstream and I felt tremendous shocks hit both line and rod hands.  Head shakes!  The thought screamed in my ears.  It’s a fish and a big one!  Give line as he runs downstream or it’ll tear through the eight-pound test.  The fish continued to run downstream neatly pulling all my stripped line through my fingers as I carefully backed my way out of the deeper water.  All of the fly line was out except for one last turn and as I was very unsure of the knot between the fly line and the backing, I hoped I could avoid going that far into the spool.  I was still knee deep in the water when I felt the line surge, the reel screamed and downstream an explosion of water revealed a trout of fantastic proportions, its sides glittering in the sun as it attempted to rid itself of the fly.  I started to run.

I ran downstream reeling in backing and angling for still shallower water to gain better footing and less water resistance.  As I ran I also thought I could not fight both the current and the trout, I had to get past him, downstream, so that he had to fight both the current and myself.  A gamble to be sure, but the only chance I had of landing the fish.  I made the decision to run past him as he slowed to a stop once it felt the pressure disappear.  I knew I could dislodge the fly by changing direction, it had happened before.  I just had to maintain contact.  I found myself about one hundred yards downstream of where I started in uncomplicated smooth water when I finally passed him as the trout sat about twenty five feet from shore in a calm spot of water.  I had all the slack line now on the reel, took a deep breath stepped downstream a little further and gave a sharp pull on the line to tell it I was now downstream.  Instantly line peeled off heading upstream, he had turned, was still on the line and my confidence grew.  I took my time and after every run the fish made I walked up to it reeling in the stripped line until finally, fully played out, he came to shore on his side.  I pulled the Rainbow up onto the dry rocks where he coughed up a six-inch long sucker fish he must have eaten before taking my fly and then didn’t flinch a muscle.  I was exhausted, both mentally and physically, and sat heavily on a large round stone, forearms on my knees and head bowed down.

I heard a clatter of small stones as the stranger walked up to the fish.  I had completely forgotten about him even though I realized I must have run right past him at some point.  Maybe through his line for all I knew.  He was staring at the trout with wide eyes and told me he was on a business trip and had happened to stop in a fishing gear shop that had a Bow River Rainbow of about fourteen inches in a freezer.  I just nodded and grunted in acknowledgement. Continuing to stare and speak he explained that he had brought his gear to go fishing in Banff National Park, but had decided to give the Bow a try after having seen the frozen specimen, one of the largest Rainbows he had ever seen.  He then pulled out a tape measure and stretched it along the fish, “Thirty-one inches!!” he exclaimed and then promptly sat down on another rock near me.

We sat in silence for a few minutes.  I then began to reel in my line, which still lay about in coils between the rocks.  I took the fly from the trout’s jaw and the stranger asked, “You caught him on that?”  I showed him the somewhat tattered fly, a three to four inch long black Maribou Leech on a Mustad 4x shank #2 hook. “Here, look,” I said and showed him the six-inch sucker recently disgorged by the trout.  “Big fish, big fly.”

As I packed up my gear and stuffed the fish into my canvas bag with head and tail sticking out the ends, the stranger, dressed as though he was an Orvis advertisement, was rummaging through his fly boxes for something that approximated what I had, all the while muttering, ”Too small, too small.”  I bid him good luck and walked back to my bicycle for the long ride home.

Now, well over thirty years later, I think back to that experience as one of the highlights of my life.  I realize luck had a lot to do with the success of that day, I just wish, now, I had not killed that Rainbow. I still have that old reverently retired four piece pack rod, the knockoff reels which I still use, Om Klaas’s DAM scissor/pliers and the same Army surplus canvas bag.  But, like the stranger so long ago, I now, too, have top notch equipment, Hardy rods and reels, thanks again to Harry, waders and vests.  Part of me wonders if some day when I am on a stream somewhere with all the equipment making me look like an advertisement from a fishing magazine, some young fellow will smugly smile at me after having dragged out of the depths a monster of a fish with only a serviceable rod, reel and line and boundless youthful enthusiasm.