Autumnal Spate

[otter]

Autumnal Spate

Michael took the poker and stabbed at the glowing peat embers in the open fire, teasing them to yield as much heat as they had gathered whilst compressed by the millennia.  An open peat fire is the gathering point in many a farmhouse, the focal point around which a family will sit, the high altar over which all important matters were discussed. From womb to grave, the fire would witness all great and minor events of any household. Michael stoked as his father had stoked and soon enough he thought, his youngest son would lord over the embers giving warmth to his own family.

"There's a softness in the air, a drop of rain this evening Mary."

The first of the autumn rains had arrived a week earlier and had washed the grime and dirt from the land and laneways, flushing out the river, refreshing the countryside after the long dry summer.

His wife, grey now, stooped with years of toil, turned, and glanced at the window. "You are rarely wrong Michael. I'll make a sandwich for you for the morrow, I can hear her calling."

Michael laughed loudly, "She may be calling, but don't I always come back to you my Mary. Tis in my bloody Mary, twas in my father's blood and God knows, young Patrick has it worse than me. Maybe it's because he has a car and can answer the call of more than one river."
Mary set to preparing some sandwiches with the homemade brown bread, not long out of the oven, soft centre, and crisp crust. Carefully trimming the ham, doubling it and placed it between the heavily buttered slices.  Once a chore, she now did it lovingly, knowing that Michael had to rest regularly as age and years of heavy work had taken their toll. Her mind wandered to bygone years, making the sandwiches for Michael and his father, cleaning the sea trout on their return. Often enough to feed their growing family for several days. Good times, though hard times for they had little money.

The first drops of rain splattered against the window, stirring Michael as he half dozed by the fire. Good he thought, we will have fresh sea trout to-morrow.  Opening a press, he took out his weathered leather fly wallet, handed down from his father. It contained no more than thirty flies, three patterns , all dressed on size 6, 8 and 10. Before every trip he would take his water stone and hone the edge of each hook, ensuring each point was sharp and true.     Teal Blue and Silver,   Thunder and Lightning and a Mallard and Black. These three simple patterns  were all he used and he never felt the need to try any others. Satisfied with his work,  he placed the wallet on the table beside the sandwiches. A spool of 10lb nylon, his glasses ,his pipe and tobacco , he was well prepared.
" I'll be going early Mary, I won't wake you from your beauty sleep.  Goodnight my love, Oiche Mhaith"; 
Michael made his way to bed, setting  the alarm for 4AM he soon drifted off into a deep sleep.


Michael woke before the alarm clock sounded, hit the off button and quietly made his way downstairs. Opening the back door he greeted the early morning, still very dark , he peered outside and took stock. The air was fresh, moist with light drizzle and he could see the gleam of  large puddles of water in the yard. Perfect he thought, the river will have risen enough to entice the sea trout to talk leave of the salt water and make their way up the river. Satisfied , he returned upstairs , quietly dressed in warm clothes and returned to the kitchen for a good porridge breakfast, washed down with a steaming cup of tea.
Two pairs of socks under strong workman boots, cleated soles with a few studs.  He did not trust wellingtons, too little grip, too little protection for his ankles when traversing  stoney  ground.  Michael donned an old tweed jacket, glasses in breast pocket, fly wallet and nylon in the left pocket, tobacco and pipe the other.  He placed his sandwiches and a bottle of sparkling water from his spring well in a well-worn canvas bag,  long raincoat on top.  This bag served as luncheon bag on his trip to the river, if all went well it would contain shining bars of silver sea trout on the way home.

Michael had long since understood the benefits of travelling with a light load. Too frequently he had met other anglers, heavy laden with equipment, big gye nets, wading staff and enough food to feed an army and box upon box of flies. Such a burden  rendering them unable to quickly move from pool to pool, often they parked like cars at a well-known lie,  in wanton hope that a Sea trout or even a Salmon would make its way there.
Entering the small shed, Michael reached  up for his rod which lay across some beams in the roof. It  looked as old as Michael. It was in fact exactly twenty three  years  younger, a present from his father. Twelve foot of fibreglass,  soft actioned, double handed with a well weathered cork handle.  He had often marvelled at the advances in rod building, carbon fibre,  long light rods , much lighter than his.  Young Patrick had a beautiful fourteen footer,  often Michael cast it in the back garden, marvelling at the length of line he could cast without effort.  But no matter what rod he tried he could not bring himself to change, for his own rod had soul, had memories ingrained in its every scratch. To go to the river without it would be to go without a trusted friend. This rod had experience and had never failed him in their forty four seasons together.

He glanced at the sky as he crossed  the ditch, good cloud cover and on the horizon a definite lightening as the first light of dawn caressed the land. To-day will be a good day he thought as he breathed in deeply, savouring the delights and sweet smells of a new day. Only an angler knows that smell. Even sitting in the suffocating confines of an office, one can almost grasp the fresh damp air, knowing that somewhere,  Salmon and Sea Trout will turn towards  their native river and make their journey upstream to fulfil their lifecycle.

Michael had a bounce in his step as he crossed the land of his forefathers, travelling age old tracks, skirting ditches and thorny bushes until at last he reached the crest of a small hill. Here he paused, listening.  Soon he could her, the most soothing of sounds , gurgling , racing , running, lapping. Featureless in the dark dawn he could barely see the outline of her course but she was there and he would now wait until she revealed her pleasures. Opening his canvas bag he placed his raincoat on the dewy grass, sat, slowly filled his pipe.  This for Michael was one of life's great pleasures, alone with his thoughts and memories. Content to mingle the past , the present and the future as the expectations of another day on the river enriched his spirit whilst watching night give way to day in his own small piece of  paradise.

Autumnal spate

Early morning,  shimmering light,
birds are stirring , preening feathers, taking flight .
Beside my river, rod at hand,
tempered hooks and nylon stout.

In the shadows I see her form,
a twisting course over eons born.
Within her waters my quarry rests.
Fulfilling nature's  journey, no  sterner test,
from sea to spawn. to sea, to rest..

Early morning, shimmering light.
A thoughtful angler sits and waits,
and waits and waits.
Recalling days of former pleasure,
needless hurry kept in check.
Breaking dawn and growing light.
Within this gentle farmer,  spark ignites.
Eyes alert , rod in hand.
hunter rises, takes command.

Brightness comes,  revealing river.
A midstream rock, its edges froth,
drifting foam, bubbles sliding by.
Mighty swirl, a silver leaps.
its  ghost like presence , pulse quickens pace.

Autumnal spate , she calls my name,
at last, at last , she calls my name.






Soon enough the shadows receded and as Michael tipped his pipe in the grass the first rays of light touched the river. Michael smiled, slowly standing , soaking in the ever clearing vista, paused a few minutes letting the poet enjoy the moment. Before long the hunter sprung to life, smile replaced by a serious determination as he evaluated the condition of the river, water was high , good rain in the hills he surmised. Slinging his bag over his shoulder he made his way down to a short pool, a place where cattle drank. Some debris in the water and still quite coloured. Dipping the tip of his rod into the river he soon grinned, not bad, not bad at all. Finding a stick on the bank, he stuck it in the soft mud at the water's edge, marking the waterline on the stick with a slit from his pocketknife.

This was a small river, in some places no more than eight yards wide, at its widest places maybe twenty. Rocky, winding, over a generally steep gradient. For much of its length it was fast water and any Sea trout making its way up had to surmount some tough water. Michael, knew the river intimately, a forty year relationship seen that it was the case. Michael made his way briskly upstream, he had a hike of at least a mile to a long pool, six feet deep in places, and it lay sandwiched between long stretches of rapids. Any early runners and some from the big flood a week earlier would have made their way here and the top end shallows always held some finnock, the smaller sea trout.

It was a slow hike, many drains and ditches had to be crossed but Michael was in no hurry, it would be several hours yet before the river came into its prime. The next hour or two would only be practice before the main event.
Michael always fished his wetflys in teams of three, point and two droppers.  The point was always a size 6 , top dropper a size 10 and the middle dropper could be a six or eight or ten depending on the type of water and on the height of the river. The  Teal Blue and Silver was only used in low water conditions when he did some gentle fishing, fishing for fun as a gentleman angler not in earnest as a hunter. To-day, the river was in spate and no place for a gentleman. The orange of the Thunder and Lightning suited the peaty water and the Mallard & Black was universal. Black works in all water and everywhere was his simple philosophy.

Without as much as a glance Michael walked to the top of the pool, keeping well back from the river and some forty yards further up in riffly water he stopped.  He took out his spool of nylon and using water knots he tied on two droppers, four inches long, two foot would separate each fly and six feet from top dropper  to fly line. A simple setup , straight through leader of about ten foot. On the point went a size 6 T&L, Size 8 M&B on middle dropper, size 10 T&L on top dropper. Reaching down he took some mud from the water's edge and rubbed the entire leader .

After lighting his pipe , he moved slowly towards the river, crouching low until he stopped , one knee on the soft earth.  Quickly he stripped of about eight yards of line and unhitching the point fly from the keeper ring he drew the leader and line through the top eye, laying it all carefully on the ground.
As the pipe smoke spiralled over his head, little breeze to take it away he surveyed the water in front. A small pool was formed tight to his side, deepest no more than a yard out, all around it rapid , riffly , rock strewn chaos.  This little pool was always a banker for a few finnock up to 1lb weight, good eating when freshly lightly smoked, food fit for a king though only ever eaten by paupers by Michaels reckoning.

Michael flick out the line , at a slight downstream angle, mending upstream with a slow sideways lift of the rod just as the fly's alighted. As the point fly sunk dragging its comrades with it, another small mend and as all straightened Michael held tight . Then slowly he  followed the progress of the flies downstream, drawing the rod tip towards his side, pausing occasionally to give some movement to the flies. The expected take came to the top dropper just as the flies hit the deeper water. A quick snappy draw on the line, even before he lifted, Michael knew he had a finnock.  In one motion a snappy outs tream strike and before the sea trout knew it was hooked,  Michael had it drawn quickly to his side and with a controlled upward movement of the rod, the trout was soon flapping at his feet. It had taken him years to perfect this but the result was that the pool was barely disturbed.

Keeping low he edged backwards , quickly unhooked the trout and with a deft strike off the butt of the rod the 3/4 lb finnock was dispatched . Michael examined it carefully, no sea lice, likely to have come in the previous week. He always marvelled at the beauty of these fish, torpedo shaped , not as sleek as a Salmon,  strong wide spade like tail. Pound for pound one of the best fishing of all freshwater game fish. Michael  hated anglers that messed around , taking pictures and  doing all sorts of daft things before dispatching or releasing. Respect where respect is due was his motto and these wonderful fish deserved complete respect.

A second finnock soon followed, dispatched and placed alongside the first in the canvas bag. That was supper for Michael, Mary and Patrick taken care of. Smoked finnock, fresh garden peas, new potatoes and some parsley sauce. Just as god intended, nature's bounty justly won and graciously accepted.
Michael gathered up his bag and made his way downstream, content that everything was going according to plan, not that he expected it would be otherwise. After forty years of hunting this river he knew when she would yield her trout if you knew where and when to hunt. Half tripping, Michael stumbled, a little surprised as he had not noticed any snags. Reaching down he discovered the cause, some discarded nylon. Michael cursed loudly, thinking he would love to strangle the fool that left it there. He tugged at the nylon, releasing it from the tentacles of earth and grass, coiling it into a ball. A mess of earth and grass at the end, he loosened it to discover it contained an enormous fly.  Twice as big as his size six's , he gasped at its enormity , shook his head in disbelief and cutting the nylon he placed it in his pocket.  No accounting for what some folk will use he thought to himself.

Stopping  at the head on the long pool, he changed the middle dropper to a size six M&B,  big water, and big fly, big fish. Who needs any fancy theories. This pool, Michael deemed the hallowed ground. Of all the good pools on the river this was perfect. Long stretch of rough water above and below, good deep water, even flow most of its length. A high percentage sizeable trout would rest here on their journey, some for a short time, others from one spate to the next. The neck of the pool was narrow with a strong current , as it starts to fan out it is impeded by some large boulders, diverting the flow towards each side.   In the middle, all calmed and an even flow for some fifty yards until finally it flowed over a shallow flag at the tail of the pool. Occasionally a big trout coming into the pool could be seen splashing over the flag.

In his younger days Michael would fish the pool, hike two miles downstream, cross over the river, come back up and fish it from the far side. That reflected how good a pool it was, the reward for the long journey down and back often the best fish of the day.

A high bank on his side, dropping down to the water's edge, one could walk the length of the pool without getting ones feet wet. The high bank offered  a good background to conceal your presence. Michael, climbed down carefully,  stripped out some line and commenced casting, first covering the near water, extending line with subsequent casts. This was all about controlling the drift of the flies, regular mending , sometimes even dragging the line upstream and letting it down again onto a particular seam of water. He knew where the best lies were and had loads of little tricks that sometimes provoked a take.  Michael did not fish the pool as other anglers would, he fished the lies , focusing on each one, not moving on until satisfied that each lie had been well covered, the flies presented to each lie at different angles and varying pace.

Sea trout are an unpredictable fish.  As they do not feed in freshwater you are keying more into their predatory and aggression instincts almost annoying them into attacking the fly.  They are at their most vulnerable during a spate and fresh in off the tide. The timing is important, the best opportunities on a spate river being when the water level  starts to drop and lose its colour. On such a river, depending how much rain has falling, the window of opportunity may only be a few hours. In ideal conditions, a few showers of rain over the hills through the course of the day will prolong  the possibilities. Michael knew that the river was no more than an hour away from being in prime condition so he stayed near the top of the pool, moving down at a snail's pace.  Even now, there was little sign of any debris and the water was quickly  losing its muddy look and taking on the colour of strong tea.

Michael was now about thirty yards down the pool and fishing in a very relaxed way, automatically mending at the right time, drifting the flies almost perfectly.  He now concentrated all his efforts on a lie he knew to generally hold good fish.  A tricky spot, difficult to get a perfect drift but well worth some perseverance.

On the fourth cast, just as the leader straightened fully from his double mend the line drew away slowly and solidly. Michael paused and feeling the weight he lifted , the tip of the rod  whipping over as the hook bit home. He knew immediately that it was a good fish, feeling the pulsing of the rod tip as the fish twisted and turned underwater. Soon enough the fish realised all was not right and started to run upstream, all the while michael tracked it with the rod , lifting , lowering as circumstances dictated. Finally he got it turned, tried to steer it to his side but this was no finnock. It fought the pressure momentarily and the outcome hung in the balance but gradually took line and accelerating rapidly it tore downstream. Michael let it go, not that he had much choice. Luckily it did not run far, turned and slowly moved back upstream. 

The rest of the fight was not so dramatic, the great fish soon came to the top and wallowed on the surface. Michael drew it ashore , seeing immediately that it was a Salmon he quickly bent down, took hold of the wrist and lay down his rod.  As the saying goes, a bar of silver  of about 9lbs with several sea lice near the tail, or as Mary would say, fresh as a daisy.  He extracted the T&L from the salmons scissors, held it in the current until it swam away strongly. 
Salmon were protected for the last few seasons over concerns for their numbers and it was now illegal to kill any. Michael had seen the signs many years earlier and it was seven years since he killed a salmon.  He did not find it unreconcilable with his strong disagreement with C&R, he was not intentionally fishing for Salmon, though it always left him feeling a little uncomfortable.

This had once been a mighty salmon river but illegal netting at sea and problems further afield had taken their toll and stocks were only a pale shadow compared to when Michael was a lad. He prayed that with help that they would recover, not for him but for future generations to reap the harvest. Like the crops on his land, Michael seen the runs of fish as part of nature, to be nurtured, protected and ultimately harvested. That fishing for them gave him much pleasure was to his mind a welcome bonus, though he understood the line was indeed a grey area, he could not admit privately or publicly  that the pleasure often exceeded the need to harvest.

A little tired from the exertions of playing the salmon, Michael went back to the top of the pool and got his sandwiches and water from the canvas bag, returned to sit on a large rock just below where he landed the salmon. He slowly ate his early lunch,  fresh air does wonders for the appetite and excites the taste buds. The salty ham tasted wonderful with the earthy brown bread and the spring water was better than any sauvignon blanc.  As he licked the last crumbs from his lips he could feel his strength returning.  A quick fill of the pipe and he would tie up a new leader, he thought this a good plan. The water was looking very good,  it could not even be considered a strong tea colour.

Michael stood , taking out his nylon he started to tie up a new leader. A slight commotion at the tail of the pool caught his attention.  He just about caught sight of the enormous tail of a big trout as it came over the flag and he immediately gasped.  "holy Mary..., that is a huge fish, a huge fish". The adrenalin rush left his hands shaking and it took him another ten minutes to tie up the leader and attach the flies.  Talking to himself  all the while, "Easy Michael, easy Michael,  no rush, I know where she will lie. I'll give her time to find the lie, time to expel any residents and time to settle."
If an onlooker was watching, he would have thought that Michael was meditating as he sat calmly on the rock, smoking his pipe and staring at the river. In fact every part of Michael shook with anticipation, he had waited all his life for such an opportunity.

Michael stood, moved slowly downstream. The lie was about six yards out from the bank, eight yards downstream and a few yards inside  a large boulder. The cast had to be precise. The line had to land on the downstream side of the boulder, allowed to drift a little before an upstream mend was done. The river would do the rest and take the flies over the lie and if all went well................

The first cast over a fish is the most likely one to succeed.  Michael tracked the line with the rod, as the flies edged ever closer to the lie. His whole body was coiled like a spring , holding his breath anticipating the take, seeing it in his mind's eye. The take did not come that cast, nor the next or even ten casts later. He tried every little trick in his book but none worked.


Taking stock, deflated but not defeated, he broke his own rules on fly setup and changed all three to size 6's.  Another fill of the pipe, Michael reached deep for positive thoughts and commenced casting. Once again the flies drifted unmolested over the lie. Cast after cast after cast, no response.  After twenty minutes Michael was tired and deflated and returned to the rock to sit and rest.

" I know she is there, she has to be there.  But my flies do not interest her. If only I had some of Patricks I could offer here something different",
Michael was cross with himself for having limited his options. As he reached into his pocket for his matches something sharp nicked his finger. Rather puzzled he grasped the object and pulled it out. It was the monstrous fly,  he had forgotten it was there.  After washing the mud from it , he held it up and gasped at its complexity. A myriad of colour, not the monstrosity he originally thought. This was the work of a great artisan, smooth body , flowing hackles,  vibrant individual colours  so mixed that their marriage was seamless.  This would look well in one of them strange art gallery places or in a frame over the fireplace.
" I wonder if ....., sure no one is looking,  I'll tie it on, nothing ventured, nothing gained";  he wondered was he  going mad.

Removing all his flies he tied this amazing creation to the end of his leader, tested the knot and walked to his casting spot. His first cast was a disaster, the heavy hook came forward like an out of control missile and embedded in his jacket.  A little wiser now , he drifted some line downstream,  flicked it back upstream and with a contrived spey cast he rolled the whole lot out.  Not pretty, but it was effective and the fly landed with a great splash beyond the boulder and on the correct side of it.

Michael did not expect a take and was a little slow to react when the fly line simply stopped. After what seemed an age, he struck hard. Feeling a solid resistance, his first thought was, stuck in the bottom but that thought was short lived as the line shot across the river, his rod buckling , his reel screeching.  The fish ran over and back the pool a few times and then returned to its lie, stubbornly stuck to the bottom. Retrieving his line as he ran, Michael got below the trout and exerted as much pressure as he could dare, but to no avail. The trout was not moving. Michael commenced operation rock assault.  Reaching down he grabbed stones, pebbles and threw them above the lie,  no reaction.  He lay down the rod, with two hands lifted a big rock, launched it upstream and quickly grabbed his rod.  It was almost torn from his grasp as the trout launched itself out of the water and then tore upstream.

All Michael could do was stumble after it, trying his best to keep a taught line. The trout was relentless, surging powerfully upstream, dragging Michel with it.  As they neared the top of the pool, Michael presumed that the trout would turn, he knew he would have to retrieve line quickly. But this was not an ordinary trout, it surged through the neck of the pool and into the rocky chaos above. Lady luck was smiling on Michael, the trout chose a path up along the bank on Michaels side where there were few rocks and snags.

Keeping the rod high he followed upstream  but started to panic when he realised that he could soon be snookered. Forty yards ahead , a solitary bush grew right to the water's edge blocking any possibility of Michael following the trout.
" This will have to be Custer's last stand, stop, please stop"; said Michael as he exerted as much pressure as he could, hand clamped onto the revolving reel drum.  It would have been easier to have moved one of the great pyramids of Egypt for although it slowed slightly the trout continued undeterred in its progress upstream.

Michael raced up to the bush, getting ahead of the trout, a risky manoeuvre but he had no other option. He retrieved all the slack line and pulled upstream.  He could have sworn that the trout said hello Michael and laughed  as it passed him and continued upstream.  All Michael could do was stare at his reel as the line slowly disappeared and all too soon he was into the backing , he hadn't seen the backing in years, not since he put it on the reel.  He stripped the backing  of the reel as fast as he could , hoping that if the pressure eased the trout might stop. With forty yards of backing lying downstream, he could see it moving up slowly, then it stopped.

Michael knew he was still in the game. Thinking quickly he pulled the ball of thick  nylon from his pocket, the nylon that had hours earlier been attached to the monstrous fly.  Apologising to his rod, he quickly lashed it to the bush, making sure the line would be free to run .  Climbing up from the river he stumbled and fell heavily, gashing his head of a sharp rock. He had no time to worry about the blood or the pain and continued to the far side of the bush.

Taking his spool of nylon from his pocket, he attached two flies and making a loop he inserted a stone.  He tossed the stone well out into the river, let it sink and then retrieved it. It did its job, back it came with his backing attached. Michael then pulled the backing that was downstream up to him, carefully coiling it on the ground, pulling the remainder of the backing from the reel, cut it and attached the end to the bush. Back to the far side of the bush he unhitched the rod and praying loudly he went back up. He reattached the backing to the reel and started reeling in the line. Every muscle in his body ached and the adrenalin could no longer compensate.  After what seemed an age the  fly line came through the rod rings and onto the reel. Soon enough he felt the fish but instead of putting on much pressure he followed upstream, reeling as he went until he was aside the trout which was lying a few yards out.

Keeping the rod low, Michael applied as much  pressure as he could dare with his 10lb leader,  Slowly he felt the trout edging towards him, the first time in the fifteen minute since being hooked that Michael felt that he was gaining the upper hand.  Lifting  the rod higher the trout rose and for the first time Michael got a good look at the trout, it was huge. Unfortunately the trout got a glimpse of Michael  and decided this was not where she wanted to be. With a strong flick of her tail, she turned and swam out and downstream.  With the flow of water in her favour line once again screamed of the reel.

Michael immediately started stripping line, lashed the rod to the bush and repeated the exercise that had worked minutes earlier.  Racing downstream he stumbled again, breaking the tip of the rod, which fell off,  along the line it went and disappeared into the river.
When he finally caught up with her she was back in the lie where she had been hooked.  This is it he thought, I am exhausted,  it's now or never. He exerted as much pressure as his tired arms could exert and somehow the trout yielded, it too unable to fight any longer.  Thirty five unbelievable minutes had passed and now at last the great trout wallowed on the surface. Michael  dropped the rod tip and guided the trout onto the bank , falling heavily , he cracked his head   all too solidly on a rock.

Mary stared out the back window, straining to see across the fields.  She started to get worried when Michael was not back by 4pm, now 5:30pm she was on the verge of panic. Michael habitually arrived back from fishing by 3pm, in recent years often earlier due to tiredness. She sensed deeply that something was wrong, seriously wrong.  Finally unable to control herself she went outside and called Patrick who was working on his car and insisted that they went looking for Michael.

Seeing his mother panic was unusual so Patrick immediately dropped his tools and they both started crossing the fields to-wards the river.  Patrick tried to re-assure his mother, insisting that Michael probably met another angler and forgot the time. On Patricks advice they decided to make for the long pool , he was unlikely to have gone any further upstream.  With each step Mary sobbed, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. She had always prayed that this day would never come.  Michael had grown frail in recent years and though he was always careful, her greatest fear was that a stumble or fall and  the river would take him from her.

As they neared the river, they called his name , at first calmly until finally Mary screeched like a banshee, "Michaellllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll, Michael".  Straining to listen for the response that was never to come Mary broke down completely, "Oh, Patrick, the river has taken him from us, she has finally taken him from me".  Patrick, too feared the worst but stayed strong for his mother's sake. His heart sunk when he seen the canvas bag on the grass at the top of the long pool and a deep despair filled the pit of his stomach. They both ran to the bag calling Michaels name , " Michael, Michael, Michael".  Mary fell to her knees beside it, clutching at it, praying out loud.

Patrick moved to the edge and looked down the pool. The sight of his father lying on the edge of the river halfway down chilled him to the bone. Scrambling down the bank he raced downriver, tripping , stumbling and moaning with grief. Mary too reached the edge and with grace, "Thank you Lord, he is gone , but not forever lost to us."  The strength of a woman in the darkest of places is without compare. Slowly she followed on down, hoping against hope that Michael was only hurt and not taken.

Michael lay , curled like a foetus on the soft earth,  rod to one side , broken at the tip. At his feet , his cap. Patrick stood over his father, noticing the caked blood at the corner of his mouth and the gash on the side of his head, wondering what had befallen him. He sensed a smile on his father's  face and even in his grief he thought, what a way to go, what a way to go, where else would an angler like to be when taking his last breath.
It was only when he instinctively reached down   picking up the cap that he noticed some colour in Michaels cheeks. " Sweet Jesus , he is still with us, Mother he is still with us."  He reached down to gently roll his father onto his back.

Michael slowly stood up,  grinning from ear to ear.  "Patrick, I landed her, I landed the biggest Sea Trout ever to run this river". Patrick looked down on a huge trout, Michael must have have been  holding it  tightly against his chest.
"Twenty five pounds if it's an ounce, did ya ever see the like of it Patrick"; Michael was almost dancing with delight.

"Michael Monaghan, I'll kill you when I get you home. Now come up here and give me a hug."; Mary tried to look stern but the sense of relief was overwhelming and she half cried, half laughed.

Michael told them of the great battle and of how finally he landed the trout, falling on his knees with tiredness, cradling the great trout until he felt the last shiver of life leave its body. Then he had fallen  asleep, still cradling the trout, exhausted beyond belief.
Michael groaned, " O dear, look at poor Sally, her tip is broken.  Looks like I will be using an 11 foot 6" rod from now on"

Patrick unhooked the fly from the trout, held it up , shaking his head in astonishment.

" Dad, what in the name of God is this."


Michael thought for a moment; "Son, that fly was a gift from God."

The End



Early morning, shimmering light,
an autumn spate, a torrent rages.
Across the lands, the call rings out.
Anglers choosing rest, from daily toil,
take up their rods and journey out.

Midday sun. falling water
cast our flies, across every run.
To every angler, if luck be due
line goes taut, the fight is on.
If dispatch be deemed, dispatch be swift,
when task is done, accept your gift.

Late the evening, dimming light,
our hand less steady, failing sight.
We know to measure, not in weight,
not numbers either, we accept our fate.
Pleasure comes, in many ways,
must count our blessings, must count our days.

Winter comes, to all who fish,
our rod laid down, our soul to sleep.
Many friends we made, a anglers journey,
kindred spirits, on different paths.
To meet again, another place,
together , we may cast our flies with grace.

[Wildfisher]

Nice story Otter. sorry I had not replied before now, my broadband is barely functional after a BT upgrade to ADSL2+ . 

I think  + is a synonym for - in  BT speak.