A man, a dog and no licence to Fish

[otter]

Hank is an American trout angler, lives in an RV ( Camper Van) with his dog Rascal  and like the swallows he migrates to a warmer climate twice a year. For any that care to string a few words to-gether into a tale, Hank is a constant source of inspiration. This is one tale about the imaginary exploits of Hank. After one such migration Hank could not fish for the licencing laws were such that he would have to pay the full whack for the few ramaining weeks and Hank, living of a state pension could not justify this.


A man, a dog and no licence to Fish

Rascal sat quietly on the front seat of the RV, Hank behind the wheel, a bead of sweat running down his cheek. Surveillance is hard work and in this case unpaid work. The binoculars moved slowly, tracing the line of trees along the edge of the river. Glancing at the little travel clock that was taped to the dashboard, Hank muttered to himself, ' the son of a mule is two minutes late'. Rascal wagged his tail and barked quietly, the eye of a dog was much keener than that of Hank, even with his state of the art binoculars. Soon enough Hank spotted a slight movement in the trees and exactly 3 minutes late, the river ranger appeared. Hmmm thought Hank as he scribbled in his notebook, ' the son o a mule must have stopped for a pee, I hope he wet his trouser leg'. The normally calm Hank was on a mission, the ranger was his arch enemy and though probably a decent fellow he was all that came between Hank and some free fishing. Hank fondly scratched Rascals ear, ' next week Rascal, next week we are going trout hunting'.

Hank had a plan and boy was he looking forward to implementing it.
A carefully tied parcel nested in one corner of the RV. The string was precisely laid, overlapping itself at just the right spot and tightened just enough to hold everything in place. The address was also neatly written, centred and the lettering uniform. Even the stamp was where it should be, were there rules to define the precise location of a stamp on this parcel you knew it would be correct. Hank took the package and carefully undid the knot, rolled up the string and carefully placed it in a small box on the table. The brown paper once removed was folded and placed in a different box. Hank and the man that sent the parcel were not children of the eighties or nineties, they placed value in everything, nothing that was useful, nothing that could be used again ever went to the garbage.

The home made camouflage jacket was the work of an artisan and as Hank unfolded it he marvelled at the craftsmanship. But his teeth rattled with excitement when he noticed the small package hidden in a concealed pouch on the inside of the jacket. Whistling loudly and cheerfully Hank unfolded the small sampling net. Made from 8 lengths of 8" long bamboo, each leg had a bungee cord running through the centre , each of the four 8" pieces fitting snuggly into the next. On the bottom section of each leg the side of a fine mesh net was attached. Wow thought Hank, Doug sure is full of surprises and as talented a man as he had ever met. 'Frog Hunter my ass, the man is a genius. Rascal, just one more piece of equipment and we are ready for some fun'.

EBay proved a happy hunting ground for a telescopic fly rod, within a week the rod had arrived. A little gem, it was barely used and had no apparent damage. It had a surprisingly crisp action. Hank matched one of his four weight reels to it, laid it on the table and alongside placed all his equipment.

Rod and Reel
Camouflage Jacket
Lead weight with strong clip attached
Sampling jars
Waders
Flies, small box of softies
Pencil and notebook


'That's everything Rascal, tomorrow we commence operations at zero nine hundred hours. Time for shuteye '.

Hank did not sleep much, the excitement and anticipation was too great for an honest angler.
Stupid licensing laws, as far as Hank was concerned this was a protest against bureaucratic arrogance.

Hank did not sleep very well, a few parking fines and one speeding ticket were the only blemishes from a long life of walking on the right side of the law. Yet he was ready to embark on a crusade that would see him turn poacher. As much as he could justify his reasons and though the prospect of a little subterfuge made him feel more alive than he had felt in years he could not avoid the conflict that his conscience kept throwing at him. 'Howdy Hank, are you sure about this. Hank the poacher, Hank the poacher. What will our forum friends think of this. '; his conscience would not let up. Hank looked at the clock, 5 AM, he got out of bed and filled the kettle.

Splashing some water on his face he stared at the mirror and set his resolve, 'Howdy Hank, this crusade is for the little man, for the little man that refuses to pay a season ticket for a few months. This is a kick in the butt for the faceless bureaucrats that set rules without really considering could they set them better.'; Hank felt better, full of resolve and excited at doing something that sent his blood coursing through his veins with the vigour of youth. He hadn't felt like this since his first childhood raid on a neighbour's orchard.

As he sipped his coffee Hank reflected on his plan of attack, contemplating each detail, making sure no stone had been left unturned. Well satisfied that he had covered all possibilities, Hank dressed, the final pieces of clothing being Doug's camouflage jacket and a dark woollen hat. The sampling net was secure in the little pouch in the jacket and he placed several empty film canisters in one of the pockets. As the first rays of sunlight came through the window Hank gave Rascal a nudge. Staring up at Hank, Rascal yelped with excitement, he knew that some adventure was about to enfold, jumped onto the passenger seat, urging Hank to start the engine.

It took an hour to reach the parking area beside the river, it was nearly 7AM. The early morning mist was lifting and Hank could seen the river sparkling between the trees. Hank filled the kettle and prepared a breakfast for himself and Rascal. Rascal loved crisply fried bacon, a real treat, and when he received an extra portion he looked at Hank enquiringly before devouring it. Rascal bounded from the RV when Hank opened the door, sniffed around the wheels before disappearing into the trees to mark his new territory. The crisp morning air soon cleared the smell of bacon from the RV and Hank breathed in deeply, savouring being alive, more alive than he felt in years.

As Rascal went about his business Hank gathered up his remaining tools, binoculars, 2 notepads and a pencil.

Hank locked the door of the RV he started to shiver, a bad dose of cold feet as they say. ' Aggh, what the hell, Hank you only live once !!!!! ', he whistled and soon rascal was by his side. A few minutes later having crossed the road they were making their way down through the trees to the river. The terrain was rough and tested his backcountry skills but Hank was not found wanting and his sprightly and sure footsteps belied his age. Halfway down Hank stopped, took out the binoculars and surveyed the terrain, a few rabbits frolicking alongside a small ditch and a few birds were the only sign of life. As expected from all his reconnaissance they were alone and free to commence operations. Reaching the river, they followed it downstream for about a mile, reaching a small clearing Hank stopped. He had chosen this spot carefully, in front some shallow water, upstream a nice pool with good tree cover. The bank was slightly elevated and allowed a good view up and downstream, the few trees that were there carried quite a bit of foliage, enough to provide reasonable cover from prying eyes. 'Base camp Rascal, this is where it all begins, the Ranger should be along in 40 minutes.'

Finding a suitable tree Hank broke of a branch of about four foot long, stripping of  any side branches and then taking Rascals lead from his pocket , he tied it to the branch and admiring his handy work he laughed, ' not bad Rascal, maybe we should get into selling wading sticks.'  Rascal was not the least bit impressed at his lead being used and sulked at Hanks feet.

Hank made for the river and at the edge he beckoned Rascal, 'Sit Rascal, stay, watch '.  Reaching into the pouch , he retrieved the sampling net and carefully inserted the cleverly crafted pieces together. Standing in water no more than two foot deep he started sampling, holding the net tight to the bottom he shuffled in reverse upstream, using his feet to disturb the bottom. A small cloud of silt drifted down, the outline of the net quickly disappearing in the murky water. After a few yards he lifted the net and headed for dry land, laying the net carefully on the grass. It took a few minutes to remove sticks, stones and other debris from the net and soon Hank was investigating the invertebrates that squirmed around the net. Hank turned to Rascal, 'We need a fine plastic tweezers and a small white dish, its hard to catch this little mites. Remind me to-morrow'. He recognised a few bugs as being nymphs, some as small as 1mm others at least 6mm, a big wriggler he reckoned to be free swimming caddis, some cased caddis, and 'Hey Rascal, some shrimp in here'. Sounded like food to Rascal so he wagged his tail in delight, fully expecting Hank to offer him some morsels.

Taking one of the film canisters from his pocket he half filled it with water and as best as he could manage he emptied the contents of the net into the canister. When the free swimming caddis bounced of the rim and fell into the grass Hank dived on it, grabbed a few handfuls of grass and whooped with delight when he located the poor creature. Dropping it into the canister he replaced the lid and stowed it away carefully in an inside pocket. ' Its official Rascal , we are gonna be fully qualified entomologostists or what ever the word is'.  Standing up smartly, Hank did a little Indian dance, 'Man it's good to be alive'

Rascal raised his ears, staring upstream he pawed the ground catching Hanks attention. Good said Hank, that will be the ranger. He quickly entered the water and started sampling.

The rangers approach was less than stealthy, he had no reason to be otherwise as he rarely encountered many anglers in this area and poaching was non existent. He was actually quite startled when he seen a figure wading in the river. 'Hi there he shouted while some thirty yards away'.   'Howdy, your startled me, I never heard you coming ', Hank grinned as he turned and faced the ranger, hoping his lie was not obvious. Rascal eyed the ranger suspiciously, always nervous at men in uniforms ever since his days in the dog pound.

'Nice looking dog you got there, did you catch anything'. Hank emerged from the river and laid the sampling net on the grass. 'Caught a few all right'; said Hank, 'there is a lot more life in the river than you would think. The ranger glanced around but could not see any rod and this seemed to confuse him somewhat. 'My name is Joe, I am the River Ranger, where is your fishing rod? ' Hank guffawed loudly, ' names Hank and this here is Rascal. Oh I ain't got no fishing rod, me and Rascal are catching bugs. Nice to meet you Joe, are you chasing down poachers ' 'Not really said Joe, just checking that fishing folk have their licenses, I have not had a poaching problem on this river since old Thomas Tucker died, crafty beggar, I could never catch him, not that I really wanted to anyways. Did you know old Tom?'

'Nah'; replied Hank. 'I'm not from around these parts. That's why we are checking out the bug life in the river, I'm aiming to tie up some flies to match the bugs, some folks reckon that's a good way to fooling a few trout. Was meaning to fish, but I cannot afford to pay a full years the license just to fish for a few weeks, so its bug hunting for the next few weeks. Mighty strange that the licence don't simply run for a year from the day you buy it, what do ya think Joe ?'

Taking off his neatly ironed Ranger hat, Joe scratched his balding head. 'Darn it Hank, never really thought about it, I just follow the rules . It seems to me that you may have a point, might just mention it to the desk people next meeting. Funny old thing that, all seems perfect until someone points out the obvious. My old papa used to say , Joe,  they say if it ain't broken don't fix it, but Joe that don't mean that its perfect just because it ain't broken'.   A splash mid stream caught their attention. 'Look there Hank , a fine trout, shame you have no rod and no license, seemed  like a fine trout  judging by the splash'; Joe pointed at the dissipating rings mid stream.

'Sounds like your papa was a clever man. When I get legal in a few weeks I'll try that trout with one of my new flies and I'll  be sure to let you know if it's a good one'; a few days more like, thought Hank as he stiffled a grin. 'Be sure to tell me if you see any more trout on this stretch, being a stranger to this river I need all the help I can get'.

'Okay Hank, I'll remember to do that. Hope you catch plenty of them bugs and tie them flies good, the trout are pretty choosey around here, a few of them are wild as well, but that's a secret and keep it to yourself. See ya soon'. With that Joe put on his hat and continued on his way.

Hank watched him disappear into the distance, turned to Rascal, ' Rascal, this is going to be way easier than I thought'. He unfolded the net and returned it to the pouch and they made their way back to the RV.

Hank hummed all the way back to the trailer park. If there was one thing Hank had learned from his years of Naval service to his country, it was the value of good planning. He had planned carefully and playing by the book he purposefully overestimated his enemy resulting in day one being a greater success than he would have thought possible. He had assumed that the ranger would be a suspicious type but Joe was the complete opposite, friendly, easy going and amiable. After a quick lunch and a long carefree nap Hank set to tidying up his tools. He washed his waders and the sampling net in fresh water and hung both outside to dry.

Sipping a coffee he logged onto his favourite fishing forum and perused the latest posts. He had an overwhelming urge to share his exploits with his online friends but knew that to do so would be plain silly. Laughing out loud, he wondered what they would say were he to let them know of what was afoot. 'Betchya Rascal that a few of them would spill their coffee if they knew we were going poaching, goddammm wish I could post a few lines'. Spotting a nicely tied fly by one of his buddies, Hank remembered the bugs in the canister. 'Oh crap, them things will smell up the place if I don't get rid of them'.

He was about to toss the contents in the garbage, then thought, what the hell, I may as well take a good look at the critters. Taking a white shallow plastic dish he emptied the contents onto it. 'Wow Rascal, there sure is a lot of bugs in here. Now where did I put that magnifying glass, gotta be around here somewhere'. He searched his tying desk, under the desk, over the desk, the box of tying tools and then after scratching his head for a few minutes he searched the same places for a second time. ' Darn it Rascal we will have to buy a new one. I do not know where its gone, I am so careful with keeping everything tidy'. That's when the penny dropped, 'Eureka Rascal, the tidying up box'.  Hank had a special box into which went mislaid and mislabelled and misbehaving fly tying stuff.  Every so often he would go through it and find for each item its rightful place. Sure enough, sitting proudly between a crumpled packet of loose partridge feathers and a snipe wing was the magnifying glass.

Hank surveyed the contents of the dish aided by the magnifying glass. ' Whey heeeey, these critters sure are impressive when you see them up close, dang if I know what they are, maybe I just try and sort them into groups'.  Getting another dish and a tweezers, yep the tweezers was also hiding, under the greenwell's cape; He separated the bugs into the two dishes, big in one , small in the other. Looking at the big un's he then got another few dishes. Shrimp like bugs in one, mean looking hombres in another (he suspected them to be stoneflies ),  caddis in another, a few red wormy things in another finally nymphs in the last one. Looking at the smaller stuff he decided he needed to re-grade the nymphs into a series of sizes.

Soonhe realised he had a big problem, there were so many nymphs of different shapes and sizes and colours he soon ran out of dishes and room on the table. 'bugger it Rascal, bug man calling Houston......,  Houston we got a problem'. Hank tipped all the bugs into the canister, washed all the dishes, sat back and took stock of the situation. 'Rascal , we ought to learn about bugs, oh crap what am I getting us into ?, come lets take a walk down to the dollar shop and see if we can find anything suitable'.

For some reason Rascal always had to stop at the lamppost outside the dollar shop, cocked his leg and proceeded to take ownership of the post. Try as me might to tug on the dog lead, Hank would not deter Rascal so he no longer bothered and learned to ignore the dirty looks from passers by. Entering the shop Hank turned to Rascal, 'behave yourself in here '. No matter how many dollars are stuffed into your wallet, no matter that you know that most of the contents therein are utter rubbish there is something about a dollar shop that brings out the childish greed in everyone. Simply because everything is cheap, nothing dearer than two bucks, you look at stuff trying to find a use and a reason to pop it into the basket. Hank usually took his time as he walked along, always spotting some knick knack that would make a life aboard the RV more organised. To-day however he was on a mission and quite focussed.

Hank headed straight to the back corner where the plastic pill boxes were kept. The shelf was full of containers of every conceivable size, shape and colour. Nestled away on the bottom corner Hank spied some stacks of circular containers about two and a half inch diameter, white bottoms, clear lids and stackable, one on top of another, 10 pack $2 each. Hank grabbed two packs and placed them in the basket, 'hmmm be good for dubbing too', so he grabbed another two packs. Next stop was the section for envelopes and pads, here he picked up a selection of sticky coloured labels, $1. That's when he spotted the children's math's pads. Sectioned into 5mm squares, Hank thought,  ' wonderful, I can place the bugs on this , write the name of the bug and take a picture and be able to identify the size from the little squares, 5 pack $1. Plastic tweezers were hard to find but eventually located, selection pack $1.

Well satisfied with his collection, Hank raced to the checkout and almost fell as Rascal suddenly stopped, dragging heavily on the lead. 'Crap, why did I go this way'.  Hank had made a cardinal error, he had done down past the pet stuff and Rascal simply loved plastic doggie bones. By the time Hank had regained his balance, Rascal had a lovely $2 yellow one planted firmly between his teeth, his tail wagging and a defiant grin on his face.' Ok Rascal, but this is the last time you get one of these". The checkout attendant quickly relieved Hank of $13. On the way back to the RV Hank did a quick calculation, Telescopic Fly rod, $17 delivered, $13 at the dollar shop, 'oh crap Rascal, $30 and still not fishing. Deja bloody Vu, been here before with the fly tying, you take it up to save on the cost of flies'.

Back at the RV Hank decided that it was enough entertainment for one day and set to tying a few flies. Rascal sat quietly chewing his new bone, ignoring the cussing from Hank as the thread broke for the umpteenth time. 'dang diddly thread, wish I could go fishing. To-morrow is Tuesday Rascal, we are going to get a good collection of bugs, do a ghost run on the fishing, come home , sort the bugs , indentify them , find suitable patterns to match , tie the flies and on Thursday we are going to catch Joe's trout.'


Tuesday morning, Hank drove to the river getting there around 7AM. Another glorious sunrise greeted their arrival and Hank relaxed over a nice coffee after a hearty breakfast. Rascal was in fine fettle, the bacon treats were most welcome and once again he scuttled out the door and marked his territory, well pleased that no other canines had dared to trespass since their previous visit.

Contemplating life, Hank wondered how non anglers get through life so blissfully unaware of the complexities that a fly angler must endure. The incessant quest for knowledge, the ability to embrace each new season with the joy of a child, the enduring spirit that takes positives from failure and above all, allowing the flow of the stream and changing seasons to dictate their lives. All that effort, simply to catch a fish.

Is it a dream
daily life left far behind
the warming pleasure of  wading deep
sensing the hand of something greater
the incessant call of the bubbling stream.

Is it a deam
the trailing willow, reaching down
unfurling flyline, scuttling caddis
dancing mayfly, balling midge
the incessant call of the bubbling stream.

Is it a dream
the rising trout
a little sip that breaks the calm
shimmering rings of a gentle rise
the incessant call of the bubbling stream.

Is it a dream
that at the vice
a turn of hackle, a twist of faith
natures glory we strive to imitate
the incessant call of the bubbling stream.

Is it a dream
that my hackled fly
drifts the currents with eternal hope
and drifts and drifts and drifts
the incessant call of the bubbling stream.

Is it a dream
when all seems lost
a ghostlike shadow leaves his lie
with flaring gills it takes my fly
the incessant call of the bubbling stream.


' Rascal, We are surely mad.' Accepting that he was mad, if not totally insane but not alone in his insanity, there are thousands of others out there, Hank readied himself, whistled for Rascal and they made their way down to the river.


Hank surveyed the water that he had sampled the previous day, slack close to his side, a gentle stream a few yards out , snaking downstream until it joined the main flow on the far side. 'Hmmm, Rascal, I guess different bugs will prefer different types of water, I have half a dozen canisters, I think I will sample three different spots. The slack, the small stream and the main flow. How's that for a plan'. Rascal however was staring at a small embankment some forty yards away, ears cocked. Hank followed Rascals line of vision and eventually found the source of Rascals interest, a Bullfrog sat astride a fallen log. 'Whey hey, Rascal, it's the frog hunter, he has come to see us at work. Hey, froggie, keep an eye out for the ranger
'
Hank commenced work, okay, work is probably a poor choice of word in this instance but if we call fishing at play then sampling could be at work. Whatever you wish to call it, it sure beats the crap out of sitting at a desk doing mundane tasks for faceless customers in the monotonous cycle of commerce. Okay, you got to earn a living so that you can live, but to live one needs time and therein lies the crux. The almighty in all his wisdom as far as anglers are concerned made a right mess of things. if he had made the sun a bit larger and placed earth a bit further away from it so that there was 36 hours in a day then an angler may just have enough time over the course of a lifetime to figure it all out, on reflection probably not.

Working his way downstream Hank soon got into a nice rhythm, well equipped with his prowess at Indian War dancing , raising enough silt for the trail to be seen miles downriver. Stumbling once or twice on unseen rocks he eventually left the river with a heavily loaded net. It took an age to be rid of unwanted debris but as he tipped the bugs into the canister he hummed with delight. 'Bug man calling Houston, Houston this sample is hot.'; Hank took a pen from his pocket and scribbled Zone 1on the canister.

Glancing at his watch Hank reckoned Joe should be along any minute so back into the river he set to work on zone 2, a riffly shallow stream, little more than a foot deep, occasional pot a foot and a half deep.
This proved a little harder, so many small rocks to manoeuvre around. Back on dry land, canister number two was filled with the most wondrous of bugs.

Is it a dream
that beneath is alive
strange  ugly alien creatures
revealing natures perfection when they take to the skies
the incessant call of the bubbling stream.

'Good morning Hank'; Hank sprung to his feet in fright, so engrossed in his task that he failed to notice Joes arrival. Where the hell has Rascal gone, rabbit hunting guessed Hank crossly, so much for being on the lookout for me.

'Jeez Joe, you certainly move around the woods with the stealth of a mountain lion, I darn near wet myself. How are you today!
Joe beamed, it was high praise indeed for a Ranger. 'I'm good Hank, I try my best to move quietly, a bit of a game I play, not that there are any poachers about to worry about being stealthy but its good fun pretending that some day I'll meet one. I see you are collecting plenty of bugs. I was telling my brother about meeting you, he fishes a bit, asked me to give you this.' Joe handed Hank a scrap of paper, www.troutnut.com  scribbled on it. He said to take a look at this website, great stuff on bugs, might help you identify those critters.'

'Mighty thoughtful of your brother, thank you, that sure will be a great help.'; Hank was feeling a little guilty at the generosity of the ranger and his brother.

They made some small talk about this and that, not knowing each other well enough yet to go anywhere near politics so the conversation was pleasant. Bidding Hank farewell, Joe winked; 'If you come across any poachers be sure to let me know.'

'Will do Joe'; replied Hank more than a little sheepishly.
Hank sat for a few minutes, chewing over the morning's events. Joe's brother's generosity really put the cat amongst the pigeons, allowing Joe to sneak up unnoticed, that was unforgiveable and Rascal would get a good telling off.  Thinking out loud, 'Hank, that was a poor performance. '

A few upwing flies dancing over the water caught Hanks attention, deft hands soon seen one trapped in the palm of his hand. Perfection he thought, slender olive hued body with the merest hint of orange, two tails, perfectly formed wings. As he marvelled at its beauty a splash from the strong stream on the far side caught his attention, Joe's trout perhaps. Then another, a few yards further down, tight to the far bank regular rise forms. Hank released the mayfly and taking out his binoculars he concentrated on the far bank, He could see a few duns floating down but they remained unmolested, they are taking emergers he surmised.

Laying down the binoculars he quickly grabbed the sampling net and waded across to the faster water. This time he submerged the net so that it sat with its top at the surface. No dancing this time. He simply stood there facing upstream; net held out in front and let the conveyor belt do its job. With no distraction of casting or trout spotting , no pressure to catch, Hank soon became aware of the minutae of the stream. The little bulges and flat spots revealing the presence of underwater rocks, darker water where the stream deepened, curling stands of current, defelecting, merging. Hank was mesmerised and soon he was forming a mental map of the underwater topology and bit by bit the stream revealed itself. This was without doubt a Eureka moment, possibly the most important revelation of his short fly fishing journey, it would forever change his perception of the river, its inhabitants and how it all fitted together. Hank was ready to embrace the world of 3D fly fishing.

It was a different Hank that waded ashore, like a new university graduate he was elated and the breadth of knowledge that he knew awaited him now that he had unlocked a door to a hidden word was simply overwhelming. The adrenalin rush was so intense that he nearly dropped the net. Quickly placing the contents of the net in a canister, he scribbled emergers on it. He rushed back out to the faster water and sampled the depths, then filled his zone 3 canister.

When he whistled, Rascal was soon dancing around his ankles and Hank fondly scratched one of his ears, the earlier indiscretion of rabbit hunting long forgiven. Hank was lost in thought as he made his way to the RV, 'Way too much input Rascal, I need a strong coffee, a very strong coffee. After that we have a lot of sorting and internet searching to do.'
   
Is it a dream
that hides a world
of watery measure
oh to understand it secrets
the incessant call of the bubbling stream.

It seems odd, if not a little unfair that some people simply soak up and retain knowledge with little effort. Recalling at will the name of a fly, its lifecycle, even its latin name. Hank smirked, ' don't mean Rascal that they can put the knowledge to practical use.' Hank belonged to the learn it slow and learn it well society, once assimilated and understood, it is locked away and ready for practical application when required. Hank had read loads of books on fly fishing, had surfed fly fishing sites following link after link, all the while soaking up a morass of information, much of it contradictory, some of it exhilarating.

Many months earlier he had formulated a plan of attack should he ever have the inclination to become a student of fly life and trout. First thing was recognition of the fly life, second was an understanding of its lifecycle and habitat preferences and finally, how the trout feed on each phase of each insect. He knew that this would take years, even a lifetime or two. One thing Hank was not short of, was time and patience, he had both in abundance, though he had a tendency to sometimes jump in feet first he had learned to control that particular beast.


Eager to open the emergers canister, in the certain knowledge that Joe's trout would succumb to a well tied, well presented emerger, Hank had to restrain his excitement, ' Them be nymphs Rascal before they try to emerge, that's where we will start, start at the beginning.' 

Deciding to start with Zone 1 he emptied the canister onto one of the plastic plates and quietly sat sipping his coffee looking at the contents. The scuds or shrimp were the most active and caught his attention first, quite a number of them in fact. Hank removed these first, taking a small, medium and large he placed them on some towel, letting them dry and then placed them on a sheet of the maths paper. Below them he wrote,
Scuds, Zone 1,  13th Jan 2012. Sample 1.  Noting also the size distribution in the sample. Large 20%, Medium 20%, Small 60%. ' That could be important Rascal, not now, but in a few years after many samples it may tell a tale or two'.

Satisfied with the layout he reached for his camera and took a photo, then placed all the scuds from this sampling in a jam jar, half filled with water. This jar would eventually hold all the bugs and he would return them to the river.

Next came the blood worms, not particularly exciting critters, though their constant wriggling was a little mesmerising. He repeated the process of taking three sizes, logged and photographed them. Now it got a little more difficult, the nymphs were not very numerous so he decided to leave them for the moment so set the remainder of the sample of Zone 1 to one side.

'Best see if the photos will work Rascal '; Hank attached the camera to the laptop and printed out the pictures on A4 paper. 'Purrrfect, these are dang diddly perfect, me and you Rascal, we will be the best darn Entomologists in the whole of New Mexico. See I even said it right.'

'Lets go chase some Rabbits, I need some air'; Rascal did not a second invite and soon the pair of budding experts were sauntering though the woods.

Freedom is an asset of  immeasurable value.

Is it a dream
when the air is fresh
a muddled brain
is released from stress
the incessant call of the bubbling stream.

Having returned to the RV Hank set to sorting out the Nymphs from Zone 1; ' MickeyJosephYuleJrRooney Rascal. This is like doing a jigsaw.' He lined up some of the stackable containers and proceeded to place the nymphs in them, like with like. Surprisingly it only took five containers, mentally labelling them 1 to 5. As with the scuds he got the maths paper, wrote in the distributions of each nymph on each sheet.

Next came the caddis, separated into containers, distributions sheets done up.  Hours later, he had completed Zone 1, 2 & 3 and had a total of  six nymph containers and four caddis ones.  One thing he had not considered was spent spinners, failed emergers and drowned terrestrials. Finding the first one of these led to some head scratching and Hank finally decided to dump these in a separate container.

Hanks trembled as he opened the emerger canister, 'this be the one Rascal, the motherlode......'; he did not know what to expect, would this be the holy grail. 'Big nymphs, Rascal, bet there are a load of big nymphs in here, ready to emerge.' Tipping it into a container he gasped out loud, ' son of a mule, spent spinners, well could I have been more wrong.' All though there was a few nymphs in the sample, it mainly contained spent stuff, some with fully formed crucifix wings, some wingless, some with one wing, most with long tails'

'If Joe's trout had been taking them and had I been poaching, I would have been Skuuuuuuunked right and proper. Rascal,we ain't no experts yet but this sort of information sure helps.'



Hank finished his labours, carefully photographing and printing the results. Sitting down with a nice bourbon, he sifted through the sheaf of papers but something bothered him. He tried to recall what he had seen during the rise, 'rewinding the brain Rascal', then the penny dropped. 'Dang diddly , all them trout were sipping very gently and very confidently so lets store that fact away. Trout sipping quietly = maybe  Spent Spinners. Rascal remember that little ole lesson for us.'

Hank had enough excitement for one day, tomorrow he would research using the internet. those spent spinners have to be identified first. 'Might just be ready to try a cast over Joe's trout next week'.

Is it a dream
that with a gentle sip
recently deceased
take their final trip
the incessant call of the bubbling stream.

Hank awoke quite early, that sort of thing tends to happen to those with an agenda for the day ahead. He even switched on the computer before the kettle. Rascal stirred but could sense that Hank was focussed on some task so he just lay there and half dozed.

Coffee in front, sheaf of papers to the left Hank  keyed in www.troutnut.com and so began the process figuring the identity of his samples. ' Links, links, links......'; the power of the web is derived from links but is also its distraction. You set down one path and god knows where you will end up, Samwise Gangee knew that when he stepped outside the shire. After several hours Hank found himself going in circles but the time was not wasted, he had learned a lot but knew that little of it would really register. At least he had figured his way around the site, so resolved to start again with a fresh coffee once Rascal had been fed, watered and both had a short walk.

Back online Hank started looking at the mayflies and honed in on the sulphurs http://www.troutnut.com/hatch/11/Mayfly-Ephemerella-invaria-Sulphur-Dun


Opening another tab in his internet explorer Hank googled Sulphur spinner patterns and seen a nice orange one on Hans site.



Could be said Hank, could be a sulphur spinner, but what were they doing on the water so early in the morning. Though he found a few possibilities Hank decided that it could be a sulphur and made a bold decision , ' Got to start somewhere, I'm going to tie one of them dries from Hans site and a few partridge and orange of different orange threads and will fish both a dry and a spider on the same cast.'  Even if the name is wrong the patterns should work. Such was hanks excitement you would swear he had come up with something new that would revolutionise the world of sulphur spinner fly fishing,,,,,, the joy of discovery.

That's it Rascal, flies are tied, to-morrow we are going poach.., I mean fishing.'

'Could be a BWO spinner too, Oh dear, I wish I could switch of my brain and get some sleep, goodnight Rascal.'

Is it a dream
that we flatter to deceive
on a singular premise we often  place our faith
boldly cast our flies with uncertain expectation
the incessant call of the bubbling stream.


Hank rose early and made his final preparations. He took the sampling net out of the concealed pouch and replaced it with the recently purchased telescopic fly rod. The net could be carried by hand, if he met Joe all would be fine. Into an inside pocket went the reel, a match box with flies, a spool of nylon and a prepared leader with flies attached. Stopping at the door, he paused and did a mental checklist, satisfied that he was armed and ready to go, he whistled for Rascal.

The weather had changed from the previous day, much cooler and a variable breeze blew up the valley, whistling through the trees. The clear sky had given way to dense dark clouds that stretched grey and cold to the horizon. 'Hmm Rascal, there is a storm brewing, should have enough time to have a cast at Joe's trout though. Hey Ho , Hey Ho, Hank is going fishing...don't ya know.... Ssssh, don't go telling anyone Rascal.'

Reaching his pool, Hank bid Rascal to sit beside him and settled into full on observation mode, eyes glued to the far side of the river. Glancing at his watch ' C'mon trout, show yourselves , Joe will be here in ninety four, make that ninety three minutes.' A lone trout splashed somewhere upstream but the river in front was as a graveyard. Hank waited and waited, itching to assemble the telescopic rod, his patience starting to dessert him. With exactly thirty seven minutes to go the silence was broken by a deafening sip, just the far side of the faster water, then another further down. Within minutes the river surface was alive with the sounds and signs of feeding trout. 'Yipeeee, Hank calling Houston, Houston we have lift off.'

Jumping to his feet, Hank almost reached for the telescopic rod but suddenly  remembered that he was not licenced to fish and needed to be sure Joe was not nearby. With fumbling Hands he took out the binoculars and surveyed the terrain upstream, well pleased that there was no sign of Joe he started to unzip his jacket whilst watching the rising trout. 'Wait, Rascal...something is not quite right. Those trout are feeding differently than the last day, look , some head and tail rises. Hank calling Houston, Houston mission aborted. Need to do some sampling'.

Having put the sampling net to-gether Hank carefully waded into the stream. Placing it in the upper layers of the faster water he surveyed the water around him. Fish were rising all about him, going quiet for a minute or so then explosive rising. Enthralled by the spectacle Hank was slow to spot the presence of small dark flies, slate grey wings, dark body.  Hank lifted the net, turning around to leave the river he almost fell in, Joe was sitting quietly on the bank smiling at Hank.'

' Howdy Joe, man you can sneak up on a fellow, Iron Blues, a big hatch of Iron blues , look at them trout go. A'int it a magnificent sight '; said Hank laying the sampling net carefully on the grass.

Joe was in convulsions, 'Hank, for a man that cannot fish for a few weeks you sure are set on being prepared. I hope them Iron blues are still hatching when you get your licence. Mind, if you keep sampling there will be no flies left for the trout.'

Hank laughed, 'Joe, if you keep sneaking up on me, I could well have a heart attack and have no need to buy a licence. I don't know much about Iron Blues but I know a few websites where I can get some, I hope you thanked your cousin for me.'

' I sure did thank him and this is for you'; said Joe handing Hank a cigarette box.

'No thanks , gave up smoking years ago, doc told me quit or die, so I quit, odd cigar now and again'; Hank winked at Joe.

Joe grinned, 'open it Hank.'

Hank took the box and seeing that it did not contain any ciggies he tipped the contents into his hand. A dozen or so flies, all toe tagged and all nymphs and spiders by the look of them. Hank was stunned and almost speechless.

'Enjoy them Hank, my cousin is a good angler and knows his stuff. He gets a kick out of sharing his flies with others, not all secretive like many folk on the river. Gotta go Hank and catch some poachers, see ya soon.'; Joe stood, nodded at Hank and quietly walked downstream.

' Jeeez, thanks a million Joe, thanks five million.'; Hank stood for an age looking at the flies, looking after Joe. A state of total confusion may best describe his state of mind. He was lucky that he spotted the change in the trout or Joe would have caught him for sure. Placing the flies back in the box he quickly headed for the RV where he could examine them more closely.

Is it a dream
when often the air be cold
an eruption of trout
for dainty Iron Blue
the incessant call of the bubbling stream.

The days rolled by quickly, one after another, sampling, researching, tying flies. No two days on the river were the same, water levels rose and fell, weather changed, fly hatches varied and the trout responded in kind. It was now many weeks later since his first sampling expedition.

Every day Hank brought the telescopic fly rod, intent on catching a trout however on reaching the river he would be distracted by some new event, new discoveries to be made. Gradually he began to read the river, second guessing what was afoot, more than occasionally the sampling proving him correct. More knowledge had been accumulated than he even realised and his awareness of his environment was acute.

A brand new fly box, clear lid over a dozen little compartments had been purchased, not a pill box, a real fly box. Each compartment was carefully labelled and the contents had been painstakingly tied, based on practical sampling of the real flies and much research on the internet. Not a single fancy fly, only seven generic patterns, the rest uniquely specific. Hank was pleased with his labours, knowing that when finally he got fishing that the uncertainties that had dogged him for years would be gone.

Joe and Hank met on the river each day and as the days passed Joe began to linger longer, enjoying each others company immensely. When he revealed that he also had been in the navy the bonds of friendship and comradeship were immediate. Joe  started helping hank with the sampling and they behaved like excited school children. ' Look Joe, a BWO nymph, a mature one at that.'

Hank filled a liberal glass of  whiskey, sat back and watched a ball game. Worst game he had seen in ages and he almost fell asleep. He was startled when he heard the knock on the door, it was Joe.

' Howdy Joe, come on in, ... how did you know where I lived ?'; Hank was more than curious.

Pointing to his nose and laughing ,' A ranger has to know a lot more than you think Hank. No I cannot come in, I need to be somewhere else an hour ago, this is for you'. Said Joe, handing Hank an envelope.

Before Hank could say a word, Joe was gone. 'Curiouser and curiouser Rascal'.  Sitting down he opened the envelope and gasped. State fishing Licence, Lifetime Licence commencing 1st march 2011. Issued to Hank and Rascal. Hank glanced at the calendar; ' Dang diddly, that's to-morrow Rascal.' Hank did a war dance, sent the whiskey glass flying, stumbled and fell flat on the ground. Both feet in the air he continued his dance and hollered ' We, that's you and me Rascal, WE are going fishing .... to-morrow, to-morrow, we are finally going fishing.  Ranger Joe is a mighty fine friend.' Only a small drop of the whiskey had been drunk, safe enough to drive.  Hank started the engine and drove to the river and parked up for the night.

Hank woke at 9 AM, feeling fully refreshed, he had enjoyed his first decent night's sleep in weeks. Opening the door he stepped outside, eager to see what type of day it was. He immediately felt the bite of the cold breeze on his cheek and groaned out loud; 'lordy Rascal, not the type of day I dreamed about last night'. Stretching himself, he glanced at the river; ' what the hell am I complaining about, any day is a good day to fish.' Rascal received a treble helping of bacon and soon Hank was making his way down to the river, rod in hand.

Joe stood as Hank approached, ' Howdy angler, you are late. See you got me saying howdy. Not a bad day to catch my trout'

'Joe, the licence, that is a mighty fine thing to do. Me and Rascal are in your debt'; said Hank.

Joe grinned, 'No Hank, the state is in your debt. I brought your issue to the office folk, they brought it higher and it has been decided to change the rules. Licences from now on go year to year. As compensation to you for not been able to fish they decided to issue you a lifetime licence. See Hank, honesty is the best policy. Now, go catch a trout, the river is boiling.'
Hank hadn't even looked at the river but gasped when he did. Trout were rising everywhere with gay abandon, willing Hank to jump in and cast his flies. Old Hank would have fumbled in the box, tied on his favourite fly and jumped right in there and scare every trout in the river. Instead he wandered to the edge, took out his binoculars and viewed the busy river surface. Spotting some flies coming off Hank smirked, Iron blues again Joe and I have got one of your cousins patterns for such an occasion.

' Might be your trout Joe'; said Hank as he waded ashore. Joe took the outstretched net and laid it on the grass. The beautifully spotted trout lay gleaming on the mesh of the net, a tiny Iron Blue spider in the corner of its mouth. Joe offer Hank his hand. ' Mighty fine trout Hank , mighty fine trout, you are a fine angler and a fine friend '.  After a few photos , Hank carefully returned the trout and both sat watching it disappear into the depths.

After a long silence, Joe turned to Hank, slapped him cheerfully on the back and said. 'Hank, I am mightily glad that you didn't go poaching with your Telescopic Rod.'

' Whaaat, how, how did ya know I was.....'; Hank turned a bright red.

Joe pointed to his nose; 'A ranger has to know everything Hank, I told you that before. Besides, my cousin Patrick is a courier and it was he that delivered the telescopic rod to your RV'.

The End



Is it a dream
when all is done
that it matters not
if the trout be lost or won
the incessant call of the bubbling stream.