Fellowship of the Trout Part 1

[otter]

This story developed on an American forum dedicated to the fishing of flymphs/soft hackles / spiders / wets, a forum of decent like minded people very similar to this one in attitude. As the result of a conversation where Hank , one of the members desired catching a big trout I replied with a little tale of a few lines and like a runaway train it developed a life of its own and turned into fifty seven pages, invloving some forum members as the  characters.
Alas, one of the characters passed away since the story was written.
Not so good unless you know the people and is my first attempt turn turn a few words into a story but what the hell, someone here may enjoy it. 


It took the soft hackle soon after it lighted softly a yard above the fish. Hank seen the flash of its belly as it turned and struck solidly. Having sat for half an hour watching and observing Hank already knew the fish would make for the log just below the bush and was ready. With sideways strain , manouvered it away from the log and coaxed it to mid stream. Every movement could be felt and slowly Hank gained control and could feel the trout reluctantly tire. As it came to the surface Hank reached back and released the net, almost dropping it as it became clear that a good trout was indeed a great one. Slowly he drew it to-wards the net but as the trout glimpsed Hanks beaming face it garnered all its instincts for survival and made one last dash for the log. Hank managed to divert it, but alas the dropper snagged and so the camera would have to stay in the pocket.

Hank slowly retreated to the bank, reeling in the line slowly , confused and saddened by this oh so close capture of a great trout. Saddeness however soon turned to elation. Hank had deceived a great trout with a soft hackle of his own tying with a perfect cast. There would be other great trout to pursue and when the next oppurtunity happened Hank would be sure to remember to remove all the droppers.


THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE TROUT




The first rays of sunlight came in the window and struck the laptop screen. William blinked at their arrival and glanced out the window thinking, great , spring has truly arrived. Back to the laptop, William put the final touches to the brassie soft hackle jpeg, posted it and well satisfied he sipped the almost cold coffee.
His thoughts turned to the river and wondered what wonderments lay in store this coming season. Could the brassie softhackle take a trout like Hanks, maybe at the inside riffle at Turners Cross. Brassie on a dropper, a gold ribbed P&O on the point, such a cast could not fail to entice a wild old trout.

So lost in thought, William did not notice Mrs A take away the almost empty cup and was startled when a steaming hot cup arrived beside his laptop. God you startled me he said. Where were you ,she replied , knowing full well where his daydreams had led him. No where, just figuring what I need to get to fix the fence this morning he replied. Mrs A was a fine poker player and knew a bluff when she seen one, Is that right Will she replied, in that case you may as well paint the outside doors and tidy up the garage she replied. Will looked up, "thats a good idea , theres lots of jobs to be done before .....", he thought he seen a strange glint in the corner of her eye, "Before What William ?", she replied cheekily. Before he could answer, Mrs A gave him a hug and whispered in his ear, " Go William, I know I am no competition for the river, just make sure to come back"

The second cup of coffee was hardly cold as he sped out of the driveway, all his gear was ready, it had been ready for weeks , slamming on the brakes , he raced back up the driveway for the box of wire softhackles, admonishing himself for being so careless. He caught fleeting glimpses of the river through the trees as he hastily made his way to turners cross. The soft air of spring enveloped his senses as with great urgency he tackled up, but soon the pleasure of being near the river calmed his being and slowly he made his way to the inside riffle. I wonder he thought, could a trout as good as Hanks be in residence, ah heck a 6" juvenile would make my day. A large boulder marked the entrance to the riffle, no better seat could nature design for a contemplative angler.
Brassie Softhackle on the point , gold ribbed P&O on the point he thought, tied his cast, double checking the knots and finally degreased his leader. Just as William stood he thought he seen a flash of a fish on the inside riffle, a big one like Hanks,,, nah nah, don't be silly, that only ever holds a juvenile. About to step into the water, William paused again thinking that mad Otter fella might be watching, took out his scissors , removed the dropper and the P&O and put the brassie on the point. Jezus, I need to see a shrink he muttered out loud as he slipped into the river.

Fishing what he knew to be barren water this time of the year, his casting rhythmn soon returned and he became one with the river. Moving slowly he missed nothing, a lone mayfly skittered in mid stream before taking to the air and a few midge fought for life on the inside slack. The river seemed devoid of Trout, but William knew they were there, they were there every year, nature sees to that. Not quite ready to feed in earnest he knew that patience was a must.
A flash again on the inside riffle, duly noted , the exact spot mapped, William slowly made his way upstream, no need to hurry , it will be a small fish.

Like all good anglers , William devoted himself to attention to detail. He grabbed the brassie, checked the knot and degreased the leader again. Letting the line out dowstream, 25 ft he estimated , a well practiced downstream roll, lifted line and brassie and the forward cast placed it perfectly two yards above and a foot inside the mark. "Not bad for an overworked, under paid son of a b..." , he thought. Shame the trout didn't agree as the brassie harmlessy drifted back downstream. Maybe a foot to the left , no, a foot to the right , no , 40 casts later no no no, nooooooooooooooo.


There is only one thing worse than a perfectionist and thats a stubborn one. Back on with the dropper and the P&O, "Feck Otter, Feck Hank... feck this bloody brassie" The cast landed in a heap, the current swung it out of control but the miracle happened. A trout flashed, William struck, the rod bent and just as the trout came to the surface William screamed as someone shook his shoulder.

"William, I don't know who Otter is or who Hank is and I don't really care , but you need to get out of bed and fix the bloody fence", Mrs A was not happy.

Aaaaagh he cried silently, was it as big as Hanks, was it a fish of a life time, "Yes hon, I'm on it"

And William she whispered as she left the bedroom, "Will I make you some sandwiches to take fishing this afternoon" 


William arrived at the river with a calmness that only comes after doing the mundane tasks such as fixing fences or tidying up the garage. The little pack of sandwiches were carefully placed in the inside pocket of his wading jacket alongside the little slice of homemade fudge cake, Gabrielle never ceased to surprise. He smiled as he slowly tackled up, one of the kids had shouted after him " catch a big one dad, one as big as Hanks". Children have that special talent of incessantly putting their parents under pressure, William dare not fail, not this time, especially not this time.

As William sat on the boulder he had a feeling of deja vu, he somehow sensed that he had been here already this season, yet this was his first outing. Opening his fly box, the newly tied brassie soft hackle caught his eye, I wonder he thought, its early season and the trout will be down deep, "yeah....why not" he said out loud. A brassie on the point and a smaller brassie on the dropper, that should do the trick and just in case he used 5X leader rather than 6x.

William started on some barren water just to get his casting going. The first cast was perfect, as was the second and the third. "Heck this weird, it usually takes me outing or two to find the rhythmn, I must be getting good at this fly fishing". For no particular reason William waded quickly towards the inside riffle.

Taking up position, William noted the currents , adjusted himself a few yards instream and readied to cast. The line floated out and the leader turned over perfectly, a quick upstream mend and the brassies drifted back perfectly but unmolested. A rustle in the bankside vegetation startled william and slowly a human form appeared. Hi said the stranger, I'm Lykos, sorry to scare you but I thought you should know that I fished that spot for two hours and caught nothing. " Lykos !!!, that name sounds familiar, I'm William". "William, not William Anderson stuttered Lykos, I am so sorry , I thought you would be fixing fences all day. I had to find out how big that trout was" Both anglers stared at each other and burst out laughing. I guess we will never know said William.

They retreated to the boulder. Lykos took out his flask, William his sandwiches and for the next hour or so they shared stories of great trout , swapped flies and told a few white lies as all anglers are prone to do. As they stared at the river they heard another angler splashing down the riffle. God, its busy here today thought William, I usually have the place to myself. " I wonder did he have better luck than us said Lykos.

As the angler came closer they realised that he was a she. "Hello lads , god I'm whacked I have been out for hours she announced , too much tv over the winter"
Hi the lads said in unison, any luck ?

Just one she replied with a beaming smile, a little one of about 4lbs. Caught it up there , she pointed to the inside riffle , on a little brassie soft hackle on my first cast. I always try and get to the river early, the early bird catches the worm or so they say. By the way my names Vicki, who are you guys, any luck.

It's June now and despite nature's attempts to fool us into believing its still April we know that daytime fishing will be hit and miss affairs with more certain opportunities at dusk.


"Willllllllllllllllllllliam, I am off to the shops to stock up for the barbeque to-morrow, can you paint the fence and cut the grass, the garden is a mess"

Sure Gabby I was just about to do that anyway said Will lying through his teeth, "Can you pick me up some AAA batteries, good ones not the cheapies we get for the kids toys" .
" Ok Will , she replied, I'll be back in about three hours, I am bringing the kids with me"
Leave the kids said Will, they can help me, it will give you a break, "by the way,I was thinking of heading to the river this evening, its been a while since I was out"
Okay Will, thanks , but I'll bring the kids, I promised them some ice-cream and I don't want them covered in paint, remember the last time...."

Never did the lawnmower move so fast, 16 minutes precisely and the grass was cut. The new paint sprayer , an impulse purchase from Ebay worked a treat on the fence, 28 minutes from start to finish. Cleared out the garbage, hosed the deck, cleaned the barbeque , one hour in total, amazing what one man can achieve when ulterior motives are at work.

All was laid out on the floor, 9ft rod, reel with floater, waders , net , fully equipped vest, headlight torch awaiting fresh batteries. Well satisfied that he would be travelling light Will turned his attention to flies. Checking his diary of last year, just to verify what he already knew , Caddis and BWO's and off course some smaller upwings and their spinners. Its feast time for the trout, the conveyor will be awash with juicy caddis pupa and emerging BWO's and if luck is in the spinners will be making their last dance and big trout will waken from their slumber.

Dry's and emergers he thought, quickly laid out the right boxes and readied to carry them to the car. Ooops thought Will, I'll be naked without a few softies and so his goto softie box for this time of the year was added to the mix, a few Greenwells, P&o's, Woodcock and Orange and off course a selection of Williams Favorite and a few dozen other creations. Thats better he thought, armed , ready and just maybe to-night, dangerous.

Caddis pupa, weird the things that cross your mind whilst stirring a cup of coffee, "Caddis Pupa, I have not cracked Caddis pupa yet and really only 5 or 6 weeks of this season to do so." William glanced at his Rolex  , one hour left, ran to the computer spilling half the coffee on the way. A quick search through Flymphforum and bingo , Woodcock & X where X is the colour of the pupa was suggested as a good un where trout are bulging at caddis pupa. A few Woodcock and Orange were in the box but William had not associated them with Caddis hatches. 45 minutes later Orange, green, olive , black and yellow Woodcocks were added to the softie fly box.

An old tier had once explained to a young William many years previously that any angler worth his salt must be able to "Tie a fly when he want's, to do the job he want's for where he want's". Hmm mused William, "I guess he would be kinda of proud of me. All the kit packed in the car William still had time to make a plateful of sandwiches for Gabby and the kids. Glancing up at the early afternoon sun, William's eyes blinked.... "Sunglasses, nearly forgot the sunglasses"

I still have time he thought and returned to the car, opened the Softie box and gazed and the newly tied Woodcocks, Viewing them from all angles he surmised on their possibilities and wondered at their simplicity. What drives an angler to become so lost in anticipation before using some new fly patterns, as though convincing oneself of their greatness will instill them with magic for when they are cast to a great trout. Daydreams somehow only ever see us catch great trout never the tiddlers.

William had only closed the car door when Gabby and the kids arrived back. Having carried the stuff indoors William beckoned all to the kitchen to the great feast he had prepared. "Are you trying to tell me something", laughed Gabby. She tossed him the new batteries, "here is the batteries for the big kids toy". "Go on, I know you wan't to go now, you know you wan't to go now, even the dog know's you wan't to go now - SO GO she commanded" William pretended to walk slowly to the car, fact is Usain Bolt could not have got there any faster.

William opened the car window to let in some air, feeling the gentle warm summer breeze on his cheeks, thinking how lucky he was. Turners Cross, here I come he yelped in glee and honked the car horn three times to let the trout know he was on the way. Parking the car, he surveyed the windscreen casualties and it confirmed all he needed to know. Inside riffle, he thought, gotta keep that Otter fella happy. The rock seat was harder to find in the summmer growth and it looked like no one had been there in a while. Glancing at the water as he prepared his rod and line he could see a few BWO's spinners were already on the wing. Numerous caddis danced in the bushes and as always small clouds of midge were losing their battle against the breeze.

A good angler can take in the full panorama of the river and not miss the slightest detail. William knew this and though the desire to start fishing was overwhelming he waited and watched and listened. A few trout dimpled the flat water, a murmur of a distant trout slashing at an escaping caddis. William knew he was ready when even the smallest dimple in the corner of his eye registered and every slash at a fly sounded like an explosion. William carefully placed some BWO Sherry spinners, some dry caddis and BWO emeregers on his fly patch , ready for later when the river hopefully exploded with excited trout.

Slipping past the bush and into the water William looked upstream at the inside riffle, it was alas a mere trickle and even Otter and all the magic of Gandalf from Lord of the Rings could not pull a trout from it he thought. When unsure and few trout are rising, there is only one answer, on went a Williams favorite and the prospecting began.

Out of habit William commenced degreasing the leader and surveyed the water ahead, flat , featureless and only broken by the small ripple from the afternoon's warm summer breeze. Perfect he thought, just the right kind of water to challenge an angler. Like many generations of trout anglers that came before, William had learned that the best water should be left left till dusk. For now, it was about searching the lesser water, seeking out those miracle places where an obscure underwater feature or a few strands of weed provided that something that attracted a trout to take up residence, even temporary residence. William had a quite long tapered leader with a very fine tippet, a must for this type of water. Ooops he thought, away with the degreaser he instead greased the leader up to the last six inches. The Williams Favorite would just fish subsurface, a tactic that sometimes worked well on this type of water.
William chose to work his way up the left bank where there was better cover from a sparse line of trees and bushes, he off course had a better reason. A few years earlier he had spotted a regular rise from a possibly good trout close to the right bank where a small dead tree branch lay half in half out of the water. Such branches often are the haunt of an exceptional trout. Wading steadily and hastily up the right hand side William broke the cardinal rule, "Never wade quickly and never ever ever take big steps". William took a big step and the river took William. "Arse over Tit" as they say, he floated downstream and came to a halt on the thin inside riffle.
Scrambling out of the river up to the rock seat it took him ten minutes of hilarious contortions to divest the waders of the gallons of water.
Only a wet butt and dented pride he was lucky that the outcome was not worse.
Wading slowly and carefully up the left hand side William raised his fist and shook it in the direction of the old branch on the far side, " Grrrrrgh".

"Sip", William swung his head and faced upstream , watched and waited, "Sip" again, the merest flat spot on the ripple, fifteen yards ahead, three feet out from the bank. Staring intensely at the spot, "Sip", William moved out and up, Wading slowly, carefully , one small step at a time until he was in casting distance. The trout was rising regularly and probably taking something small. William chose his moment and dropped the fly seven feet above the trout, it drifted down untouched. William waited a few minutes , ensuring that the trout was still rising and cast again this time landing the fly a foot or so closer to the bank. Just as the fly came level with the trout William raised his rod ever so slightly, that little movement did the trick and William connected with a brightly spotted brownie. Not a big fish but a very welcome one and once again William's Favorite had plied its magic. William The Lucky he mused, a fine trout and hours of fishing ahead.

William waded slowly up to the trout's lie and almost stumbled over the sunken log. Eureka he exclaimed, that's why that trout was there. The log and its location were consigned to memory to join the host of other little spots that had been previously found.

William checked the Rolex  , one hour, three minutes and fifteen seconds to work through the long section of featureless water. Same time it took to race through the earlier chores, he laughed out loud at such a ridiculous comparison. A few more trout had come to the William's Favorite , good fishing but he did not locate a single trout that tested his abilities to breaking point. One needs a few of these each day to remind us of our own mortality and to keep our thoughts of being a fly fishing god or goddess well in check. Time to take a break from the concentration and time to casually observe, thought William. The water ahead was unwadeable and virtually unfishable. Narrowing ,deepening and darkening as it flowed through a wall of trees. William skirted around this impasse and found a nice resting spot below a short though perfect pool.

Keeping well back from the river, William gasped, as he always did when arriving here, this little piece of water had been created by the gods.
The riffle ahead was perfection, bubbling away evenly over fifty yards, little more than 2 foot deep , snaking into two flows at the bottom, both merging into one, creating a small deeper pool. This would be his hunting ground at dusk. He always sat here and watched, taking his bearings, making imaginary casts at imaginary trout and recalling past successes, failures and incidents. The two feisty Otter cubs that almost ran into his outstretched legs, the graceful heron that encroached upon his water, bats that played chicken with his fly rod at dusk. He was happy to share this little glimpse of angling heaven with all the creatures except for the un-invited two legged ones that would take it for their own. Guides, William detested guides, he seen them as plundering Vikings that would rape his little paradise with their wealthy, noisy greedy, clients. Off course William had used guides on other distant rivers, but that was different, this little bit of river at Turners Cross was not for sale.

Though he knew this water intimately, he still enjoyed immersing himself in its beauty, there would be no time later to do so. A lot more spinners were about , taking tentative trips over the water, readying themselves for the miracle of life and death and re-birth. The caddis were everywhere, big ones , small ones , lost ones mingling with olives. A lone damsel glittered in the evening sun, its iridescent beauty that has tempted many a fly tier to sit at vice and ponder imitation, imitation for the sake of the art not for the promise of fishing. Refreshed , William stood up slowly, whispered to the pool , later my friend , we will dance later when the sun seeks shelter in the west.

Snack time is how best to describe early summers evenings. The daytime hatches will be all but over apart from the odd straggler, spinners will be considering returning to the water but most will await the fading light, and the dusk hatches will not begin yet apart from a few false starters. Trout understand their environment and few will take up active feeding stations until the returns justify bothering. Indeed some trout may switch almost completely to dusk and first light activity. William pondered all this as he walked briskly upstream. This is a great time of the day as the fishing while difficult, William will not feel pressurised to catch anything, a few already caught and the promise of great sport later. Time to wet some new creations thought William; I will try some on the next riffle.

The approaching riffle, though smaller and similar to the last had some deeper pockets that always held trout, often a good one. As always William sat and watched for activity. Numerous trout intermittently rose in the pool below, were they onecer's holding station and rising to an occasional morsel as their mood dictated , were some patrolling the pool and taking sustenance along their route or were they active feeders. Only way to find out was to watch and wait.
William watched and waited and quickly determined as he had expected that the pool would prove to be hard work and he did not relish hard work at this stage of the evening. This pool and riffle were well shaded and sometimes seen dusk hatches commence just slightly earlier than the first pool and riffle, if luck was on his side this would happen and he could catch a few here before heading back downstream for the main event.

William quietly got as close to the riffle as he could dare, slightly elevated beside some thorny bushes he took the small binoculars from the side pocket of his vest.

While the binoculars reduced his field of vision William had clear vision of each piece of water that he focussed on. This was all about selecting a small zone that usually fished well and watching carefully for activity. Soon a medium sized caddis emerged, struggled briefly and took flight in an instant. William tracked it as it zig zagged across the river. Soon its flying prowess increased and it headed for the sanctuary of the trees.
Several olive spinners danced above the water , a few dipping and laying their eggs , an occasional olive emerged and drifted downstream unmolested. Laying down the binoculars, William now viewed the bottom of the riffle, spotting the occasional rise, their location noted. William now turned his attention to the bushes, back with the binoculars he honed in as best as possible on the spinners and caddis, determining their type, size and coloration. Experience had taught him what to expect and generally he was correct, but it also taught him that it is a foolish angler that relies totally on past experience.

William opened the box of softies. Talking out loud to himself, "a well mixed hares ear and partridge for the point, olive thread, the hamburger of flies, always attractive to the less discerning diner, size 14 heavy wire I think"
This would be his anchor; it would determine the behaviour of the two droppers. A weighted Triple Threat olive caddis was also chosen (thank you Jim Slattery) and placed in the fly patch, ready for action if hamburgers had to be taken of the menu. Now came the big decision, the top dropper, a position when circumstances are right and the correct fly is chosen it can match and even supersede the effectiveness of the point fly

"Decisions , decisions, decisions, I do enough of that at work, why do they follow me to the river", muttered William as he scanned the contents of the fly box. Has to be an olive, which one though he pondered, he stared at the box, glanced at the riffle and then back to the box. A size 14 greenwell's perhaps, stewart style, hmmm.

"The standard dressing looks appealing, though I haven't fished one in a while"

As William considered this all important decision his attention was drawn to a little nondescript pattern in the corner of his box, he teased it out from the foam and looked at in puzzlement. It slowly dawned on him, it was one of Mike Connors's softwings . He laughingly announced to the world, "I should keep this for the inside riffle". It comes well recommended, there are olives about, what the heck , top dropper MC softwing, middle dropper standard greenwell's.

And so Williams decision was made, part curiosity, part logically and part fun.

As William put the final touches to his cast something caught the corner of his eye, a small movement on the far side of the river in a little bit of slack water. Just a mere flicker. William looked intently at the spot and thought he seen the merest of dimples on the dark grey scum laden surface. Out with the trusty binoculars and they soon confirmed the presence of a trout gently but regularly taking from the meniscus. William could not ignore the strong possibility that this was a good trout. The wet fly leader tippet was carefully laid out on a rock and a new one of 14ft formed with 7x at the point. A size 20 dry fly with a black CDC body and a wisp of white CDC wing was carefully tied on. The last few inches of leader was degreased.


Ready to do battle, William walked downstream and began the arduous and dangerous wade across the tail of the pool below. Big trout have to be earned and that's why they are big, few anglers have the determination to learn how to find them and less have the determination to go to extremes to catch them. As William neared the slack back eddy he slowed his wading to inching his way upstream, the whole process of getting into position took 45 minutes to complete.

William stared at the slack water and breathed a sigh of relief when he seen a gentle sip , the trout was still feeding. From what William could see , the trout was doing a circular route and taking at three separate points, 2 on the upward path and one of the downward. The best plan was to target the point on the downward path and the cast must be made just after the trout took the first morsel on the upward path. If he had guessed wrong and the trout was moving anti-clockwise then he was doomed to failure. William made at least a dozen casts in his minds eye before letting out sufficient line downstream enable him to make the cast, whist still holding the fly.
The cast would mean holding the fly in his left hand, draw some line upstream with the rod tip, do a downstream roll and let the fly go at the same time, then make a perfect forward cast. William was glad the fly was dressed on a barbless hook.

Primed and ready to go William watched the trout take the first morsel, raised his rod drawing some fly line upstream, commenced the downstream roll and let go the fly. In perfect harmony the line released , lifting the fly downstream into a perfect position to do a forward cast. Slowly William brought the rod forward , accelerating to a perfect stop, as the loop formed William raised the rod and quickly dropped the tip, the fly line falling gently on the surface in a series of loops. The tippet floated over the drop zone the fly landing gently on the surface. William released another foot of line flicked the rod tip inside and forward driving another foot of fly line into the slack water. The trout took the second morsel on his upward path, William gritted his teeth in anticipation, starting intently at his fly and praying to the river gods that it would be his day.

He never seen the rise, the tiny fly simply disappeared with the merest hint of a bubble on the surface. It seemed like an eternity before it registered , but William lifted the rod firmly but not aggressively. The line tightened as the wee hook drove home. The trout for a moment was unaware of its predicament and gave William no indication of its size but that was to change in a instant. The rod tip snapped over and quickly buckled under the pressure of a great trout. It quickly made for some bankside debris but applying massive sideways strain William managed to prevent catastrophe 1-0 to William. This was not a trout that wished to concede and tore downstream almost brushing Williams waders as it passed. Unprepared for such a move William was all arms and legs, performing contortions more suitable to a drunken elephant. Trout 1 – William 1.

Line tore of the reel. when William finally got everything back under control he was amazed that the small hook had held. The trout was some 15 yards below , sitting midstream, quietly assessing its situation almost sneering at William " your move sonny". William smiled, the river Gods were still on his side. He waded quickly downstream past the trout , stumbling more than once. Somehow he managed to reach the gravelly shallows the far side. Still 1-1 he thought, time to play his hand. He lifted the rod high putting firm pressure on the trout, slowly it reacted fighting the strain. William could feel every tremor and immediately dropped the rod as he felt the trout start to move and once again applied strong side strain . Every direction the trout moved William counteracted by applying pressure from the opposite direction. Not once did the trout gain the upper hand , never able to build up a head of steam. Inexorably its runs grew weaker and weaker and finally it surfaced giving William a first glimpse of its magnificence, a sight that William would not forget for many years to come.

It slipped into the almost too small net and William carried it ashore and carefully laid his prize on the grass for a quick photo. Back to the river he held the trout gently in the streamy water until it gained its strength, a strong flick of its tail and it was gone. William stared at the river , lost in thought and with an overwhelming sense of happiness. Glancing at the ROLEX  , one hour and eleven minutes since he first spotted the rise, WOW.

This was the stuff of dreams and William knew it. He also knew that it can only happen once in an anglers life and no matter how challenging or how big some future trout could be, it would never instil within such a sense of being at one with nature. God, he felt so lucky and so priveliged to have had his oppurtunity.
The riffle seemed a blur as his still shaking hands tried to tie on his cast of wet flys.

William is not a tackle tart that feasts his eyes on all the latest rods and gadgetry from the magazines and the internet and immediately reaches for the Visa card to satisfy his hunger for possessions. Long ago William took a decision that it would only be purchased if he could not make it himself. And so commenced his love affair with fly tying, rod building, leader making and many other minor items. A few of his rods he had built from blanks and he treasured them immensely as they had his personality firm etched into their construction. Williams's ambition was to build his own bamboo rod and some day when the gods of time allowed him his indulgence he would do so.

Many anglers become quite Catholic in their tastes, some rigidly only fishing dries, others nymphs, others contemplating no other approach than fishing wets and soft hackles. William though preferred versatility and believed firmly in matching his approach to suit the activities of the trout and the nature of the water in front of him and not in any fanciful notion that the trout should adapt to suit his preferred method. When William seen a review of the latest and greatest nymphing rod his eyes opened wide in awe. A simple idea, a 9ft 6" rod with a small extension that slotted into the butt that could be fitted in between the top two sections, thus lengthening the rod. That's almost what I need for upstream fishing with nymphs and spiders he thought, why are the best ideas always so simple.

William contemplated this marvellous idea and formulated a plan. After much research and many phone calls he found a rod maker that could take his idea and turn it into a reality for a very reasonable price.
He sent of one of his prized hand made 9ft 6" rods and eagerly awaited the return. Whilst the rod maker was doing his end of the bargain William set about his own task. Taking an old rod tube he cut it back to about 14" in length and reaffixed the lid. He attached a clip to the top that would allow a connection to the D ring on his wading jacket.

Finally the package arrived, his old rod, a new screw in butt of 12", and 2 new lengths of rod both 12" long.
William assembled the rod, attached the new butt and slotted the two extensions together and fitted them between the two top sections of the rod. Voila, he now had a two handed rod of 12ft 6", but would it perform.
Tests on the grass were positive though he knew it would take time to come to terms with casting double handed. He marvelled however at the extra control he had over the leader.

William stared at the riffle and decided to make a start. Almost forgetting his new toy he un-slung the short rod case from his back and re-assembled his rod with the extra lengths and new butt added. Standing well back William flicked his cast onto the riffle, raising his mighty new rod, tracking the flies for a few yards , lift and presenting them back out again. He varied his retrieve , sometimes tracking, some times drawing the flies across the stream. Well satisfied he then experimented with the casting, which was closer to a roll cast than an overhead, first seeking accuracy then introducing little mends. Soon his brain had assimilated what was required and his muscles acted in unison to make his chosen cast and mend. Not every cast was perfect but he knew that it would improve with practice. Well pleased William returned to fishing mode and viewed the riffle with the eyes of a well practiced hunter.


One again William glanced at the Rolex  and it confirmed that if he wanted to get to fish his chosen pool for dusk that he would have to move through the riffle in 90 minutes. No problem he thought, it will mean selective casting to the best spots and ignoring anything else. The riffle had numerous bands of weed and plenty of small boulders; it would simply be a case of covering the water between the weeds and any darker bands of water that suggested a slight increase in depth. William was excited at the prospect of using his new weapon, intrigued by the prospects of being in control. He had read all the great works from angling literature , Skues, Webster and many of the more modern bibles of fishing spiders and flymph's. Though he was inspired by them and had caught many trout he felt that his methods were at best average and try as he might he simply could not put into practice the subtleties of the craft that so many of the greats alluded to.

Stepping into the riffle William stripped of 10 yards of line and commenced casting, tracking the line, raising the rod high at the end of the drift, pause, and flick and repeating, covering each likely spot in turn, rarely covering the same spot twice unless he knew it to be a better lie. After a few minutes William realised his error, so used to fishing with his shorter rod and a longer line he quickly retrieved 7 yards of fly line, leaving 9ft of line, 15ft leader & tippet. Combined with the length of the rod, that allowed him to cover water up to around 40ft away. Immediately he noticed the improvement in control; the rod, the line and the leader felt they were an extension of his arm and would do whatever he bid. Every tremor and subtle movement of the rod tip would transfer quickly to the flies and change their behaviour accordingly.

William trembled in anticipation thinking "now it all makes sense", all those manipulations that Mike Connors had referred to, the writings of Webster, Skues etc.... William felt the weight of all these great men lift from his shoulders and the sense of freedom to put into practice all that he had read, was overwhelming.

William inhaled deeply to steady himself. A few trout were starting to move, slashing at emerging caddis he surmised. With a new focus William concentrated on each zone of water that he wished to cover as though looking through his binoculars. All though aware of all within his peripheral vision his concentration on each section of water was intense and total. Quickly targeting the most likely productive water William soon got into a smooth unhurried but efficient rhythm, the longer rod placing the cast of flies gently, precisely and fully extended.

A nice but gentle rise to his right, a quick flick of the rod tip seen his top dropper land a few feet above the rise, lifting the rod slowly William tracked the flies and gently lifted into the almost immediate rise. The trout, a fine brightly spotted eight incher was quickly drawn to a wetted hand and released , so easy to do with barbless hooks. First fish to the olive softwing. Without pausing to reflect on this capture William continued casting, covering new water with each probing cast. A few fish came blind to the olives, a few were fortuitous in so far as they were hooked as he lifted into a cast, but William knew that it was not pure luck. Pausing at the end of each drift and lifting the rod slightly caused the flies to lift in the water column thus mimicking the rise of a natural, this had fooled the trout and invited the take. One other had taken with vigour and the leader had shot forward, spotted by William he struck and had been rewarded with another precocious young trout. "The big lads have not come out to play yet, but I know they are there", said William cheerfully to himself.

The glow of the evening sun as it sought sanctuary on the horizon filtered through the trees casting eerie shadows on the riffle. Calm had descended on the riffle and soon William noticed the increase in fly life, Olive's, Caddis, Midge all went about their business little realising the all important role they played in Williams's pursuit of trout. As though on cue, directed by the baton of an orchestra conductor the river burst into life, a symphony of sips, of slashes, of underwater swirls.

Supper time, the even rise had started as nature had intended. Birth, death and regeneration, offering to the angler a glimpse into the magical world that surrounds us. Magical does not even begin to describe the sheer beauty of this daily event that goes un-noticed by all but the luckiest of people, the fly angler. The patient angler that marvels at the unfolding miracle and takes time to observe will not alone catch more trout but will go home with a great deal of humility at the realisation that he is but a small part of this complex jigsaw that nature has created. Dusk fishing is best savoured alone and free from distraction to soak in all the pleasures that nature was offering.

William glanced at the RoLeX (god he loved that watch, a present from Gabby), 9:34, June 21st, the longest day of the year in this neck of the woods. On past experience William reckoned he had only twenty minutes before he needed to go back downstream to the pool of the gods. "What tactics will I employ"; he wondered. Experimentation is part of the joy of fly fishing and this window of opportunity needed to be grasped. Judging by the splashy rises and fierce underwater swirl's he reckoned that caddis were on the menu and proving themselves a poplar choice with many of the trout. Easy choice you may think, but many trout were also taking olives, "here we go again, decisions, decisions, decisions, ah heck, let's have some fun."

William set about changing his cast to an experimental tactical team. He liked that term of Mike C's, sounded way better than NZ style or washing line or duo or trio or the host of other terminology that anglers are so caught up in. It gave the impression that you knew what you are doing and that can't be a bad thing. It also made you think through what the team was doing, not simply chuck it and see what transpires.

On the point a lightly weighted Triple threat caddis, on the middle dropper a Partridge and Orange , nah this is experiment time, so its Woodcock and Orange and on the top dropper a size 14 CDC olive emerger with a hare body guard hair thorax, that should hold the others up without submerging. the CDC emerger was not the best of choices from an engineering point of view, but he would be fishing at short range and there was still enough light to see it.

Casting up and across a few feet ahead of a rise , a trout splashed at the CDC emerger but William failed to connect. Okay , thought William , have it your way but this is going to work even if I have to stay here all night – game on. William waited a few minutes and when the trout was rising confidently again, he cast , this time dropping the point fly a few yards upstream of the rise. Tracking back he raised the rod ever so slightly , the CDC emerger paused, the triple threat inched up in the column, the rod tip dropped letting the CDC emerger continue its journey and the triple threat descended. The watching trout registered this all so tiny movement, moved sideways of station and engulfed the triple threat.


After a harmless conversations with the shadows he started to fish with an intensity of concentration that he had never experienced before. His mind was completely and utterly free of thought and his focus on the water in front was total. Each fish that rose was covered, precisely and intelligently yet at no time did William analyse how to cover a particular trout. He simply reacted to the rise and made his cast, manipulating the flies or dead drifting. Some , but not many, fish were missed or rejected at the last moment, this did not seem to bother him in the slightest. He simply continued up the riffle, tempting fish after fish, hooking many that never even showed on the surface, simply reacting to something subtle signal that a trout had taken.

Call it in the Zone, call it anything you like but William was no longer standing in a river, he was part of it. He felt every nuance of its flows, anticipating every desire of every trout that he showed his flies to. He never in all his angling life felt so alive yet so isolated from what normally constituted reality. It is a strange place to be and an even harder place to find but once you have been there your fishing from then on will be a constant search for that key that unlocks the entrance. Like any that have experienced this place William was dumfounded when he waded out at the top of the riffle. He looked back downstream , a rather puzzled look on his face, shook his head and sat down on the nearest rock.

Willam glanced at the XeloR and almost fainted, it was 11:39 yet he felt that it was only ten minutes earlier that he had conversed with the shadows. Jesus, Gabby will kill me he thought, reality was back with an unmerciful bang.

Sitting quietly on the rock, putting aside his need to get home, William tried to reflect on what had just happened. Feeling thoroughly exhausted , he found it hard to gather his thoughts together. That this had been an incredible evenings fishing, of that there was no doubt. The great trout, the pleasures of the big rod and finally that dreamlike run up through the riffle. An old angler that he had often met in his youth had once said to a young William "Sonny, when you have learned about fly's , about where trout lie and how to catch them, one day you will become part of the stream and then you can call yourself a trout angler"
William had thought him an eccentric old buzzard, now he wasn't quite so sure that the description was apt. Wishing that the old buzzard was still alive so that he could ask him some questions he resigned himself to keeping this experience to himself.

William dismantled the extra rod sections , carefully placing them in the rod tube. Taking one long hard glance at the riffle he broke into a huge smile and with a spring in his step he sauntered back down river, lost in thought , still inwardly shaking from the excitement of the evening. William whistled to himself, smirking, he hadn't whistled in years. The last rays of light guided him back to the inside riffle, he was tempted to flick his flies into the riffle but refrained as he knew that he did not have the time to fight the great trout that he knew with certainty was there and knew would be his should he cast. He was part of the stream now and greed had no future role to play in his angling. 

to be continued