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The fellowship of the Trout - Part Three

Started by otter, November 13, 2012, 05:14:22 PM

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otter

"Never did really buy into the hunting thing myself, seemed a whole lot of effort to catch a few more trout, but when in Rome..."; Willow gave Dubby a mock salute; "you the man, Daniel Boone" 

Dubby struggled to concentrate on the job at hand; Willowhead just grew on you with his infectious rambling and singing and was getting under his skin, in a good kind of way. Stopping at the tail of a long pool a half mile or so above Dougsden , Dubbn suggested that this was where William and Willow should start. Watch the edge of the flows and the slack water, see all those spent blue wings he said, cupping his hand and lifting a handful of water. Sure enough, the surface of the slack water was littered with thousands of spent fly. Just wait here , the trout will start feeding soon enough, pick your targets , one at a time, ignore any trout in the streamier water, they will likely be juveniles. William nodded, " thanks Dubbn, this is sure going to be a whole lot of fun"

Taking Bill and Hank up to the next stretch, he gave them exact same instructions , with one addition, when you get sick of catching, come back down.

Dubbn waded back down below Willow and William, climbed out of the river and disappeared into the trees. Selecting some nice thin springy branches from a young tree, be proceeded breaking off a few of them and carried them back to the river. He took a few small packages and a knife from his backpack. Kneeling down he got to work, stripped the branches and cut them into various lengths. Opening one of the packages he withdrew a small neatly bundled strong nylon mesh net. He quickly inserted the cut branches into the net. Shaped like a bag , it narrowed to a neck formed by four very short lengths of branch. . He located a few small rocks, dropped them into the trap, ensuring the heaviest was held in a small bag of nylon cleverly formed just inside the neck. Locating his ball of strong string he tied it to the neck.

Satisfied with his work he dropped into the river, finding a nice deep spot with an undercut bank, he took the last remaining package. It was some left overs of smoked trout from the previous night wrapped in plastic. He stabbed the plastic a few ties with the knife and dropped it into the trap and the trap into the river, releasing string as it slowly sunk. He used his feet to push it as tight to the bank as possible and climbed back out of the river. He tied the string to his last piece of branch that he had stuck into the ground. Not the best time of the day for Crayfish trapping, but the scent of the smoked trout should entice a few inquisitive ones and the dark cover of the surrounding trees helps a bit as well.

Well pleased, Dubbn lay down, pulled his cap over his eyes and fell fast asleep.

A loud shout woke Dubbn, quickly getting to his feet he could see Willowhead stumbling, half floating, half dancing, his rod was bent over, reel singing. William was on the move, racing downstream. Dubbn reacted quickly, he knew that Willow would soon be out of his depth and likely to be swept downstream. Without thinking he leapt into the river, finding his footing he waded quickly across, getting slightly below willow and managed to grab hold of his hood and dragged him into shallower water. Willow hollered, "thanks pardner, there's a mighty angry trout at the end of my line and if I have to follow him all the way to Australia I sure am gonna get me a picture of him.".

One , two, three , four five.
Once I caught a fish alive.
Six, seven , eight, nine, ten
Then I let him.....


With all that singing , the trout tore upstream and Willow managed to regain control and eventually brought a fine trout over Dubbn's waiting net.

William arrived , panting, out of breath , "Jeez Willow , I nearly crapped in my pant's, that was some dance you did."

Willow was still dancing midstream but they managed to escort him towards the bank, Dubbn holding the net, William holding onto Willow. All three looked at the trout as it twisted and turned in the net. Dubbn released the hook, held it for William to measure. William whistled, "32 inches". Willow straightened his cap, taking the trout from Dubbn he stood there grinning, whistling some obscure jazz number. Take a few shots he ordered William, gonna do it up in a fancy frame  ,,,,,and take it to the next conclave, sons of bitches  won't believe old Willowhead caught it. Releasing the trout back into the stream, they watched it swim strongly away, becoming a shadow till it finally disappeared.

"Outta sight, but not forgotten, haven't had a high like this in years, not since 82...., young and silly back then.... She had hips like  .....enough about that, Yeeee ha, Willowhead's a fine trout hunter."

"Too good "; said William to Dubbn; " way too easy, it would spoil a man. They were sure hammering the CDC spinner's.".

"Must see if supper has been caught"; said Dubbn as he waded towards his trap. He pulled the string slowly , lifting the trap. " What u got there "; Willow was peering over his shoulder, " Hey William , Daniel Boone has been trapping some crayfish " Carefully, Dubbn gathered up the net , took a plastic bag form his pocket and half filled it with water and climbed up to the clearing. There were five fine crayfish at the bottom of the net. He unhooked his landing net, placed the crayfish inside the plastic bag and placed the bag in the landing net.
Job done, he looked at the others, "Crayfish soup for dinner , got a few onions and carrots back in the car".

"Man, this is turning into some trip....haven't had crayfish since 1998, did a little club in in New Orleans, boy they knew how to deliver flavour in their crayfish..... "; Willows teeth were rattling at the thought of the soup. "William, give me a look at that picture of me holding that trout, Willow the trout Hunter.... If I dropped dead right now,,,,, man, I would die happy"


Bill and Hank arrived back, splashing their way downstream.

How was the fishing Hank asked Dubbn, did you catch a few.

Hank was grinning from ear to ear. Carefully he placed his rod against a tree and started an Indian war dance.
"High ya ya. Heihh yaa yaa, high yaa ya", round and round he danced until so dizzy, he collapsed on the ground. Kicking his feet up in the ear , he started again. "High ya ya. Heihh yaa yaa, high yaa ya".
With all his contortions some water started splashing out of the top of his waders.
"Yep"; said Bill, " he took a little swim".

Dubbn and William pounced on Hanks legs and lifted them straight up allowing a torrent of water to escape. All the time hank continued, "High ya ya. Heihh yaa yaa, high yaa ya...................."
Willow could not control his laughing and christened Hank, "Hank Wet Arse , Son of Bald Eagle".



The fishing was okay said Hank Wet Arse, "was it five or fifty five I caught" he asked Bill. "Closer to seventy ", said Bill, "would have been more if you didn't stepped into in that hole". "Missed a lot too"; Bill winked at Dubbn.

"Let's be off" , Dubbn was eager to check on Dougsden. There was no sign of him in the distance, probably having a snooze after all the Jigging. Still over a hundred yards away, something midstream caught Dubbns attention, a liitle flash as something moved low over a boulder. He slowed down and kept his eye on the boulder, there it was again, almost imperceptible, but Dubbn had eyes like a hawk. Getting closer he gasped loudly as it all became clear. The others had not noticed anything yet, he pointed towards the boulder and motioned to the others to keep quiet, very quiet. Slowly they crept forward until finally all was revealed.

The boulder was none other than Dougsden, crouched, sitting on his knees, the water almost reaching his armpits. "Son of a bitch "; whispered Dubbn; " that's why the crafty old devil wears oversized waders.
They watched in awe as every cast seen a trout brought to an unseen hand, barely a splash from its struggle. Slowly the boulder inched its way upstream, a few yards of fly line floating out with each cast, the rod dancing in unison with the drifting flies, strike, trout released. All stood there, quiet , in awe of what they were witnessing. Slowly Willow opened his mouth and quietly spoke , "Man, now that's a Trout Hunter".

Finally Dougsden sensed their presence, turned and faced them. Under his hood they could just see the whites of his eyes, his face caked in mud. His hands too were black, carefully done with a black marker, his rod rings the same, his gold reel the same. Slowly he got too his feet, washed his face and greeted his friends. " Boy that was fun, haven't done that in a while". Dubbns heart creaked with admiration, the rest simply stood there until Hank finally broke the silence "Well I be the son of a mule if that wasn't the finest bit of trout tickling I ever did see".

Bill and William looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. Yesterday morning they were the guides, eager to reveal some of the rivers treasures and good guides they were to. Dubbn , a fine trout hunter had superceeded them and revealed his own secrets. But standing before them, the most unassuming of men, this was a master hunter, this quiet man owned the river and they felt priveliged simply to stand in his company.

Trying to make light of it all, Dubbn shouted at Dougsden, "Cmon you grizzly old Frog Hunter ,its time to have some dinner with your friends. I've got some fine crayfish in my net and all your silly crawling around the river is only delaying us".
With that he led them downstream and soon they were crossing near the inside riffle.




"We got a trespasser"; Hank stared at the Harley parked in their base camp, gleaming in the morning sun. "That's one big bike, probably owned by one mean, ugly, hairy fellow covered in tattoos". Hank stepped behind William, "I'm following you big fella".

Willowhead guffawed loudly. " Ray you son of a sea turtle, where da hell are you hiding , I thought I got a whiff of one of them cigars that you are always smoking"

Out stepped Ray from behind the RV, " Howdy, Willow, heard you coming from miles away, something about a big mean angry trout". The old friend's embraced, " Folks this is Ray LetUmGo, Ray this is......"
"No need Willow, I can guess who each one is. What a sight you all are"; said Ray looking at the unshaven faces, Dougdens black hands.

"Me and Ray go back a longggggggggg way    , 88 Ray ...no 89  , show over in ..., Ray ties a mean fly"; Willow was thrilled to see his friend.

Ray took a bag from the carrier on the Harley, tossed it to Hank, " a few cold beers in here, you look like you might need one".

Bill got the fire going and Dubby set about making the crayfish soup. Sitting watching it simmering away, sipping the cold beers the every increasing group of friend swapped stories. "Hey Ray, tell the boys about how you got your name. this is good , very good"; chuckled Willow.

" Back when I was about seventeen and dinosaurs still roamed the world, I got wind of a fly fishing show in a neighbouring town, never heard of such a thing before. I sure did a lot of chores , trying to impress my papa, dropping hints that I would love to go to the show. My papa didn't fish, but my grandda did and he organised some transport for me. When the great day arrived , grandda handed me 10 bucks, a whole lot of money back then".

"Ray you go spend every last dime of that on fishing stuff and don't you go bringing back any change, and don't tell your pappa."

" So I set off for the show, the 10 bucks safely tucked away in my pocket. What a show, row upon rows of fly rods and reels, beautiful feathers from all corners of the world, I was like a child in a sweet shop.

Out back I watched the fly casting , what a showman, that Left Kreh, held an audience like he owned them. Heads moving back and forth following the rhythm of his casting. When Lefty made a joke , they laughed, when Lefty got serious they got serious. One fella, well dressed in the best of fishing gear shouted up, "that's no way to teach casting, you ain't got no clock to stop at". Well Lefty went to the nearest tree, broke off a small thin branch and tied a fly line to the end of it, some tippet and tied on a fly. He them placed a jam jar on the ground, walked back about twenty five yards and started false casting. When enough line was aerialised he let go and darn if the fly didn't land in the jar. "Son you don't need a clock, you don't even need a fancy rod"; the crowd exploded and the guy that asked about the clock disappeared right quick.

A large crowd was gathered around some fly tiers. One was tying flies, the like of which I had never seen before. All my own flies were dries, some deer hair and whatever fur or wool I could find to use as dubbing. This man was tying things called Flymphs. Wow, he did things with dubbing that made my eyes damn near pop out of their sockets. It was hard for a young fella to see through big men but I managed to squeeze my head through a gap. When he finished tying one, a rich looking man at the front offered him $5 for the flymph. Well that Leisenring , he just looked at man, then he noticed my head sticking through the gap. He picked up a small bag, dropped the fly into it, took some dubbing and a few hackles and dropped them in as well and handed it to me.



"I still got that fly", Ray opened his wallet and extracted a tiny aluminium case and extracted a fly, holding it at the bend, he held it up for all to see. A Leisenring Brown Hackle.

I must have opened that bag a hundred times as I wandered around. Finally I came to a stall that sold some fly tying stuff. Spying a brown hen cape , I compared it to the hackles in the bag, nearly the same, $2. Next purchase was a hackle pliers and a nice scissors, that left $5. Hooks, I needed hooks. I explained to man at the stall that I needed hooks. "Son" he said, "at your age you need a lot of hooks, how much money have you left."
I gingerly placed the $5 on the makeshift counter. He rummaged around in one of his boxes and placed little piles of envelopes on the counter. The size was carefully written on each, 12's to 18's in a neat little line of envelopes, twenty envelopes in all. That's 1000 hooks the man said smiling at me, 50 in each envelope. I pushed the five dollars over to him , grabbed the envelopes and ran before he changed his mind.

When I got home I built me a wooden box to hold all my new fly tying stuff.
A neighbour had some peacocks and obliged letting me pluck some feathers while he held down the peacock. I was pecked a few times and it stung like hell, but I had my feathers.

Over the next few weeks , any spare moment between chores and schooling seen me sitting in front of my homemade vice. I rattled of brown hackles, brown and hare, brown and green wool, brown and red wool, and host of other colours. By the time the school holiday's came around I had a tobacco tin full of flies and was ready to go fishing.

A small creek ran close to where we lived and it was stuffed with 8" brownies. Boy they loved the brown hackles, I caught hundred's of them. Soon I learned the ways of the bigger trout, less inclined to catch the young trout, I started to hunt for their daddy's. That's when it all got a little tricky. You see every daddy or momma I hooked , escaped when the hook broke. Same every time, strike , bang , gone.
I cursed that man for cheating a young fella out of his $5.

One of my worm fishing friends thought this was just deserts for my showing off with that fancy fly rod and fancy flies.
" You Let Um Go again Ray, you letumgo " and that's how I got me my nickname and it stuck all these years."


"That's one heck of a story Ray, one heck of a story, I hope the flies you sent me for the last swap wasn't tied on them hooks."; Hank pretended to rummage around in his fly box for the offending hooks.



"Let Um Go, Let um go, I done more than my fair share of Let Um Go. Me and you Ray, we must be the best exponents ever of C&R but them hooks of yours gave you a decent excuse. Mine , well just say I'm working on it"

Hank was trying to lick some crayfish soup that had spilled onto his stubble but even Hanks slitherin tongue could not reach. Rascal missed nothing, when Hank stopped licking, up hopped Rascal, knocking Hank onto his back and proceeded to take care of the spilled soup. Then licking his own lips he scurried away before he got a slap from Hank..

Dougsden gathered up the tankards, washed them and poured a liberal amount of whiskey into each. "Medicine time , wash your tablets down with this"; said Dougsden handing out the whiskey. No one refused and soon all were in high spirits.


Where's your gear said Dubby, wondering if Ray had a travel rod with him. LetUmGo grinned, "been on the gun powder for the last week. These old bones are too sore to even cast a shadow. If I knew about this trip though I would have given the Gun Powder a wide berth. Sounds like this was the trip of a lifetime."
Everyone nodded,

"Best trip since the sixties"; laughed Willow, " sure did love the Beatles".

Oh I get by with a little help from my friends,
Mmm,I get high with a little help from my friends,
Mmm, I'm gonna try with a little help from my friends

I don't think any of us could cast another fly today" said Hank, " but I sure could could sip another drop of that Whiskey, Waiter"
Dougsden shook the last drop from the bottle into Hanks tankard. "You got a right hollow leg Hank, that whiskey just seems to disappear"; Dougsden retrieved another bottle from the RV.


"What' s the plan for to-morrow pardner said Willow . "Wrong man" said Dubby, " I'm only a deckhand, ask the Captain", he looked to-wards Dougsden. Dougsden felt a litlle embarrassed, but hell , these were his friends, nothing would change that fact.
Dougsden was quiet for a while and then pulled Bill to one side, spoke quietly and then smiled.
Hank whispered to Dougsden, " I aint complaining, but I still wan't to catch that big trout, just like the one Otter had me lose"
Dougsden nodded; " Let me think about it hank"
Okay I've got a plan, should be fun and I'll reveal it a bit at a time. With that Dougsden lay back and slept the sleep of a happy man. " Darn Frog Hunter"; the suspense was too much for Hank.

The sun was almost set when Dougsden stirred the camp into life. Okay folks , if you wan't to hunt trout first you have to hunt some worms. With that he handed each half a beer can and told them to get whatever torches they had. A few minutes all were assembled, Willow carried a torch powerful enough to light half of New York city. Leading the hunters to a grassy area, Dougsden dropped to his knees, shone the torch and deftly grabbed a worm , slipping it into a tin. A hundred worms each, should do.
Hank was about to start but Dougsden held his arm, " Me and Hank have some urgent business to attend, we will be back in a hour"

Grabbing hanks rod he marched Hank to the small stream where they had made fools of themselves the previous day. "Jeez" said Hank "seems like a month ago that we fished here, look there's my bush". Down stream they went until Dougsden stopped close to the pool where he Jigged the toad. Laying Hanks rod down carefully, he sat and beckoned Hank to do the same. He removed the tippet and tied on a new one of about 4x, 7 feet long.

Opening his fly box he took out a fly, it was one of the P&O roadies. Hank was real excited now, " the P&O roadie, the P&O roadie, he just kept on repeating himself, the P&O roadie. God I had forgotten about them. It's the tummel style one, P&O roadie tummel style" Dougsden took out his scissors and cut away all the hackle from one side, pulling the remainder upright into a wing, tugging at the silk bindings. Taking a tiny piece of velcro from the corner of the flybox be brushed the rascal hair thorax till it was nice and lively. After close examination and some final pulling and tugging he tied it to Hanks leader.

What are we doing said Hank to which Dougsden simply put his finger to his lips and said "ssssssh, follow me slowly and quietly"

Dougsden proceeded to crawl towards the middle of the frog pool ,, stopping just short of the edge , motioned Hank to stop and remain a few yards behind. Dougsden got on his belly, hanks rod in one hand , he crawled to the edge, peered over the side. After about ten minutes he stripped off 5 yards of fly line laying it out straight on the ground behind, all the way to the fly. Finding a small rock he placed the P&O roadie on top. He then went to the edge, peered over the side and then beckoned Hank to crawl forward. "Okay, you are only going to get one cast, see that rock over the far side, I want you to kneel two yards back, rod in hand and when I signal you are going to land the P&O roadie beside the rock" " Am I said", Hank wondering what the hell Dougsden was playing at, was there a monster toad in there.

Dougsden peered into the pool, Hank behind like a coiled Cobra. Dougsden whispered urgently, NOW. With that Hank launched the P&O over the edge. A second later Dougsden screamed, strike. Hank sharply lifted the rod and it immediately buckled and Hank nearly wet himself in shock. Dougsden launched himself into the stream below the thrashing trout , and started to thrash the water, at the same time issuing instructions to Hank. Give em line, hold em, hold em , wind up that slack, hold em, hard Hank , tighten up hard. Slowly the pressure on the rod relaxed as the trout tired and finally it went limp. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO shouted Hank ,not again, not again, Otter has done it to me again. Dougsden climbed up the bank and laid a huge trout at Hanks feet, it made Willows one look like a parr. Hank sunk to his knees , cradling the huge trout, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. "Thank you friend." Dougsden took out his camera and shone his torch on hank and the trout , but hank said " no pictures, we don't need pictures, this is our trout and ours only. This trout aint a trout to boast about." With that Dougsden dropped back into the stream, taking the trout from hank, he held it gently in the stream until with one slash of its mighty tail it scorched off downstream and into the blackness.

A commotion at the top of their pool caught Dougsdens attention, "looks like we are not the only trout hunters out to-night". Hank peered into the darkness and finally spotted the strange eyes peering at him. " Well I be danged, if it ain't my friend the Otter. What a night ,what a night".

Everyone was very quiet, even Willow refrained from whistling or singing, the last day of their trip and the finality of it hurt like hell. When they finished the coffee, Dougsden, cleaned the tankards and disappeared into the RV. "Frog hunter must be looking for clean pants"; said Hank, listening to the clattering and cussing from the RV.

Time to be going said Dougsden, pack up your cars. Each packed away their stuff and they then took a quiet stroll to the river. Dubbn , took out his flask , poured a drop into Turners Cross, sipped and offered it to his friends. Each in their own way said goodbye to the most extraordinary of rivers. They were very jealous of William and Bill, able to fish here anytime they wan't.
"Bet ya, every time they go up a pool they will looking over their shoulder's wondering if one of us is looking. Aaggh all good things come to an end. " ; Willowhead gave William a hearty clap on his back.

Dubbn corked the flask and they turned and went back to base camp. On the way they passed the stream, Hank saluted the toad pool and winked at Dougsden. " Thats a mighty fine stream William, I bet there's a big old trout in there somewhere"

Bill took the lead, the convoy of vehicles followed him up some dusty lanes till at last they came to a small pond. Clambering out they looked at Dougsden in horror. "Frog Hunting , he wants to take us Frog hunting ". Willowhead burst out laughing, " that's taking trout conservation to a new level, frog hunting here I come"

When they all finally calmed down Dougsden took control. Okay friends, you will not be needing your waders or your fancy carbon rods or flies for that matter. With that Dougsden went to the RV and returned with a bundle of sticks, each about four foot long, the tins of worms, corks, some twine, a spool of nylon and some barbless hooks and a large plastic bag.

We are going fishing Tom Sawyer Style and this is for you Becky he said taking a pink wig from the bag and throwing it in Willow's direction.
A straw hat for Huck LetumGo and the other for Tom Hank.

Take your sticks gents and make up your fishing poles. Happy as pigs in muck the motley crew set to work , attaching the string to the poles. Willow struggled a bit with the wig covering his eyes and eventually LetUmGo came to his rescue. " Let me hold your hair madam"




When they were ready Dougsden set out the game plan. " I know none of you are competition folk but there's two bottles of Whiskey left and I want to be rid of them. First hour its pole fishing, biggest fish gets a bottle, Second hour , you will be tying the string to your big toe and we will be doing some toe jigging, best fish gets a bottle."

And so the seven friends marched down to the pond, sitting close together they cast out their worms and waited for a bite. "Who was it that said "a worm on one end and a fool on the other";asked Bill, " there is six fools here".
Willow as usual provided the background music..

Ol' man river.
That ol' man river.
He don't say nothin'........



They didn't catch much, in fact the first bite came right on 56 minutes, Hank's cork twitched and all six jumped to their feet in anticipation. Hank struck and brought a 2" minnow to hand. " Awesome "; shouted Willow, " Hanks finally caught the big one" They all howled with laughter, congratulating Hank. Hank took a bow, posed for a photo , kissed the minnow and released it.

"Now for the main event", said the Frog Hunter, "off with your socks gentlemen".

"Jeez, when did you last wash your feet Dubbn"; squealed Hank moving a yard away from Dubbn. Willow turned to Ray, " My bellys in the way, can you tie this on my toe, I haven't seen my toes since 19XX".
"Look at Bills big toe, you could Jig a Marlin that "; William was enjoying the banter.

For the next hour they howled with laughter, jigging their toes up and down and surprise surprise they all got skunked. Willow did manage a hook up but the twine slipped of his toe when he tried to strike and so was declared the winner anyway.

Dougsden threw the poles into some bushes, released the remaining worms and tidied away the tackle and hats. He refused to take back the wig reckoning that it really suited Willow and improved his looks and would be great if he should ever decide to do some busking.

He then took the six tankards from the RV and handed one to each of his friends. Each engraved with their names, he had been busy with his penknife. Bushy Wet Arse, Lucky William, tie2fish , Dubby, Willow and LetUmGo. Raising their empty tankards and dougsden an empty beer tin, they toasted friendship.


One by one they left , each leaving a trail of dust along the old track.
Dubby and Dougsden had retreated to the RV, sad that the road trip was almost over.

Watching the last of them go, Hank raised his tankard one final time.
"To the Fellowship of the Trout, may we meet again some day".

Hank opened the door of the RV for rascal , then Hank taking one final look, jumped in , switched on the Sat Nav and looked at Rascal.

" West rascal, we are going West"

THE END




Unfinished Business

William had some unfinished business. He had been distracted by some very strange visitors and his thoughts had been in turmoil for days. Turners cross had been his sanctuary, shared only with Bill and they thought they knew it intimately. Dubbn had changed all that with his more intimate knowledge. When William had  the night of the great trout, entered the zone, he felt that he had for that short time become a great angler but after witnessing Dougsden at work he felt a mere beginner. He had fought the demons that each night questioned his abilities, questioning his aspirations, questioning whether he deserved to fish Turners Cross. There is only one way, if you fall off the horse get straight back on the saddle.

Having made his decision, he turned to Gabby who had listened to his angst, though not understanding, she quietly listened and nodded, "I'm going back to Turners Cross and I'm going this evening", he announced.
Most unlike William to be so purposeful, usually he sought permission to leave behind his family duties.
"Have fun, and don't forget to come back and please bring my William back with you"; laughed Gabby.

Parking his car, he looked around the clearing. It seemed so quiet, Hanks RV was gone, no singing from Willowhead. The remnants of the camp fire were still there, some remains of the Crayfish poking up through the ash, a butt from one of Ray's cigars. It unsettled him somewhat, what fun they had had, sharing in one of life's great adventures. He smiled, picturing Hank doing his war dance, upside down, the wader pouring out of the waders. "I wonder will Hank ever catch a big trout, I hope he does, I hope he does."
With effort he gathered his wits and headed for the inside riffle, and reaching the rock seat he started to feel at ease as the sound of the river took over his senses. He commenced his ritual of sitting and observing whilst setting up his rod and soon he felt renewed and vigorous, ready to go hunting. Only the merest hint of a breeze, the air was full of BWO spinners, moving upwards towards the riffly water, ready to lay their eggs.

Perfect he thought as he crossed and made his way to the pool of the Gods. All angst well forgotten he contemplated a night of blue wing heaven at the Pool of the Gods.  Sitting well back, he reached into his inside pocket for his sunglasses and as he pulled them out, a cigar that Ray had given him fell to the ground. "Why not he exclaimed"; searched for his lighter and lit the cigar.  He enjoyed an occasional cigar and now was as good a time as any to have one. He took pleasure in the sweet aroma, thinking Ray's brand choice was a good one.

The sun was still quite high in the sky and though many trout were rising he felt in no hurry, there would be plenty of time and greed was no longer his primary motivator. The mass of  spent  Sherry  Spinners on the water near the woods that Dubbn had taken them to was fresh on his mind. He hoped for such a fall this evening and contemplated the arrival of big trout to the pool. Flicking the butt of the cigar onto the river he watched it pause momentarily, slowly the current took it away. Twisting, turning, bobbing it progressed downstream, grabbed by the various currents, it was at the mercy of the stream until finally it faded out of sight.

Many an angler has been caught unawares when the sherrys fall in numbers. Fishing happily away on a riffle catching many trout of average size they soon start to wonder why few of the better trout are present. Often these falls of spinners coincide with a lot of  caddis activity, surely the bigger trout should be in situe.
When the penny drops that the bigger trout are downstream at the tails of pools , in slacker water mopping up the easy pickings then it all makes sense. The wiser trout prefers an easy meal and there is no more easy pickings than spent spinners. William tied a CDC spinner pattern on the point and a small Partridge and rusty tightly wrapped seals fur Soft Hackle on a dropper.

Starting on the riffle William moved very slowly upstream, casting to each rise. A few trout responded, some were obviously latched onto caddis, some on olive emergers. William was not bothered in the least, he was there to fish his spent patterns and if any trout did not like what was on offer then that was that. William regularly glanced downstream, spotting some small trout slashing at the neck of the pool. As the sun settled towards the horizon more and more trout started to feed and swarms of female blue wings increased over the water , their ritual of dipping on the surface laying their eggs. William took his cue, wound up and headed for the bottom of the pool. Following in the knee steps of a master hunter, William got down on his knees on the gravel at the waters edge near the tail of the pool. A good fall of spinners is an unpredictable event and that makes it all the more interesting to a connoisseur angler. William watched the water, relaxing and focusing he found his mind emptying of all thoughts other than watching the water. He did not consider success or failure, quietly listening to the stream, waiting for the signs of sipping trout should they occur. More fishing were rising towards the neck of the pool, slashing , likely to be small trout.

Slowly it started, a rise directly across, about 15 yards away, then another closer to the tail, soon he could identify at least eight trout, sipping regularly. He could see some spent spinners on the water, in their familiar cruciform shape, not in huge numbers but enough to interest the older trout. The old William would have started to cast but he was in the zone now and so he continued to observe, absorbing every rise form till a full mental picture was firmly in place. His senses learned to ignore the sounds of the slashing rises of the smaller trout, honing in only on the stronger sips. He waited until the rises were consistently regular, allowing the trout to feed confidently.

Unhitching his fly he drew out about ten yards of fly line, that would more than suffice for the moment. Her removed the dropper and stroked the CDC wings on the dry so that it would lie flat and flush with the surface of the water. William reached for his net and lay it at his side slightly in the water.

Choosing a trout some six or so yards downstream, close to his side, he cast downstream, lifted his rod tip high as the line unfurled and then drew the rod tip back and  the fly alighted six feet above the trout. His false spinner drifted without drag to-wards the unsuspecting trout who was deceived by the ingenuity of its design and the skill of its presenter. A gentle sip followed by a gentle lift of the rod, the trout was hooked. William coaxed it gently towards him and over the waiting net. This did not always work and most trout would panic when the hook was set, but always worth trying so that the pool is not disturbed. William held the trout for a moment , a fine one of about thirteen inches, he released it with its head pointing downstream and as luck would have it, it swam off strongly downstream.

Though he had made little disturbance and the trout still rose confidently throughout the pool he paused, dried the fly in his amadou patch. His next target was directly out from him, just off the edge of the main flow. He knew that this was a prime feeding lie and likely to be a good trout. The cast was easy and the fly simply disappeared with only a small disturbance at the surface, a strong fight ensued but the trout relented and a fine trout, a few inches longer than the previous lay at the bottom of the net. This was a trout of exceptional beauty and William carefully held it in the current, the last rays of sunlight reflecting of its broad back. It swam away strongly, returned to its bolt hole, a little wiser for its capture.

Two nice trout , William was satisfied and felt no compulsion to catch another. Walking towards his car, he smiled, he was once again master of Turners Cross and the intimacy of being there left him refreshed and content.


Mark Romero, AKA Willowhead. RIP 2012


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