Little Sailboats

Sitting at the vise, he felt that familiar itch. He envisioned March browns, Hendricksons, Tan caddis, drakes, and spinners. With a debarred hook in the vise, mental notes and the order of operations flowed from memories of thousands of previous flies and patterns. Never consulting a reference manual, he tied on the perfect hue of thread, took a half dozen barbules of wood duck, a pinch of dubbing of the right color, and began to create magic. Now, two hackles measured and tied in. The wings, made from the same wood duck tips, were even and carefully centered over the thorax and tied in. He ensured there was no excess thread to bulk up the body and that the eye was not crowded. With care, he placed the hackle tips in his pliers and spun them behind and in front of the eye. A few wraps of thread and three turns of the whip completed the creation. Finally, he snipped off excess materials and prepared another one for the box.

Mayflies duns, sitting in the film, float leisurely as they need time to dry their wings. They are both beautiful and vulnerable. Little sailboats come to mind, their journey from egg to adult nearing its climax when hungry trout sip them as they drift by. What appears to be wholesale slaughter is simply the rhythm of life. A few escape, perform the mating dance at dusk, and lay eggs for the next generation. This ritual has been unbroken for thousands of years. Little sailboats amuse me like many others before me and many more after I am gone. It’s a beautiful reminder of the circle of life.

Opening Day

I woke up in the chilly, early morning, my eyes landing on an old calendar with just one day circled in red. I brewed a mug of hot coffee and sat at the kitchen table, lost in thought. Had I cleaned my line? Would those old waders hold up another season? And would I have enough gas to make it there and back? I grabbed a sandwich I’d made the night before and gave everything a final check, then it was time to go. My old wagon had seen better days, and it burned oil and squeaked as it headed down the road. Surely, he wouldn’t sneak up on them!

The trail to the river was long and, in the darkness, it seemed endless. Now, be careful, it was a treacherous place for a fall. Ruin my day! Damn, I had left my glasses in the car, but the river called to him. Step by step, plodding along in my old waders, I tried not to catch the rod tip on an errant tree limb. Be careful there. Vest full of fly boxes, filled over the years, and tools jangled on their keepers.

It was a cold morning, typical of early spring. Why so early? The trout wouldn’t wake up until 10 or 11. Still standing at the edge of the tree line,  peering into the water, hoping to catch a glimpse of a riser and at least one fish that was awake.

My first cast of the season, he swung a wet fly weighted to run deep, bumping just above the bottom, waiting for that telltale tug. They say the tug is the drug that all fishermen seek—a high unsurpassed by any other. Methodically, I worked the pool down and across, short and long, taking a step downstream and repeating the process over and over, waiting for the tug.

Resisting the urge to pile on more casts,  took a rest and  enjoying the early morning light. Birds sang, and deer ran through the woods behind them. Suddenly, that tug…