a river calls, by Steve Herter

Sometimes the river just beckons at improbable times. It’s a bright sunny day, the last of October. The hatches are mostly done and it’s a bit early for midging fish-but I’ve tied a dozen or so new baetis and I have to go look.

It’s too early in the day for the hatch and I’m not about to nymph, so I just walk slowly along the river, searching for just one nose up.

After quite a while I spot the big brown slowly tipping up. I’ve seen him here before but it always seemed like an impossible place to cast to. I’ve never fished to him. He’s on the edge of a shadow of a now bare willow bush. The reflection of the snow in the water has made him difficult to spot.

There’s a rock out of the water between him and the shore, creating a little dead zone behind the rock and two tricky current lines that he’s feeding in, along the shore. He’s obviously midging, too early in the day for the bigger bugs.

At first it seems like it is impossible place to cast to-protected by two current lines, a dead zone of the rock and an overhanging bush in real shallow spooky water. Finally, I decide to get directly below him and chance a cast up, under the bush and right over his back.

He’s feeding cautiously, but regularly in that seemingly safe sanctuary and I have little faith that I can make the pitch. I have one of the new baetis tied on and it isn’t even the bug he’s feeding on but I really want to float the new boat.

I throw a few casts to the outside edge and watch the fly drag horribly into the dead water behind the rock, right next to him. I strip out a bit more line, take in the deep breath and chance a side arm cast under the bush.

The fly miraculously zooms under the bush, over the big trout and settles but 6 inches above his nose. I watch in amazement as he slowly tips up, surges forward and gulps my little bug. It happens so fast that I can’t screw up-I quickly raise the rod and set the little size twenty four hook into his lip.

He explodes forward, nearly beaches himself under the bush and then starts racing up around the rock and out towards the middle of the river. I stumble forward trying to keep the leader up from the rock and direct the fight into more open water.

He bulls forward upstream, then races right at me and then circles around and right back behind the rock! Miraculously, my little fly affixed to a 7X tippet holds and I don’t fall over as I whirl around. The exact same fight takes place a second time. This time he’s racing closer still to shore, thrashing over and over in the shallows and again diving forward, around the rock and into the deep river channel.

Again the drunk, stumbling chase to follow the beast has me dancing about as he, again bolts right at me but this time I’m able to keep him in the main channel. As big browns do, he keeps his head down and every time I try to lift, he fights strong and down to the bottom. There hasn’t been a second when I didn’t think that he would break off and I am now laughing at myself thinking that I haven’t taken a breath since this fight began. Just as I coach myself to calm down, he leaps from the water and starts towards the bush again. I’m so startled by this I nearly break him off but gather myself and bend the little rod back to the middle of the river.

Finally, he weakens enough for me to gently lift his head up, time after time, until he glides into my net. Even after he’s in the net, I can hardly believe I’ve caught him-I marvel at the tiny fly in his upper lip that just falls out when I touch it.