One day in October.

I hadn’t fished in too long. It was pretty much whatever, except that it totally sucked. It had been months. I was doing other things. Mainly, I was working. What a waste. I was working graveyard shift, I was working six days a week. I was thinking that it was time to find another job. The car was broken. I was out of the office, out to lunch. I was under the influence. I was using the little time I had off each week to drink, work on the car, and watch Magnum p.i.  Pretty good, except that October was almost over, and I had barely thrown a cast. What garbage. Tom Sellick is pretty awesome though.

I sat there with my boots in the water watching my buddy finish up. He threw a cast and I looked down. I watched some submerged grass swaying with the current. I watched the bubbles. I had almost forgotten about the water, and the gravel. The ferns, and the sand. The grit. It’s a goddam good thing I didn’t. That would have sucked. I waited. I took a drag off my smoke and turned my eyes towards the old man who had low holed us from the opposite bank. What a dick. I glared at him from behind my aviators. I love those things. They make a cold stare so much easier to pull off. Especially, if you have a smoke hanging outta your lips, as well. Whatever.  Dude was like older than God’s dad. Wasn’t gonna teach the jagoff any manners now.  It wasn’t raining then, but it had been, and it would be. My buddy reeled in and walked upstream. We were done here. Briefly, we conferred on the situation across river. “YO, Pops!” I yelled. The old guy glanced at me while trying to ignore me. I threw both my hands in the air. My buddy chuckled. I turned, grabbed my rod, and we were gone.

We drove up to a spot that is a total pain in the ass. You have to climb down a steep rock pile to get to the water. I mean, its way down there. It sucks, but the fish don’t know that. I sent my buddy to the top, where there are no fish, and I went to the bottom, were there usually are. That’s just the kind of friend I am. The rocks and dirt slid out from beneath my boots. The trees and bushes grabbed desperately at my rod. I cursed, and worked harder. I made my way. I waded in, sweating profusely beneath my rain shell. Breathable my ass! I took it off and threw it onto a rock for safe keeping. I stripped off some line and started fishing. It started to rain all over my jacket on the rock. Pretty awesome.

I worked the tailout slowly. I had a 14’ floating leader and a weighted fly. It was what it was. I love this spot. The water is so glassy, and large fish of all varieties seem to enjoy it. Just then, a spawned out king salmon scared the be-jesus out of me. It had almost drifted right into my legs. When it realized its error, it went darting off. See what I mean? I was nearing the end. I watched the swing. Something pulled on the line, and my rod went flying up. Way too soon. Nothing. I fought despair. The fish had not felt the hook, there was still a chance. I backed up a few steps, and made the same cast. The fly sank, began to swing, and rose again. Again, the fish came up. It took the fly. I stood there watching my loop run out until the last second. Then I hammered it. The fish was on. It ran and rolled. Upstream, I heard my buddy chuckling. What a guy.

The fight was customary. The fish fled, and I let it. I brought it back, and it let me. It bulldogged. I said, “The fuck you will”. I held my breath, waiting for the fish to be gone before I was ready. I brought it in, and it slipped me. I recovered, and I had it again. It was a nice buck of around 24” and wearing fall colors. A pretty standard fish on this river. I was stoked. Just then I heard my buddy crashing through the trees. It was stupid. He had traveled over an insane amount of boulders and bullshit, in the time it took me to land this fish. “Why are you here, man?” I asked him. He didn’t have an answer, he was a little worn out. “OK”, he gasped, “let’s go”. He was apparently talking to his camera which he had removed from his jacket. I held the fish in the water. It finned slowly in my hands. A picture would have been nice, but I had no intention of detaining this fish if it was ready before the camera. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon”. Pleading with electronics is always futile. “Ok!” he said “hoist it”.

I lifted the fish to just above the water line. The artificial sound of a shutter actuating was heard rabidly and repeatedly. I lowered the fish back into the water. It flailed and was gone. I stood up, high fived my buddy, and began getting my shit together. “Ok, man”, he said, as he walked back into the trees “if you get another one you can go fuck yourself. I’m not doing that again.” I watched him begin to negotiate his way back across the rocks. It sounded fair to me.

Through a pane of German glass, all splattered with bug guts.

All that is real is the dirt, and the ferns and trees that rise from it. The things that breathe therein. The stones, and the cold water that runs over them. The fish that swim upstream. And, in the places which they swim from and will return to, the sand, and the cliffs, and the waves that beat upon them for eternity.

By comparison, the sum total of human accomplishment, while amazing and awe inspiring, is on the whole, completely abstract bullshit.

With this thought in mind, I pulled my car to the side of the road and just sat there for a few moments. I was watching eternity unfold through a pane of German glass, all splattered with bug guts. It was a hell of a thing. I raised my hand, and with a turn of a key the idling engine was silenced. I got out of the car. The air was cold and damp, and dark clouds rolled over my head. The radiator fan kicked on. Comforting. I walked out onto the bridge and looked down. Nothing. Still, I had seen fish holding here in the past. I would need more conclusive proof before being able to move on.

This time of year there are a few fish around, and no one fishing. In a word: Perfect. I scrambled down the bank and waded out in knee deep water to the edge of an extensive ledge. It’s weird when you think that there may be nothing but water beneath these things, and that they may break off at any moment. You see that sometimes. Rocks the size of a car that have separated from the canyon wall and now sit partially blocking the roadway. I started casting.

I was airing out the Scandi. The furled leader I had put on earlier that morning was cutting through the upstream breeze far better than the mono it had replaced. Again and again I threw my pink and purple fly out there, sometimes mending, sometimes not, monitoring and manipulating the swing as I picked my way along that ledge in the river. It’s a kind of dance, and it’s the only thing I consistently want to do.

About halfway down, a cutthroat lost his mind and put a bend in my rod. I stripped him in and looked him over. While I had my hook into him, I figured I might as well pump him for some information. Given his unusually large size, and the valiant way he had struggled against me, I asked him if he had come from the ocean. He stated that he had never indeed heard of this “ocean” that I spoke of, and then demanded that I free him at once. I eyed him suspiciously. After all, he was a trout, and trout are incontestable tricksters. Notorious for their ability to make you believe things that are just not true. Then again, considering the circumstances of our meeting, we may have been about even on that score.  I was just about to prod him further, when something rather large jumped just upstream, and I was momentarily distracted. Seeing his opportunity, my captive slipped my grasp and was gone. Just as well.

I finished out the run, and then moved upstream to investigate. It was tight, but I was able to find a rock to stand on. From which, I could throw a half decent cast, and make a half decent presentation to the general area where that magnificent disturbance had occurred. Something big had been there. Perhaps, still was. I fished it for some time, waiting for everything to get pulled down. I yearned to feel that weight, and see a silvery behemoth come vaulting from the swirling head of the run. It was not to be, but I left there feeling good. I knew I would be feeling it again, and in the meantime, I was still here.

I fished my way up, and then retired to simply exploring. I wanted to find access to some spots I had been eyeing for some time. I swapped out the waders for the gaiters, and walked the trail with a cool breeze rattling the leaves that surrounded me on all sides. The sun had made an appearance, and just in time. A little snake fled as I passed, but I assured him there was nothing to worry about. In the book, “Desert Solitaire”, Edward Abbey asserts that nothing worth seeing can be seen from an automobile. I’m inclined to agree. I really like Cactus Ed.

I found the spot I was looking for, but was somewhat discouraged at how easy it was. I like spots I have to fight my way into. At least that way, I can usually count on being left alone once I’m there. On the way back, I deviated to stop by a pool that salmon like to get into and go crazy all summer. I wanted to see if anyone was home yet. I sat in the grass for some time, just staring at the water rolling casually past. It was late afternoon and there were bugs present. I watched them hovering over the surface of the water, completely unaware of just how vital they are. Occasionally, a small rise form was seen in the tailout below. There was magic happening. A little trout no bigger than my pinky finger leapt repeatedly from the water before me. Learning the ropes. It is simultaneously comical and amazing. No salmon were seen to jump.

Before leaving I stopped at the falls. It’s been getting pretty sporty down there lately. Fish are literally flying everywhere. Fins, tails, and heads are constantly seen emerging from the churning foam. I can only imagine the melee taking place below. At this point, it’s still mostly Springers, but a few Steelies were seen to take there shot. With every leap there was a cry of excitement from myself. Nothing reverts me back to childhood faster than sitting down on the rocks watching the fish jump. I could sit there for hours. I just love to be around them.

Eventually, I have to go. Begrudgingly, I said goodbye, and climbed back up the rocks to the car. I fired it up, clicked on the blinker, and checked the mirror. When the coast was clear, I let out the clutch and went sputtering off into eternity. Or maybe just back to town.

The Sick Boy SBS

The Sick Boy is a fly that will perform in Winter or Summer. Named as a tribute to an iconic SoCal punk group, I also hope this describes who will be using it. "We're all sick boys!"

Materials:

Daiichi 2151 Salmon Hook #2
3/0 Black Thread
X-Select Marabou - Black
X-Select Marabou - Purple
Small Trilobal Antron Chenille - Black
Medium Krystal Flash - Brown
Cross Cut Two Toned Rabbit - Hot Orange/Fl. Orange
Lady Amherst Center Tail - Natural

Got that shit? Great. Let's light this candle.


                                                       Wrap the thread onto the hook, and clip off the tag end.

 

Tie in a tail of Black Marbou, and wrap forward to about the middle of the shank.

I like to save my butts for this purpose, do what you want.

 

 

Wrap back to the tail. Tie in your Chenille, and wrap back up the hook shank.

Wrap the Chenille forward, in the reverse of your thread wraps.

When you have reached mid shank, tie it in, and clip off the tag end.

 

Now tie in the Rabbit so that the fibers are to the rear of the fly.

Wrap the thread forward, then wrap the Rabbit forward, and tie it in.

In this case, you will not do a reverse wrap because the direction of the fibers will not allow it.

Clip off the tag end.

                                                                           

Tie in some Krystal Flash.

I like to tie in two strands, wrap them in and then fold them back, for a total of four.

Clip the Krystal even-ish with the end of the Rabbit. Repeat on opposite side.

 

Now, pick through that shitty pack of Black Marabou you bought and find one with a nice tip.

Clip it off about 1/3 to 1/2 from the top.

Tie it in, wrap the feather forward, tie it in again, clip off the end and wrap the thread back over.

Marabou can be unruly. If need be you can lick your fingers and use the saliva to tame it back a bit.

 

From this.

 

                                                                                                To this.

 

Add more Krystal Flash, fish dig Krystal Flash.

Use the same method as above. Clip the Krystal Flash off even with the Marabou.

 

 

Pick through your Purple Marabou, and find one with a nice tip.

Clip off the tip 1/3 to 1/2 from the top and tie it in as you did the Black.

 

 

Almost done.

Finally, take your Lady Amherst feather and tear off three strands.

Tie them in together at 12 o'clock on the head of the fly.

 

 

Wrap thread around the head until it is looking nice and finished.

Whip finish and give it a good treatment with the head cement.

 

 

 

VIOLA!!!

Now that wasn't so hard.

 

 

Don't forget to CRUSH THE BARB before use.

 

 

 

 

The Sick Boy is a creation of Matthew Kirk and ZEN-PunkRock-TroutFish. Therefore, all rights to street cred shall be held therein. Matthew Kirk and ZEN-PunkRock-TroutFish will not be held responsible for any physical injury, damaged equipment, lost fish, failed relationships, unemployment, or generally stressed and pissed conditions which result from the use or misuse of this fly.

 

Void where prohibited. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We want the funk? NO. We NEED it!!

When I was 23 years old, I ate a large amount psychoactive fungus, and listened to "P.Funk Earth Tour" in it's entirety, twice. I consider this to be a defining moment in my life.

That said, I believe there are only two main reasons for blogs to exist. Fly fishing for Steelhead (of course), and paying homage to the Master of Funk. Ok, three, talking shit on Sammy Hagar. That guy sucks.

So there it is, I'm ashamed of myself for taking so long to do this. But, better late than never.
Thank you, George. For giving up the funk, and showing us how to live.

This could be anywhere. This could be EVERYWHERE.

I stumbled across this recently on a forum I frequent. At the risk of pissing someone off, or worse, I have copied and pasted it here. The situation described is so horrifying to me that I want as many people as possible to read this and realize what can happen when no one is willing to say "enough".

I did NOT write this:

From a local fishing guide and writer.
His letter to the editor of a well-known Fly Fishing magazine

7/25/13

Dear Editor,

Last spring you contacted me about the possibility of me submitting several destination articles to your fly fishing magazine, about some of the Olympic Peninsula rivers. Though we had not clearly defined the rivers to be featured you had suggested the Queets and Quinault rivers as possibilities. There was a time when I would have felt very flattered to get such an editorial invitation, especially coming from a publication as prestigious as yours, one which I have long appreciated for its artistic accomplishments. And ordinarily I would appreciate the notoriety of being published with your magazine. And surely it would help my own guiding work too. But honestly, from the very beginning, I have felt serious misgivings about selling out these rivers and streams, and wild fish, with destination articles, inviting numbers of people to come fish here, promoting the fisheries even more etc. I think that all of this has already gone too far. Especially when writing about these Olympic Peninsula rivers.

I could certainly write some good words about the beauty of our watersheds, the unique features of topography, geology, indigenous wildlife and forests, the temperate rainforest, and of course- the beautiful last wild fish. I would say something about the good old days, the historic abundance of steelhead, salmon, cutthroat, char etc. I might interject some personality into comments on the tradition of fly fishing here, mentioning some of the long gone fly fishermen, their flies, favorite seasons, memorable catches, the runs of fish etc. And I could write about the fishing today here, some of the seasonal cycles of it all, the tackle and techniques, flies and presentations etc. I might even mention a few fly shops and guides, lodging, travel notes etc. And all of that would be entertaining and true. But how will it impact our fish here to do this kind of writing today? Honestly, I dread the unintended negative consequences that these promotional articles are having on the last of our wild fish here now. Perhaps if I also wrote about the time that all of my gear was stolen, or how I have been shot at, threatened with knives, harassed, or how my truck was repeatedly vandalized, or about the hundreds of times that my guests have been low-holed by some jackass in a drift boat, maybe that could moderate the outcome.

In the 13 years that I have lived here I have watched angling pressure increase on all of our waters as other Washington rivers have been closed, most notably the Puget Sound rivers being closed under the Endangered Species Act, to protect the remnant populations of wild winter steelhead. With each seasonal limitation or closure that was imposed elsewhere, the displaced anglers and guides have come here to have a go at the last wild fish. And many of those anglers are still harvesting wild steelhead here, legally and illegally. And there are numerous cases of our wild fish repeatedly failing the annual spawning escapement goals that our fisheries managers have set for them. And yet the harvest continues in the rivers here, supported by these same fisheries managers, by sports fishing and tribal netting.

And the numbers just keep getting worse. Last winter I counted almost 60 drift boats on the Hoh River in one day, and an additional few hundred people were wade fishing. As far up and down the river as one would like to have looked there were people fishing. I was surprised to see that most of them were fly fishermen, especially upriver where the wading access is generally more approachable. Every parking spot, campsite, pull-off and wide spot in the Upper Hoh road was occupied by vehicles, campers, trailers etc. It was almost a carnival atmosphere, a real “happening” on the river. Drift boats would come by with two to four people aboard, all rods out, and even the fly rods were working floats and weights, jigs etc., on the drift, all of the way down the river. Many of these boat fishermen and guides too are not avoiding the fish that are holding on the spawning redds, even when those redds are clearly flagged. Anything for a hook-up. Anything for a buck. The “fly fishing” methods too have become much more aggressive, and it is not unusual at all today to see a person fishing with a spey rod, rigged with a big floating indicator / bobber, a deep weighted fly or jig, and even a “slinky weight”, bumping it along in a conventional drift fishing style. On runs that I had rarely ever seen another angler in entire days of fishing, season after season, I was finding trash, campfires, and sneering contempt coming from brash young men whom I had never seen there before. As one industry friend has coined it, of the generation we see here today: “The new fly fisherman is not very nice”.

The rude behavior and bad attitudes that I see displayed on the rivers here are truly sad. Conflicts between guides and anglers are increasing. It was a pivotal reason in my choice to remain a walking and wading guide here, as doing so afforded me an opportunity to avoid some of the worst of this, and often get well ahead of the boats for most of the day. But now that the boats are launching in the pre-dawn pitch darkness, and now that there are three to four times as many people fishing here, avoiding the crassness of the entitled fleet has become all but impossible sometimes. The intensity of this fishing from the boats has left little refuge for the wild steelhead as well.

And it is not just the wild winter steelhead season that is going this way out here now. A new cadre of shiny young guides has arrived to claim the beaches as well. And the fly shops are leading group outings for beach fishing instruction on some of the more popular of these beaches. The problem is that they are encouraging six to eight different groups of people at a time, on a regular basis, to come back to these same beaches to fish. And many of them do so. For those of us here who have fished these places for any length of time we already knew we could overdo it, that we could spoil it, for the fish and for ourselves. And we had already regulated our own actions to accommodate the fish, and the fishing. Now we have seen a big change in the quality of our fishing here as a result of this added pressure. It seems that the sea run Coastal Cutthroat has become the new darling of the fly fishing obsessed. And even though these wild fish are protected from harvest by law in our salt waters, there are plenty of people still deliberately killing them on the beaches all over Puget Sound country. And they are still targeted for harvest in our streams, legally, and successfully. Poaching of these fish is rampant.

As a fly fishing guide and as a writer myself it is getting harder to support the big business approach to angling here. And it seems to me that there are some in the fly fishing “industry cult” who would be glad to sell every man woman and child on earth a fly rod, and all of the extras, and have them catch every last living fish out here, with no sense of concern for the ultimate impacts upon our fisheries. The truth is that the wild fish do not owe us a living wage. And there is no legitimate reason to assume that our fisheries resources can sustain this industry. I do fault our state fisheries managers in all of this as well as I feel that they have failed very badly indeed. It is entirely possible that we may have already lost much more than we know. With Washington’s “all or nothing’ approach to wild fisheries management, we just may well end up with nothing after all.

In my own angling life I have come to fish much less out here, and enjoy it more. Some of this is the likely natural progression for us fly fishermen, that eventually many of us come to this kind of appreciation. But certainly the realities of our declining fisheries here, and my willingness to face these hard facts, have forced me to reevaluate my own impacts. Today I would just as happily volunteer for a day of salmon stream restoration work as I would to go off for a day of fishing. My life on the water has not lost its charm, nor has the poetry of light and air, the magic sound of a singing reel, or the joyous yank of a bright fish escaped me. I cherish every breath of this outdoors life. And I am not so sure that the publishing goals of your destination essays and my conservation concerns here are mutually exclusive. But I just don’t know yet how to write about them on the same page. I can’t imagine that any of this means a hill of beans to you. I am sure that you have bigger fish to fry with running a magazine, handling writers, printers, subscribers and advertisers etc. And as a writer myself this probably won’t do me much good either. I am remembering the lines from the great angler author Thomas McGuane who- when asked what he thought of fly fishing guides and the modern fishing pressure scene on his own Montana rivers- replied: “A fly fisherman ought to have an honest job”. Maybe we writers and editors could take a lesson from that too.

Sincerely, Bob Triggs / Little Stone Flyfisher

Guides

I cannot bear to leave them.

I came down off the ramp and dropped der hammer. German Engineering shot right up to 85mph. Even with 245,364 on the clock, 4.5Gs still “ain’t no thing” for the 1.8. The big pipe hanging out the back screamed, “Death to the polar bear!” in a low throaty rumble. It seemed unfortunate to me that something as awesome as internal combustion, could also be so totally evil. I knew there must be a way to save the planet and still enjoy German Engineering and loud pipes, but I would have to figure that one out later. I was on I-5 South, next stop Steelhead Paradise. It was 6:35am.

The water was looking good. I started at my new favorite tailout. Because I am addicted to misery, I often like to fish spots where landing a fish would be near impossible. And so it was here. The whole river comes down and drains though a narrow slot on the opposite side. The fish, hang out on the far side of a rocky spine which splits the whole thing in two. You fish from one position at the top, there is really nowhere else to go. If you hooked one and it took off down river, you would be completely screwed. But, it would be a truly beautiful tragedy. I had hooked up twice in one sitting here a few weeks ago. Both times the fish came unbuttoned shortly after the line came tight. The feeling resembled a knife through heart. I started casting. It was 8:25am.

I thought about a girl that I work with. She is way too fucking gorgeous, and it’s a real problem. I work at a tea factory, so my buddy back East immediately dubbed her, “The Tea Baroness” when I originally mentioned the situation to him. Clever nicknames aside, that chick gives me funny feelings. In the interest of the children, that’s all I’ll say about that. I will however say, that I don’t think it’s right or fair that I should have to look at something like that, just to earn a lively hood. It’s inhumane. Besides which, when I asked her for some time, she didn’t even have the decency to say she didn’t care. Instead, she gave me some line about not dating people she works with. Frankly, I don’t remember saying anything about a date. All I want to do, is pour her a glass of wine, and throw another log on the fire, while rubbing her feet and watching “Jerry Maguire” on a bearskin rug. Right away, she’s gotta throw the word “date” out there. Dames.

I ripped my line off the water and bombed a Peyton Manning-esque cast straight to the back of the end zone. I watched it swing. I watched the water dump over the glassy lip and descend into frothy madness. It was so juicy, there had to be a fish here. It was cold and my hands hurt. I pulled in the line and watched the fly at my feet. I wasn’t all that jazzed about it, so I switched it out for a classic, the “Summer of Love”. I fished through once more and left. Apparently, there was not a fish here, or so I told myself. On the way back up, I picked up the Big Gulp cup that I had walked past the previous four times. When I got back to the car, I threw it on the floor amidst fly boxes, a reel, a car charger for a cell phone, my pack, and other various refuse. I think there were some flies down there loose, as well. Whatever.

I hiked in to another sweet tailout. It’s harder to come in on the trail side, but that’s the better side. I did what I had to. When I got down there I was less than stoked to see a rig parked up top, on the road side. I held out hope, but sure enough, as I made my first cast, the wader swathed heathen appeared. He was picking his way down with what looked like dual spey rods. I prepared myself for a bad time. He got down there and waded in, I was ready to holler. He was futzing with his line, and to my delight when he finished he just stood there, and waited. Goddam right. I finished up, and as I reeled in, he started. It’s nice when you can have that.

As I left the bait water and headed for points onward and upward, I noticed a guy drifting a bobber in the gigantic pool that the hatchery birds school up in. This was now two more people than I had wanted to see. I was feeling a little stressed, so I dug around in the glove box, and found my Misfits Collection I disk. I popped it in. As soon as I heard Glenn Danzig crooning his desire to adorn his wall with my decapitated head, I instantly felt better. Now we were in the spirit of things. I drove on.

It has been suggested, or more to point, flat out told to me, that fishing above a certain bridge after January is bad business. I do my best to play ball, with the exception of the spot directly above said bridge.  It’s just too sweet.  I worked it twice with not so much as bump. This was all the sea lions’ fault, and I knew it. I hoped someone would file a lawsuit soon to get rid of those things. I mean, the nerve of those guys! Congregating at manmade structures that impede fish passage and taking advantage, all to satisfy their basest survival needs. It was not cool. After all, people never fish at dams, and even if they did, sea lions have killed way more fish than people ever did. It’s a scientific fact. I left there in my usual condition, skunked beyond all recognition.

As I made my way back down, Glenn was singing about a time when he had apparently turned into a Martian. “Man, that guy sure has had some wild times”, I thought. Just then, I passed yet another rig. I had had enough. It was time for some secret spots.

By their very nature, secret spots do not have parking nearby. I shut off the car, and started carrying my rod down the road. When I got to the spot, I climbed down in.

 I was standing there, surrounded by great slabs of stone that rose straight out of the water to heights far above my head. Like the fish that moved silently past them, they were monuments to the beginning of time. I could not hear a sound except for the crashing river, and the soft trickle of water moving between my legs. Even the Ouzel which sat on a nearby perch twittering away seemed somehow muted. The air hung deathly still, and the hollow cold which engulfed me contained a sweet sadness that was so hauntingly beautiful, I could barely stand it. I am often moved to tears by the sheer magnitude of this place. That does not happen anywhere else, ever. It’s fair to say that my fascination with Steelhead is largely driven by my jealousy over the places they get to live. I fish these spots too long. I cannot bear to leave them.

I lit a cigarette, and watched yet another swing commence, I was so hungry. Not only for a grab, but also for a sandwich, which I had neglected to bring. There is no karma in fly fishing. There is only the river, the fish, and the gods. All of which are equally fickle, and largely unconcerned with the desires of a Pennsylvania boy with a fish jones, an aching heart, and an empty stomach.

It was getting to be that part of the day when hope fades into resignation. Nonetheless, I decided to hit just one more spot. It was doozey. In order to get the spot where you fish, it is necessary to pick your way across a rock reef. I was beat. A couple times I stopped and looked at what lay ahead. I tried to decide whether this was going to be worth it. My feet were less than sure, and I did NOT want to go swimming. It was pointless, of course I was going to risk it.

I got out there and started casting. This was a good spot. I was throwing cache-handed Snap Ts off of my left shoulder. I watched each one sail out and unfold over the water, before dropping the fly with a tiny plop. I was just about to start thinking about the Tea Baroness again, when something stopped the fly. I felt drag build on the line. Without thinking, I raised the rod. For a split second the line came tight and then went slack again. Something had moved. “OH MY GOD!” I wheezed. I started shaking uncontrollably. I couldn’t believe it. Everything had gone to ruin. I had worked so hard and so long, only to fuck it up when it mattered most. I swung the fly through again and again. Maybe I could get another chance. I knew that I couldn’t. I tried to tell myself that it had just been a snag, but the fly never stopped again. It had been a take, and I knew it. I switched flies and went through again. Useless.

The wind was coming up now, and the light was fading. I would have thrown everything I had into that hole, but the thought of crossing back over the reef in the dark was purely terrifying. I had to go. I picked my way back across. I was leaning hard on my staff. I got back to the car and changed. There were some very wet spots on my pants, apparently the result of a run in I had had earlier with some blackberries. Oh, well. I stared at the water, and smoked a cigarette. I thought long and hard about calling off from work tomorrow and sleeping in the car, right there. But no, it was no good. I took one last, very long look at the water, and I got the hell out of there. It was 4:33pm.

When I got home, I found the front door just as I had left it, in darkness. I was just about ready for a beer and a round eyed woman. But I would settle for just the beer.