By Tom Conklin, NCFF

It was a day, not unlike that just described when I found myself on a stretch of water, common in nature and familiar to all, and I mean all, when I discovered the beauty and joy that can inflate a man’s estimations of his own expertise. But then, what are trout waters for, but to provide the fertile soil from which we sprout larger than life tales of skill, mastery and just plain dumb luck, though we’ll never admit that. I was not alone that day. Other anglers plied their craft. Some known to me, some known to you, some just wandering about the shores with glazed, glassy eyes amazed at the bounty bestowed upon our humble destination. Seems black wooly buggers were the ticket that day. Couldn’t seem to do anything wrong with this simplest of flies. Couldn’t have had enough of them either. That’s how it goes it seems, what’s working is what I haven’t tied lately, always a day late and a dollar short. So what I lacked in the fly box, I made up for with prayer. Prayer for no more foul hooks, under water snags, lay downs, sharp rocks and all the other nefarious interruptions that lay in wait beneath the line of sight, anticipating my drift and the unspeakable things they might do with an unsuspecting hook drifting aimlessly by. Never mind, there were trout in there and I was aiming to catch a few. And catch we did. Seems those fish were placing orders with a short order chef for nothing but black and then coming up to the kitchen to retrieve it themselves. Hardly had to serve them they were so eager. A little guilty I felt. Hell, this is no sport, no skill here. Like fish in a barrel. I cast, they take, we go for a ride. How cooperative. How symbiotic. What a waltz we danced. Never had I experienced such success, and of course all due to my masterful skill at fly preparation and presentation, not to mention stealth. Yea, right!!

Well, it was one such fish I danced with who pirouetted down river numerous times. I would bring him back only to have him turn at the sight of me and head lake bound. We continued this little game, as if on a yo-yo and finally I ended up in pursuit, stumbling over river rock, slick with oily decaying moss. I had moved quite a distance downstream as we continued this two steps forward, one step back choreography for some time. When I finally felt as if the song was coming to a close, I unleashed my net from the back of my vest. Fooled yet again by the strength and stamina of these magnificent fish, the net, now hanging limp at my side, trailing from its tether to the side of my vest and dragging in the water, prepared itself for the eventual plunge. Finally, my dance partner played himself out and was willingly coming to hand, when what to my wondering eyes did appear but his kindred spirit, already net bound but by no skill or hook of my own. Feeling weight tugging at my vest I was confused about how I managed to land this fish and still have it on the line. A curious glance down revealed that I not only had a fish on the line, but another in the net, apparently captured while I was maneuvering downstream to fetch his partner who had mistaken my fly for a minnow.

That is the way it is in the spring time, too many fish to catch on just one line, so we just net them, or rather, they net themselves. It’s inevitable. He was bound to be caught sooner or later, so why not just get it over with and swim into the waiting knots of a net swinging from a friendly anglers hip. Little known to them, they would both be granted dispensation and set free to complete their biological imperative.