The Fly Rod
The case opens - the sun barely over the road, and here she comes. Assembling me quickly, setting the reel in, and lining my eyelets - it’s time to work.
As with most mornings, today we start off with a hike. Grasses, brush, and the occasional stick make our jaunt interesting. I hear her talking to her partner; some such thing about flies, breakfast, spots, and pockets. As for me, I am glad to get out of that case. It’s been a long winter waiting to get back out here and battle some fish. Admittedly, I’m not sure what we’re chasing. But knowing these two, it could be a trout, bass, or a sunny - who knows? By the look of the stream though, I’m betting trout. We finally stop, and off I go - left, right, left, right, boom. What a cast! We got it right on the bubble line. It’s just her and I. Meanwhile, her friend is manically casting and moving downstream as if he is missing something; barely taking a moment to admire the scenery. As he disappears behind a bend, we see it.
A flash of gold and white fury - we’ve done this dance before. On queue, we lift and it’s on. The line pulls hard, and I start to work. This one feels angry. It runs, jumps, and dives ferociously. Line keeps moving along my guides - I put all my backbone into stopping this beast but it’s not enough. “Oh.. I got one, I got one!” echoes down the valley in clear excitement. Her friend reappears out the corner of the bend, dropping everything and running towards us. Three steps in, he doubles back for the net. “Ah, rookie, could not keep it together,” I thought. Glad I was built with some flex - this fish is now circling us, fighting harder with each run.
The reel scratches as it finally gets to work applying some pressure on this fish. Lazy line holder, just sitting there enjoying the view as her and I work this thing. No sooner is the reel engaged than the oaf with the net appears close now, trampling the water in his mad dash towards us. With the finesse of a rhino in a stampede, he rushes towards our trout, net outstretched. Poor oaf, trying to be helpful, he spooks all the fish in the stream with his entrance. Now, he babbles instructions as if this is our first fish. Here we are, working our butts off and all he is doing is running up and down yelling nonsense.
Thankfully, the trout turned right into that net he was waving. Now, time for the glory.
I hop on her back and there it is - a brown; glistening in the sun, gold, grey, black, and purple - a big fish for this trickle they call a stream.
With a few fuzzy photos by the oaf, and with a flash of the tail, the beauty is gone. The smile she has is brighter than the rising sun.
Finally, after months of storage, we are back.
