River Fish
by Nick Walker
Pushing open the old screen door and stepping outside, the air greeted me gently. It felt good sliding across my hands and face. Through a tiny cloud of gnats that swarmed chaotically in front of me, I saw that the sun was hanging a little bit lower in the sky than it had for most of the day. It was starting to look a little more orange than white, which was a good thing for me. It was still summertime though, and as I hopped down the rock stairway that led to the lower driveway where my bike leaned against the old goat pen, sweat beaded on my upper lip. I hopped on my bike, wearing only sandals and shorts, with my pack nestled securely against my back and headed off down the dirt road.
After going only about a quarter of a mile I arrived at my destination, a spot where the river ran parallel to the cornfield on the right side of the road, yet was hidden from sight by the tall, late season stalks of corn. I got off my bike and began to push it through the stalks of corn. The tips of my rod protruding from my pack occasionally snagged a wayward cob, and more than once I had to back up and let the pressure off before taking a step in a slightly different direction. Finally, I pushed through the last row of corn, and I could see the river. I leaned my bike against the same white pine tree that I always leaned it against when I fished this section of the Ompompanoosuc. I walked towards the river. It flowed through the landscape with finesse and purpose, making its way towards the mighty Connecticut where its contents would empty and then begin their journey to the Atlantic. Looking upon the river and the surrounding area, I noticed I was the only person in sight. On this night, I had the river to myself.
I scrambled down the embankment of loose, pale, brown dirt, which was a drop of about five feet, onto the riverbed. I took several steps to the riverside where I took off my pack and placed it carefully on the smooth, round rocks. While I began to pull the leader of my fly line through the thin wire guides of my nine foot, five weight rod, my eyes probed the river, and especially the deep green pool where I knew there to be some ferocious smallmouths of decent size. The air in the riverbed was noticeably cooler than the air in the cornfield, and I immediately felt the need to put on my vest over my naked torso. After I had successfully threaded the line through the guides of my rod, I took out one of the many boxes in my vest. I had been fishing this river for years, and I had come to develop a crayfish pattern that the smallmouths could not resist. Crayfish were abundant in the river. Smallmouths, among raccoons, muskrat, and the occasional mink, took advantage of their accessibility as forage.
With my fly rod rigged and ready to go, I approached the riverbank as quietly as possible, trying my best not to step on any rocks that might shift under my weight and make noise that could find its way to the water. The smallmouths in the river at this time of year would be easy to spook. At any sign of danger they would stop feeding and retreat to the safety of deeper water. I had fished this pool before, and I had learned that the best way to target the smallmouth was by sight.
It was about seven o'clock now and the sun was at a very low angle, making it difficult to see through the glare on the surface of the water. I crouched down and lowered my head, trying to see any fish that were actively feeding. Luckily, I caught the water at the right angle, and I was able to peer into it effortlessly. I could see the shadows and the outlines of the rocks on the bottom of the pool. Just as I was about to stand up and relieve my aching knees, I spotted a huge smallmouth bass cruising slowly against the current at the far side of the pool. She was by far one of the biggest smallmouths I had ever seen in the river, and suddenly my heart was in my throat. I watched the bass for a minute as she waved her mighty caudal fin, holding herself steady against the robust flow of the current. Every 60 seconds or so she would raise her head and flare her gills, sucking in a piece of food that had drifted her way.
I could hear my own heartbeat as I raised my rod tip and began to wave it back and forth, working out some of my turquoise blue fly line into the evening air. While my crayfish imitation soared back and forth above my head, I kept my eyes on the feeding bass and then quickly glanced at a spot about five feet ahead of her. I released the line that I held in my left hand and let the leader slowly uncurl in front of me. I watched as the fly plopped down onto the surface of the river and then began to sink. I hoped that I had judged the distance properly, and that the fly would sink down to the level of the bass at just the right moment. Surely, the small, brown crayfish imitation drifted down through the water column and towards the feeding bass. Without a moment's notice, I had lost visual contact with my fly, and it was at this point that I looked at the bass. I gave the crayfish a slight twitch, hoping to induce a strike. The bass turned her body, pointed her head down, and then flared her gills, inhaling my fly.
I felt a sharp tug, and I knew the bass had struck. I yanked my rod tip sharply to the side and set the hook. The bass was on. I stood up and held my rod tip high in the air, while frantically reeling the excess line that was piled at my feet back onto the spool. Just as I established contact from the reel to the fish, she made a powerful run that I could not control. She held strong to the bottom of the pool. I could feel my leader rubbing against the side of her jaw and I knew that I could very easily lose this fight. I did my best, utilizing the strength of my rod, to pull the bass off of the bottom and up towards the surface of the river. I felt the fish begin to give in to the relentless pressure being applied to her jaw and then, without warning, she bolted full speed towards the sky.
All I could do was marvel at the mighty animal as she soared up through the surface of the water and into the summer air. Just at that moment, time seemed very close to a complete standstill, and I watched in slow motion as the bass hung suspended a foot above the river. The water clung to her shining body and covered it like a translucent layer of armor. The orange sunlight caught the dark, olive brown stripes running vertically along her body and gave her a certain luster that I had never seen before. Just like that, time restored itself and the bass came crashing back into the river. The splash sent droplets of water everywhere, some landing at my feet.
Shortly after her aerial display, the bass began to tire, and I was able to coax her towards the shore. In time the bass lay at my feet. I bent down and removed the mangled fly from her mouth, careful not to handle the fish until I got my hands wet. After removing the hook, I cradled the fish in my hands. She must have been at least three pounds, which was a monster size for this river. I rocked her back and forth in the water for a few moments to let the oxygen flow through her gills. I felt the energy surge though her body as she began to regain her composure. Slowly but surely the fish slid from my hands and into the river, its dark silhouette fading as she sank deeper and deeper, and eventually out of sight.
The sun at this point was almost completely hidden behind the treetops to the west, and I began to feel a slight chill. Before I could leave though, I wanted to smoke one of the cigarettes I kept in a fly box in my vest. I am not a smoker, but I always smoke a single cigarette after I catch a big fish. My best friend's older brother, whom I admire as a fisherman and a person, once told me that the act of smoking the cigarette is not about actually inhaling the smoke, but rather giving yourself a moment to reflect on what you have just been through. He said sometimes, when the adrenaline is pumping through your veins, it would be easy to dismiss the beauty and the uniqueness of the experience you just had, because you are too busy thinking about the next. He told me smoking the cigarette allows one to absorb the things that made that one fish special, and it allows time to etch those things into your mind.
I walked over towards a log that had been washed up onto the shore during the spring runoff and sat down. I pulled a Camel filtered cigarette and a lighter from my vest. I lit the cigarette and relaxed. In the last fading moments of daylight I sat on the log and blew fine puffs of light gray smoke into the thick August air. My fly rod lay next to my feet on the gray rocks. The river, which was green during the day, looked black as the night began to descend upon the valley. Thousands of infinitesimal insects flew in irregular patterns just millimeters from the water. A single fish rose in the middle of the pool I had just fished, sending rings of concentric circles across the mirror that was the river's surface.
In the distance, I could hear a great horned owl calling to the night, its distinct hoots carrying across the valley and to my ears. A brand new crescent moon was now visible, making its way slowly, but confidently above the treetops into the deep purple sky. As I stood up to leave, the rocks crunched beneath my feet and I startled a beaver that was cruising stealthily beneath the rivers surface. He let me know of his displeasure at my presence by slapping his paddle-shaped tail against the water with awesome power, sending a gunshot like bang throughout the riverbed and far into the forest. It was time to go.
I climbed up the embankment and back onto the cornfield, retrieved my bike and began to walk through the cornstalks I had come through. By now it was dark in the cornfield, but when I broke out onto the road there was just enough light to see. I hopped on my bike and began the short ride back to my cabin. The crickets, whose presence was invisible to me, but whose sounds were quite profound, followed me the whole way. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the thin white sliver of moon hanging stock-still in the now black sky.
-- NW