Yesterday was windy, bleak, cool, and above all else, dry. I failed to land a Trout. That is to say, I had one, but I never did have it in the net. It was a strong fish: silver and muscular and straight running. It belonged up there on that wild August mountain top, where it ate a dragonfly nymph, which turned out to be fake.
I never did own that Rainbow, and I only fooled it for a while. It’s cunning twists and turns and its dash for my legs as I reached for it with my outstretched net, earned it it’s freedom. And when it was gone the wind was not. It kept on blowing straight and true. And when eventually we waded out and picked our way across the muddy flats of the receding lake, we climbed into the vehicle to retreat from that open lake, and I was relieved that the wind stopped drumming in my ears.
Today was different. It was dry for sure, but it was hot and bright, and the breeze was listless, but listless in a tame sort of way. Listless in a way which told you it was constrained down there in the valley. The breeze could blow about a little, and send some dry leaves down into the river, but all it could do there was to herd them around a little until they gathered on a scum line like a small flock of frightened sheep. There was a slight haze in the air, and while I only saw blossoms near the farmhouse, the emerald ryegrass pastures were never far from us. Neither were the irrigation sprinklers which clicked and trilled like so many agitated grasshoppers.
The river was low, but in the way of rivers, it didn’t have bare mud to show. It pushed its way through the grasses like a child making her way through a crowd: twisting here and there, with a throng of bristling vegetation closing in behind it as it went. The water traced an emerald path beneath willows and over tired old stones. It filled in shady holes behind tormented willow roots, and then invited wily Trout in there.
They obliged and sunk down darkly to lie in wait for spring’s promises. And we lured them out – those lean and wary Brown Trout. They were fish which pounced upon a wriggling morsel that made its way past their lair, but sometimes only after they had seen it plop and wiggle several times.
Cagey opportunists. As cagey as they are unpredictable and as prone to mistakes as they are to shows of uninhibited exuberance. But we were there today for those rare mistakes. There beside the sliding water, on a hot morning, with prospects of flower nectar and September’s mist not far away. There on opening day, lounging in the ryegrass beside the stream with cool drinks and a dash of ceremony which we have at times dismissed as pretentious or childish.
There absorbing quintessential September.
4 Responses
Great read,we spoilt
Off to Reekie this weekend so hope we also get a few
Thank you Steve. Tight lines at Reekie Lynn!
Thanks Andrew. Nice to see some good results early in the season.
Thanks Matt. Ja…that lower “frogwater” really is a productive place to be in spring!