PD and I stood in the lucerne field, dripping. And shivering.
“Rogan”, I shouted. He was somewhere down in the stream bed just below the field. Then I saw his rod tip. PD saw it too. He whistled. We hoped Rogan would hear above the babble of the stream.
We simply had to leave. My teeth were chattering and my hands had stopped working a long while before. We had managed to endure for something like three hours in the rain. It had been worth every minute, but now my body was crying out for relief.
I think PD was similarly impacted. We laughed as the two of us fumbled over what should have been an easy gate loop. Rogan had heard us and when we saw him climb out of the streambed, we set off across the green field for the gate, thinking he could catch up, and not wanting to delay our exit more than we already had.
Earlier, we had set off during what turned out to be a brief lull in the rain. We were warm with the coffee which we had sipped in the farmer’s lounge while the thunder rattled the windows and the gutters clamored to usher the rain down and through. “Not too far I reckon” I said as we walked. But it was dry at the time, and as we recognised bends in the stream. We figured we shouldn’t miss that piece, and we walked just a little further. Of course none of these bends and pools and runs had names. Streams high in the mountains that are fished by so few people seldom have pool names. Especially ones which are known to run dry, and have to be re-populated with fish from the main branch after the rains return.
The rains had returned. It had been a wet late summer, and the flow was good. The farmer’s son had caught, so we knew the fish had swum back up. Now there was to be more rain. So much rain that we couldn’t get out the following day, but for now we didn’t know that. We just knew we were back in this special place after a three year hiatus. We knew Rogan was in for a treat, and as anglers do, we were eager to show him how good this little beck could be. Our beck. We hoped it wouldn’t betray us. So we saw the big pool with the sloping rock on the south side, and figured that might be a good place to show Rogan what we meant.
PD climbed the sheep fence and went into position at the base of the pool. Rogan and I watched. I think it was the second cast which secured PD the first Rainbow. Well, secured might be the wrong word. The fish secured itself in the overhanging willow sticks, and wasn’t budging. Rogan did the honours, stripping down, and climbing into the deep water to attempt a disentanglement. The effort was generous and admirable, but it failed.
We had been fishing for a few days straight by then, and PD was philosophical about losing the fish. It was good enough just to hook, see and play that one. I beckoned to Rogan to come on upstream and get in some fishing. I pointed out a run for him and said I would take the one above.
In that first run, four Rainbows in turn arched over the diminutive dry fly, and put a smile on my face. Rogan blanked on his first run, but he climbed in ahead of me, and his rod was soon bent to a small Trout. Then the rain started. It was not a sudden downpour. It was just a settled rain. One that had moved in, like it belonged here, and wasn’t going anywhere. PD came up level with us and I pointed out where we had fished to, so that he could enter our plaited leapfrogging arrangement. His dry fly, drifting down a rain spattered run, was likewise devoured, I went in above him, and more fish were had. The rain did not let up. Soon everything was soaked. We got as wet from above as we did from pushing through sodden undergrowth. We barely noticed. The fishing was captivating.
As we moved upstream we flicked the rain and the river from our flies repeatedly, striving to achieve even just short, dry drifts. Short drifts were all we needed. The classic Trout lies were all just that. Classic. The Trout were all where they were supposed to be. When our flies were where they were supposed to be, and when they drifted drag free, the fish were ours.
We approached a bigger pool, and PD and I beckoned to Rogan, eager to cement our stories about this little gem of a stream. Rogan, hooded and gleaming in the soft light and persistent rain, shone here too. He raised Trout after Trout. Some stuck. Some did not. Either way, each one raised a relaxed chuckle and congratulations, as happens when you have stopped counting fish and are settled into the joy of these moments.
Around the corner we got into the all-too-common tunnel of overhanging willows and grasses and brushwood, and the bow and arrow cast was put to use repeatedly. The Trout came. The trees dripped, and the rain fell. My rain slicker stuck to my shoulders, and I realized that it had failed me. The cold started to bite, but this was just so good. There was to be no stopping now. Not while the Trout were throwing themselves at our flies. Not while we immersed ourselves in the joy of Trouting on our hallowed brook.
Back in the farmyard we scrambled to take down rods, with non-working limbs and digits. Rogan saw the shelter of an open shed, and with his tackle dismantled, he headed there with a bundle of dry clothes from the vehicle. It seemed like a good idea, so PD and I soon followed. Three men were getting naked in a tool shed, and trying to get into dry clothes before it became awkward or the farmer passed by. My own stock of dry clothes consisted of long johns, a wind cheater and a dry rain coat. Plus a beanie. This was to be no fashion show. But our hearts were soaring. The following day (our last) was probably rained out, and I think that by then we had started to entertain that notion. But it didn’t matter. We had had our fill, and we embraced the chaos of wet gear, chattering teeth, and full hearts. As we drove down the valley the clouds hung darkly on the mountains all around us, the heater blasted out dry air, and our spirits lit like sunset clouds with the silver linings painted upon them by so many storms.
