Falling Down

Getting skunked is a humbling experience, and so is falling into the water. If I had to choose, I would take the plunge if it meant catching fish. Of course no one has the privilege to choose when the fish will bite or when the foot will stumble or to experience neither or both. 

On this trip I caught fish. I also fell into the water. If it was only a brief dunk and bruised ego, it really wouldn't be worth mentioning; I fall a lot. But this fall reminded me of the real threat, ever present, whenever alone in the wilderness. 

This particular stream is remarkable for its sheer grade. It drops down the side of a mountain like a gigantic set of stairs, water pouring down as if there is a busted pipe in an upper story bathroom. Except the rise between each step is 10-20ft of granite and above each waterfall there is a pool teeming with brook trout. 

Among such rugged beauty one can be forgiven for getting distracted by the splendor. Unfortunately the river does not share such sentiment. One misstep on a steep rock can be your last and this is where I made my mistake. I was reaching for a branch that had unfortunately  fastened itself to my fly and put all my weight on a rock that caught just enough spray from the descending water. It was like stepping on a maxed out treadmill. Immediately my feet were no longer under me, but level with my waist, my body rotated 45 degrees momentarily floating above the rock ledge. This is where I credit a childhood spent skateboarding… I know how to fall and what to protect. In that aerial moment, I sent my rod flying vertical and gripped my head with both hands preparing for the backwards assault. My back and shoulders made first contact with the rock before momentum took over. I bounced down the rocks end over end like a breadstick. I stuck the landing in the way a bag of flour sticks the landing off the counter with a thud and guttural exhale, there may have even been a cloud of dust. They say water can act as hard as concrete when struck from a certain height… I don't know what they say about hitting six inches of water over a bed of gravel from about seven feet, but it felt like concrete. 

Laying in the water blankly looking up at where I was seconds ago, Royal Wulff still thoroughly attached to the tree, it took some convincing that I did not in fact hit my head and that pain in my extremities was in fact a good sign. My fly rod, in some form of solidarity, followed me down the falls. The four piece rod lived up to its name, each section separating and hidden below white water. I would have never found all the pieces but for that #16 Wulff, vibrating away in the tree as water crashed against the fly line. The very source of my descent yet also my redeemer. I reeled the spooled out line until I could follow the tension to the next rod section, working my way back up the rocks...slowly. Once more I found myself in the same situation, rod back together, fly stuck in tree. After such a debacle I was not going to lose this fly. It seemed symbolic or at least consolatory. This time, with utmost prejudice I chose a dry rock in which to put my trust and body weight. As if to say, “we are not all treacherous,” it lifted me to recover the fly. 

The next cast, a brook trout violently swiped my fly off the surface seemingly unaware or uncaring of the story below. To some extent so was I, because moments after grappling with my mortality, I found myself right back to grappling with those voracious little trout.

Blue Ridge Blue Lines

Thunder echoes in the distance like some great invisible engine while the rain comes down thick and steady overhead. The dense tree canopy intercepts the drops, combining them before sending them on to the forest floor to continue the journey towards the river. For weeks, the storms have moved through the mountain. Loose dirt and debris has been washed away and now the river flows full and fast, but the water is clear. In the deep pools and slow back eddies, wild brook trout keep free from the aggressive current. But above the surface, there is much activity, a flurry of new life, a hatch. The trout cannot resist the action for long.

The rain is my cover. Heavy drops silence my steps and disrupt the water surface, obscuring the trouts wary vision. The environment is working in my favor, but my own excitement betrays me. There is so much water to cover, new water that I have never seen before. Fly fishing rewards patient and thoughtful movement, but punishes quick careless motion. My mind is occupied with the mystery of what lies beyond the bend and it is reflected in my movements. Bumbled casts and slippery feet, I am fishing too fast, and it is painfully confirmed with single a missed step. Eyes locked on a seam, I shuffle my feet forward while adding line to my false cast when the left side of my body collapses into the water. It is as if someone pulled the riverbed from under my feet. In a split second moment, I know that I’m going into the knee deep water, I accept it, but I refuse to let my Winston rod suffer from my mistake. My right arm shoots towards the sky as far from the impact zone as my reach allows. My body can handle cuts and bruises, but the thought of crunching the emerald green rod, turning my four piece into a five piece, makes me sick to my stomach. The rod survives without a scratch and I with only a few bruises. My clothes are completely soaked but the river only finishes what the rain had started. I am fishing too fast, so I stop.

For a long time I stand still, letting the river flow through my legs. The rain continues to fall, adding weight to my body and saturating what is left of my dry clothes until the water drips back into the river. I become a silent feature of the landscape, a passive piece in an existing system. Around me things begin to move, no longer hesitant of the clumsy presence trudging upstream. A mayfly lands on my arm and a trout rises. I make a cast. The fly twirls between the raindrops, bobbing and spinning like a drunken dancer for only a moment before it plunges beneath the water fastened to the mouth of a wild trout. I set the hook and the trout clears half the pool in one terrific leap, landing in the swift current. For a moment the trout works the current pulling line, threatening to drop down a small waterfall into another pool, but gentle pressure from the tip of the rod guides the fish back to hand.

The rain breaks in the afternoon. The clouds part and timid beams of light stretch down to the river where steam rises from the wet stones. The rain has stopped but there is a steady drip off the wet leaves, a soft rhythmic sound. Now the real hatch begins. It is not overwhelmingly dense or even consistent, but utterly diverse. From the shallow river rises mayflies, caddis, midges, stones in all sizes and colors. Bright yellow mayflies lazily glide through the air and jet black caddis zig and zag above the water, golden stoneflies and gray stoneflies crawl on the rocks, ants and beetles adorn the banks. The menu has been set and it is a balanced meal. The trout gorge themselves. They launch attack after attack on my beetle pattern until the fly is shredded and soaked and no longer floats. To my left, a beam of sunlight illuminates a flat moss covered boulder like a spotlight does a stage. I sit down to replace my fly with another pattern that is durable and will float high and well, a Royal Trude. Before I return to my feet, I breathe in the setting and watch the rising fish at the head of the pool. I wonder what lies beyond the next bend. Maybe I will find out today and maybe not. There is no hurry and I won’t rush.