|Bad timing, I doubt it, just persistent.|
Chatters of slow fishing are being heard at every river mile, so I’ll fish hard and take what the river hands out. Just means, work harder, because every cast is an opportunity and every break taken is a missed chance. I want to be standing in the river when the fishing turns on.
My body is feeling the effects of casting from morning to night. Aching back and fingers cracking from the hours of striping in line but I don’t give up and whiskey is a great pain reducer. I’ve been fishing a Skagit with a sink tip and decide to change it up and fish something lighter, I put on a Scandi line and tie on a classic fly.
Ahhh… the joy of casting a floating line.
I fish through a run and feel nothing. I change the fly to a Dee pattern. The fly is dressed in white, fresh out of the box, the hook is sharp, and this is the fly. I strip out 15 more feet of line to fish the faster outside water. Ten cast in, a hard grab vibrates the rod and the reel starts spinning and screaming. I tighten down the drag and the pissed off anadromous fish keeps going, cartwheeling out of the water, across the river and 150 feet down from me. I have no control.
I yell..“what do I do!” A friend yells back “nothing.”
I feel vulnerable, helpless like a child learning to ride a bike that has just tipped over and can’t get up.
The warrior charges for the log jam downstream; stops… I recover some ground and the battle continues.
One inch at a time, line is reeled in.
The beauty is connecting with the journey, this brute has traveled the globe to settle down in its home water and hooking one leaves me feeling like a child.