Streamside

All stories are copyrighted and may not be used in whole or part with out my permission.

Streamside

BY

Tom Bean



Have you ever experienced magic time? It is the time of night when the hatch is starting to cook.

I had a night like this and it was like nothing I had ever seen before.

As the sun set casting shadows deep and blue up the canyon, the caddis flies

came thickly off the water. You had to keep your mouth shut for fear of having

bug for dinner. As the shadows deepened to night the action was almost unbearably fast.

Strike after strike splashed my waders as some of the fish would swarm into the eddies

created by my legs.

I jabbed myself so many times I stopped counting trying to release thick German

browns from my net. I finally stopped using the net, trying to cradle the fish

gently and extract the hook so I could cast again. I scrambled to retie a new fly

after an errant cast snapped me off into a thick streamside tree.

I barely managed to finish the knot when night dropped down like a blanket

tossed from the patio over the heads of shrieking children.

I continued to fish but now it was done almost completely by sound. I would cast

ahead or slightly to the right and when I heard a splash I would set the hook. More

often then not I encountered the fish sneaking his meal.

As the night wore on, the next phase of this journey began.

The Moon broke free from the Earths grip and started to float over the hillside that the stream

was curling around. I stopped casting for a time and watched the Moon’s silver edge

slip over the hill. Trees high up on the mountain were silhouetted against its

shining surface and you could make out each branch of the forest sentinel’s arms.

I glanced back down to the river and the Moon bled onto the surface so that each

rising fish was a shadow of rings gently floating from its nose. I could see my line

now as it settled across the widening rings and the sharp splash was met by my

line as it jerked off center from the drift.

Cast, wait, set, it was a wonderful rhythm that was more felt than realized.

During this time I had sensed a splash near my leg and quickly dismissed it

because the action was still so swift.

It was more than 20 minutes later when it happened. I cast to a riser near the bank

and in the darkness my cast flew wide. I saw disaster too late and ripped the fly

back only to find the tree winning this battle. In my desperation to re-tie and cast I

snapped the fly off and reached for my fly box and another fur and feathered

offering.

I opened the box and fished in my vest for my light. I reached for the zip but

found it open and the splash then made sense.

My light was now with Davey Jones, if he is the one that inhabits churning stream

water, and it was now too dark to see to tie on.

Bugs still pelted me and fish still rose but now the sound was mocking. Almost

knowingly they would leap nearby and I could only stand listening and grinning

like the village idiot. I had brought more then 30 fish to hand in the last hour

alone, and a night like this I was sure would not repeat itself anytime soon.

As I stood in the now freezing water the chill of the night tapped me on the

shoulder. My back was sore from standing crouched and my arm was weary from

1000 casts into the darkness.

I made my way to the bank and slowly scrambled onto the grass ledge. I

wound the reel bringing the remaining line back home and started to walk back

down the road to my truck.

As I clumped across the trestle deck and climbed over the big orange gate, age

was starting to show. Up the dusty hill and under the big iron gate that protected

the trestle entrance to the river, my hand carefully resting on the ornate metal

elk and trees the gate maker had carefully worked into the metal.

I got to my truck and lowered the tail gate. Boots off, waders carefully put away,

rod broken down and slid into the double rod holder. It’s companion a thin 3

weight for the Cottonwood River.

Hopping in my truck I started it up and flicked the heat to high.

It grumbled a little but as I made my way down the canyon, the heat caught up to

the night and the warmth felt like hope.

The next morning I stood outside of my truck fumbling with my keys. My

shoulder and back still creaking from last nights abuse. As I found the key I

needed, I heard a fluttering sound against my window. I looked in the truck and

there working its way up the window was a Caddis Fly.

I opened the door and watched him flitter away. The night was brought back with

a rush and I knew my wife was about to get angry with me.

I knew as I drove to work my day would bring a lunchtime trip to the fly shop, a

dozen flies, a new light plus a spare for my vest, and a dozen roses for my best

girl.

Tonight would bring the guarantee of an over done dinner and the promise of

magic.



The End