A Night on the North Branch - PART TWO

As I say, the weather had a fixed moodiness to it: shifting winds, fugitive and low cloud, a warm temperature, but threatening to turn chilly.  The irises increased in number as I neared the river through the high arching grass.  I suspected that over the last week only deer had crossed this ground, and later I saw a patch where they had lain during the night, flattening the grass into loose swirls.

On the river I began catching fish immediately.  I caught them in shallow runs, fast riffles, and deep reaches along structure.  I caught them at the end of a grass-covered sandbar, in the slow foam eddies behind a downed tree, out in the open and deep in the shade.  The fish took the fly on the surface and submerged, dead drift and on the swing.  They were all brook trout, siblings every one, it seemed.  None over 10 inches.  They all, to a man, wanted a mahogany fly.  So mahogany I gave them. 

I don't count the number of fish I catch unless I'm having a bad day.  This isn't policy, really, just something I've noticed.  I guess that's the negaholic in me, the enthusiastic pessimist.  I remember the failures, the absences.  But in the presence of abundance, I lose my head.  This might account for my lifelong problem with mathematics. In any case, today I never had a notion what the number was.  I was in heaven, though, I can tell you that.

With the water-proof camera my husband gave me this past Christmas I quickly photographed fish who were particularly pretty or seemed heftier relative to the ones I had been catching in the minutes previous.  I am nervous photographing fish, especially when I am alone, because I don't want to stress them; I'm nervous about their stress even without a camera in hand.  But there was one particularly beautiful log laying in shallow water with a growth of forget-me-nots in the crook of its arm and moss along its length, and I had it in mind that I would stage a shot there next time I got a nice trout. The moment came with a rise in slack water fully across the stream, and I was able to net the fish on the way over to the log. But in my darned two-handedness, I managed to splash water around myself and the emerging camera, so while the pose was just right, the shot was ruined by water on the lens.  The dear brook trout lay indignantly in the blasted flowers, seeming to know it was a waste of time.

After that I stopped photographing altogether and got down to the business of catching even more fish.  There was beginning an eerie drop in temperature not of the air but of the wind, and I wondered how much longer the fishing might be good.  For a while everything continued as it had, with trout eagerly taking anything mahogany I might throw at them. But inevitably, a lull in the action arrived, and I took the opportunity to return to my truck, change rods, drink water, and rustle up a snack.

When I got back to my truck and checked my phone, the time was 7pm.  Funny, I hadn't noticed three and a half hours going by. I put away the bamboo, set up my beloved Winston and set up a rig of flashlights to wear.  Then I began to scrounge for old candy or crackers – something, anything, to eat.  Cough drops, chewing gum, stale anything. (I have been known to devour half a granola bar that had lived the winter in my fishing vest).  I had just hit upon a stash of Soy protein bars when voices suddenly came across the yard, nearing.  It was Bob, the handsome and merry clergyman who had so uniquely welcomed me earlier (See Part One).

"We were wondering if we could impose upon you for a huge favor," he said apologetically as he approached the truck.  "We don't want to intrude on your time, by any means, but we don't know anyone else who can help."

I froze and smiled by way of an answer, perhaps out of habit. I'm surprised I didn't curtsy.

"We were wondering if you might take a few minutes to come in and tell the group about your passion, to share with them what you told us earlier, and maybe more.  We found your love of fishing so interesting and the things you said so inspiring...Just a few minutes, but only when it's convenient for you."

I told him I would be happy to oblige, but that I would not be ready or able to until perhaps after dark. I didn't know if he understood how late that was, and I myself didn't have a good fix on when dark came, just roughly around or after 10pm.  He didn't seem bothered by the hour, just that it didn't get in the way of what he called my passion. 

For the evening's fishing, I went downstream from where I had been earlier, along a stretch I had fished the year before but without the results that the upper area had yielded.  It was a short walk from the house to the beginning of the water I wanted to cover.  The air had indeed turned colder now, though winds had not increased. It was impossible to know when sunset would be since the sky was so gray.  No fish wanted a single mahogany anything.  Only one seemed interested in anything at all, and a caddis at that.  Very little was happening.  The most exciting moment came when hysterical cries of a bird turned my attention just in time to see a hawk fly away with a fledgling just snatched from its nest.  I continued fishing downstream slowly, my eye on the water and to the sky, waiting for emergers or spinners.

The only thing to do during all this nothingness was practice casting.  Ah, but casting and fishing are two very different things, and I quickly became distracted by my frustration at not seeing any rises or any bugs.  I did, however, notice two identical rocks sitting along the end of a half-submerged log.  How odd, I thought.  Perfect twin rocks.  I waded closer.  How uncanny!  Each had a bulbous pearl-gray bulk, with a smaller rust brown shape that sat like a pillow on top.  What in the ---? Then it hit me.  These were ducks.  Two identical, oblivious, miraculous, sleeping, wonderful ducks.  Then, as if on cue, they raised their heads and swiveled them front as if to show me I was right.

I crept closer so I could photograph them, and they seemed to tolerate me well.  They were mergansers, I could tell that much, though they looked to be the same gender.  At about 15 feet distance, they slipped quietly off the log and floated away on the strong central current.


Then I heard a rise.  Then another.  There was nothing on the water that I could see in the faded steel-dark light.  But when I looked up there were dozens of enormous mayflies hanging, dropping, lifting and hanging in the air just two feet above me.  They had two long tails and what appeared to be a matching set of antennae, equally long, protruding from their heads. These had to be isonychia if for no other reason than process of elimination.  I quickly tied on a spinner pattern, though nothing in my boxes came close to the dimensions of what I was looking at unless I selected a hexagenia pattern.  Nevertheless, even though very few flies were falling to the water near me, I was able to raise and land some fish, nothing enormous.  I heard none of those rises that sound like bowling balls hitting the water.  Meanwhile, above me the X-shaped flies were so numerous as to form a fishnet across the sky.
Any minute now, the big guys would start feeding and I was shaking with excitement.  I stood still to listen, eyes boggling to collect light and detail, any sign of disturbance on the water. A resounding silence filled the next few minutes.  It was nearly dark now.  Then, in the sky, suddenly nothing.  It was over before it had begun.

I got out of the water and headed back to the truck, keeping an ear cocked to the river, alert for gulps.  For some reason I decided to re-enter the water where I had started that evening, seeing as there was good structure up there and hoping that perhaps I had been premature to leave the river when I did.
While standing there listening, rod under my arm, I presently heard male voices.  Clergy, I thought, come out to enjoy the night, or get luggage from their cars, or settle into the few tents I had seen pitched on the yard.  But then I recognized one of the voices, and turning, saw an AuSable River boat rounding the bend that ran in front of the house.  "Hullo!" I called.  Their talking stopped.  "Hello!" came back, presently. "Who are you?" I shouted, pretty certain of the answer anyway. "We're fishing!" was the reply.  "No," I said, "I mean, who are you?  What are your names?" "I'm Bear," came the reply, "And I'm with Dennis." "Hi, Bear! I thought that was you.  This is Lauren.  Lauren Kingsley."
And in the next moment they were beside me in that elongation of a beautiful hand-crafted boat, holding in the water thanks to the chain-anchor that Bear wielded.  With Bear (Jeff "Bear" Andrews) was the inimitable Dennis Potter for a guide's night out.  Or I should say tyers' night out.  Bear guides for Fuller's NBOC and ties flies at a host of venues, and Dennis is a renowned fly-tyer and designer.
Bear introduced me as "The Painted Trout" to Dennis, whom I knew of, and had met, but couldn't claim real acquaintanceship with. He recognized me, and at the mention of my company nodded more assuredly.  They had been floating all evening and were due to take out in about 10 minutes' float downstream.  

They then began to tell me their most compelling story of the night.   Not far upstream from where I had spent the afternoon catching those innumerable brook trout, is a beaver house in the river.  There Dennis hooked a brook trout of about 8-10 inches.  He had no longer set the hook when bam! came an angry brown trout taking the brookie broadside!  For several minutes Dennis had two fish on one hook, fighting hard because of the strength and size of the brown.  It looked as if they would net the event, but at the last second, inches from the boat, the brown let go and they only landed the brook.  Telling me this, the two of them were like a couple of kids just home from the circus: dazzled and high.  Well, the high part might have come from the cooler in their boat, but never mind.

Bear and I chatted about nothing in particular for another moment while Dennis sat staring into space reliving the vision of those two fish.  We agreed that there would be no more good bugs or fish tonight.  If I wanted to raise a big one, however, he told me, put on a mouse or big streamer and fish the structure at the bend right in front of the house.  I thanked him for the tip as they shoved off and said I would, but I was lying. 

It wasn't so much that I was tired, but I was satisfied. It had been a good day's fishing, and I had renewed myself with solitude and the unending wildlife.  Bob came out to meet me at my truck.  I said I would be ready when I'd gotten out of my waders and put things away, but he raised his hand in protest.  "No, no!" he exclaimed.  "We want you in your outfit!  We want the authentic experience!"  I pointed out the wet waders, the dripping net, the muddy boots.  He shook his head and waved it all away.  "Come as you are!"

Once inside with my rod broken down, I stood at the entry to a large living room where a group of men and women sat in a circle facing a large screen.  One of the guests was giving some kind of presentation which they were eager to interrupt to get a gander of this strange breed of woman, an angler.  Bob introduced me by recounting a little of our earlier conversation and asked me to describe all that I was carrying and wearing.  I took out my fly boxes and passed them around while describing a little about the rest of my gear and liberally sprinkling in glowing mentions of the Trout Unlimited Flyfishing School where I had been teaching that past weekend (they loved that I taught). They wanted to know where I fished, how I had learned, and how long I had been so "in love" with it.  Their fascination made me seem completely and utterly exotic to them, as if they lived entirely apart from any intersection with outdoor life, certainly sports of any kind.  Yet when I got to the part about the wilderness being my own, well, I called it "cathedral," every one of them nodded strongly and murmured recognition.

Now that I had left a nice puddle on the slate floor, it was time to go.  They thanked me with a fond round of applause, and one gentleman even suggested I appear in his church by way of a homily.  I said I'd be delighted and gave Bob my card when we returned to my truck.  He had no card of his own, but said warmly, "Come see me at Chateau Chantal next time you come to Traverse City."  I didn't ask what that was, though it sounded like a winery, and once again agreed that I would.  It's very hard to say no to nuns or priests, even if they have retired, or left the clergy, or gotten married.  Once a Catholic school girl, always a a Catholic school girl, I guess.  

It had been quite the full day, I reflected as I drove through the dark night.  Fishing had only been half of it. It would be impossible to describe my encounter with the amazing 50th Anniversary celebrants, but I thought I would give it a try in a short blog entry.  Like I said, in the face of abundance, I lose my head.