Eventful non-events

I parked away from the water I planned to stake out for the hex fishing, though it wasn't a tactic to hide my location.

The closest parking was through a farmer's yard and would have given me front row seats to the river.  I had driven in and used his access many years ago and the farmer had never cared.  He always waved when he saw me.  That was then and I haven't talked to him in quite a while.  I think there is an easement that includes access through his property but I still feel that I should have a discussion with him before rolling past his mailbox and scattering his cats.

As it was, I parked a half mile away and followed the train tracks back to his farm and noticed that another angler was parked in my old spot.  He was closing the tailgate on his vehicle so I shouted out a "hello" in hopes of stopping him to discuss turf.  It appeared that we might be heading to the same water and I thought that I should clarify his intentions before crowding him out.  Nothing ruins a quiet night on the water like a jackass lowholer...and I didn't want to be on the giving or receiving end of that relationship.

The guy was probably in his mid-thirties and said he'd fished this water for the past 13 years.  I mentioned that it was funny that we hadn't crossed paths.  Through the back and forth banter that comes with streamside conversation between strangers, we figured out that we had met many years ago.  It seems that at a Trout Unlimited function, almost 10 years ago, we had discussed his (then upcoming) plans to do some trout fishing in the "West".  He reminded me of a few of the suggestions I had given him and then told me that he had followed some of my advice and stayed at a neat little lodge/resort in the Paradise Valley of Montana.  In fact, he said he'd been back a number of times in the past years.

I turned to the river and asked what section he wanted and he told me.  I pointed out the water I was hoping for and he was fine with it.  He then suggested we have a beer after the fishing and we went to our designated beats and waited for the hatch.

I saw four hex flies.

That's all.

A few small fish rose for spinners of a lesser mayfly and I floated my hex pattern over one of them...just because.

The guy who had questioned me about fishing Montana and had written my answers down fast and furiously 10 years ago, came through the brush and paused 100 feet away and asked if I had seen any bugs.  I told him about the non-event.  He said his water was the same....nothing.

I tied on a muddler minnow and spent another 15-20 minutes working a few deep undercuts while chatting with the guy in the dark.  I could've worked fast and moved down through the brush and fished another half mile of excellent night streamer water.  But I didn't.  I thought about the potential big brown trout and weighed it against the fact that this guy had suggested a beer.

I feel like I screw up some decent human interaction when I am keyed into fishing.  My wife always asks me, especially after I've been out fishing with someone I don't know very well, "What did you guys talk about?".   My answer is always the same..."uuumm....errr...fishing?...I guess?"

I was actually thinking about this when I reeled up and suggested it was time for "that beer".
The other thought was that I had parked a half mile from here because I hadn't taken the time to talk to the farmer in the past few years.

Too keyed into the fishing to stop and talk.

Back at his rig, the guy offered me a nice chilled micro-brew which went a long way towards making me forget about the potential monster brown trout just waiting for my muddler.   We'd been talking trout and the hex hatch for awhile when the farmer walked down from his barn and joined us for a drink.  The guy reached into the back of the truck and handed the farmer a sixpack and said, "Thanks for letting me park here."

I thought that was a nice move.

We stood in the dark, drinking beer and talking about rain and drought and crops and hatches and wives and mosquitoes and bats.   I told the farmer that he had a nice piece of water here in his backyard and thanked him for being so easygoing about the access.  It was heartfelt statement but fell short of the impact a cold six-pack has.

The farmer asked how the fishing was and wondered if we'd be able to send him any pictures of some fish from his property.  He said that a lot of people ask him how the fishing is and he'd like to show them.
The guy was in the middle of telling the farmer that he'd be happy to send him some big fish pics, when I interrupted him and told the farmer that I'd give him a cold 12 pack if he'd just tell all of the interested folks that the fishing on his land sucked.

The farmer said we had a deal.

It was close to midnight when I walked the tracks back to my car and slid out of my waders.
It had been a good evening. 
The air was a cool 56 degrees and there hadn't been a mosquito on me all night.
The barnyard discussion was interesting and even damn funny at times.   
The beer was cold.
The fish could wait.

And, when I come back for them, I'll park in my old spot.