And then, spring is gone, and summer moves in and winter's fables lack the urgency and the definiteness of the cold weather version. The imagination and the off season have a way of over-dosing us on the possibilities...no summer will ever hold the capacity that deep winter's daydreaming prescribes...
But tonight, I find myself astream with 3 of these guys. All of them (and a few more) heard the January battle cry, but these 3...these 3, followed through, cashed in, made good.
The January battle cry of night fishing on a June or July evening...they heard it, and they enlisted, no draft required.
We hit the gas station 3/4's of the way there, and the attempt to buy and eat something that resembles healthy, gave way to two brats and a bag of sour cream and onion chips. We drove up and down a good portion of the river, taking mental notes before turning around and selecting the best of the available water. Most of us packed a couple rods. We were on a nocturnal EAT hunt and what happens at 6:00 PM on a midwest spring creek is a couple of line weights different from what happens after 10 PM.
The bridge pull off, once we unloaded and started to gear up, looked like a fly shop exploded or perhaps that the local Trout Unlimited Chapter was having a gear swap. Heaps of waders and boots, and boxes and rod tubes. It is likely that we alone kept the economy afloat these past few years.
Eventually the task of preparing for an evening and a night of fishing were completed and MK and Brother Bill headed upstream while Mr. T and I headed down. We walked the corn rows and discussed the merits of not rolling in wild parsnip. We broke through the corn to greet a few pastured horses and then dropped into the creek. In the shaded banks the mosquitoes converged on us but two steps into the cool spring creek water and air temps dropped enough to keep them at bay. We exchanged shots at likely runs and Mr. T pointed to a spot where he'd seen a nose break up a meeting of fluttering caddis. He offered me the shot and I blew it on the second drift when the trout tilted up to my terrestrial. Luckily secured him on the dropper 7 or 8 casts later. And it went on like this until it was nearly 8:30 and I lingered at a run while he moved up to the next pool and promptly extracted a beautiful brown.
At the bridge pool we met up with MK and Brother Bill and each took a few casts at rising fish before climbing up the bank to the vehicle to prepare for the after dark portion of the night's show.
A short drive from the evening fishing stretch we pulled over in the darkness and hopped out of the rig, throwing on packs and testing headlamps. It was a regular obstacle course dodging barbed wire, cowpies and electric fencing as we crossed the fields to the stream. It pays to keep headlamps off to retain night vision but in this case Mr T, lead the charge with his red lamp on to save us all from taking on excess voltage.
A creek crossing and a short hike later and we stood streamside, the four of us, lowering our cap brims in the inky night to block out the light glare from a distant farmhouse. We spread out and stepped in, the swishing of lines in the air followed by the scratch of fly lines against guides as we all hoped to come tight to a leviathan.
In the dark your are reduced to whatever senses you have that can give a sense of place or direction. I could just make out the far bank with two eyes that are months away from requiring reading glasses. With my vision compromised the wild mint on the bankside floaded my olfactory receptors to the point of overload...such a fine smell. But my ears were on high alert. I could tell whether my fly landed on the bank or in the water, whether the others were moving downstream, casting or even retrieving their flies. So, with the stage set, vision impaired and hearing acute, I heard the explosive splashing downstream as if an anvil had been dropped in the very tub I was bathing in. My pulse quickened and I started downstream, reeling in line and fumbling with my camera, to see which of my lucky comrades had connected with what was certainly a large trout.
Quuuuaaaaaack!...quaaack! quack! quack! quack! (splashing subsides).
"What was THAT?", someone asked knowing the answer but needing verification.
To which MK replied, "I think I dropped my fly on a duck."
And so he had.
It was generally decided that though catching big fish after dark is not easy, it is certainly easier than hitting a stealthy, camouflaged duck in the pitch blackness with a fly at distance of fifty feet. It seemed that MK had raised the bar and I continued on fishing, hoping for a trout, or a duck, of my own.
It was after midnight when the moon broke through the clouds in a notch of the valley as we hiked back to the truck, secured our rods, shared a beer and decided to stop and fish another river before heading home.
This plan, this trip, discussed over beers months ago as the snow piled up on the bar's windows seemed like an eternity ago, but I was keenly aware that the summer doesn't last forever and that night fishing with 3 good guys on a cool summer night doesn't happen every day. When we stopped again beside the next river, grabbed our rods, our headlamps and our packs, I remember feeling wide awake and ready to go fishing. The short days and snowy nights of next winter would be here before we knew it and 3 of us had still not hooked a duck.
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