Siskiyou Writes Club March Meeting~

March Perfectness

I’m thinking of March, this month’s writer’s topic.  But, which March?

“Marching to Pretoria?”  I don’t think so.  I’ve never been to South Africa, never been in a war.  So, that’s not it.

“March Madness?”  I enjoy sports, especially baseball, but haven’t been a basketball fan.  So, I’ll pass on that topic too.

“March comes in like a lion, out like a lamb?”  I am a weather fanatic, but don’t feel like debating the pros and cons of low-pressure systems or atmospheric rivers.

“March browns?”  My memory flashes back to fly fishing in crystalline streams.  Many adult insects, when maturing, wriggle from a stream bottom’s cobbles upward to the surface, their body casings crack open, then the adult form emerges, floating calmly down the stream.  The prettiest of these aquatic marvels are mayflies (or “March Browns”)—tiny sailboat replicas. 

I often use dry flies—the ones that float.  They are made of abundant bristly feathers that keep the fly elevated off the current and prevent sinking.  It is a beautiful sight, to see a dry fly correctly cast, bobbing as it floats downstream, until it is time to lift line and fly, take several false casts into the air, flicking the water droplets from the fly, then casting upstream again.  One of my many psychological problems is that I dry fly fish even if there is no indication of fish rising to the surface for floating bugs.  In other words, I love to see my fly floating even more than catching fish!

In a perfect situation, there are many adult insects floating down the stream, letting their wings dry, and occasionally taking off on their first flight.  Here and there are slurping sounds as trout gently take in the floating morsels or noisy splashes when a fish rise aggressively for an insect that has just taken off from the water’s surface.  These perfect times are when the chance of catching fish is good—very good.

My story is about a time, a perfect time, when everything came into alignment; when the river and insects and fish were perfect in their coordination and collaboration.  It took place on the Trinity River, as evening was advancing and the shadows from the willows and cottonwoods were extending their reach across the river.  Suddenly, I began to see a few mayflies floating by, sails and spars pointing skyward, bobbing, bobbing down the current.  And, amazingly, out of the corner of my eye, the sight of a fish darting upward, through the crystal-clear water, slicing toward a floating insect.  It made a tiny ring in the river’s crust, then arched downward–into the crystal below.  My mind processed the scene, and realized it was not just a trout, not just one of those pretty, shiny creatures, sleek and spotted –but its big cousin, a steelhead!  That rising fish was an 8- pound, muscular, silvery creature just in from the Pacific.  

Steelhead fishing is an ultimate experience, for us on the West Coast, but catching one on a tiny floating fly?  That is amazing!

I opened my fly box and selected one that replicated those live insects I could see floating by in increasing numbers.  I attached one to my line, then made my cast to the area in which I saw the fish rise a minute before.  My fly bounced down the current, peacefully and calmly.  I waited another minute until I saw another large fish angling up through the glassy water, in the same spot, to slurp in another mayfly.  I waited for the trophy to retreat to its deep-water lair, waited 10 seconds, then made my cast to that location.  My fly, looking quite similar to the real ones float by, passed downstream peacefully.  I cast again.  Then, again.  On the next cast I saw the silver steak rise quickly at a 45-degree angle, its nose barely breaking the surface as it gently took the fly, and arched to descend again into the deep.  

I set the hook by gently raising my rod tip.  The memory of the shining, sleek fish jumping, time after time, eight times in total, is still hooked in my mind.  After each shaking jump the fish hit the water, spray shooting in all directions.  I gently played the fish, knowing that my line could not take a sharp jerk or to be rubbed against a boulder.  I brought it in, its long body still suspended in the colorless water, and removed the fly.  I knew what I had seen and done was something difficult to replicate in my life—then I eased the fish back down into its home.  It hovered for a few seconds next to my waders, then swam back to its sanctuary.

I savored the experience and looked out across the peaceful river, into the deepening shadows, then was shocked—I saw another large fish rising after another March Brown!  I carefully waded several steps further upstream, then further out into the current, preparing to cast.  By the end of the day, when the shadows had turned to the dark magenta of evening, I had caught two more, exact triplets of the first fish.  Shiny as a new penny, each full of jumps.  Each anxious to taste my March Brown.

That’s my story.  A perfect evening, doing a perfect thing.