The ninth day on the Fork dawns cloudy and chilly. We wade out knowing that our precious time here is winding down. One tries not to dawdle but also not to rush. The swans arc into the swaddled sun; they get to stay longer than we do.
The clouds move on but the wind that moves them is here to stay.
We go back and forth between the banks and the tried and true fishy spots. John catches more than I do. Again. We're both a bit frustrated, me because I have caught precious few fish at all, he because he keeps catching them in the 16 to 18 inch range.
Both of us are hoping to find a fish in the 20 inch range, me because it would redeem the trip and give me the "biggest fish of the trip" laurel, he because, well, he's tired of all those 18 inchers he's been reeling in. Oh, and that "let the best man win" nonsense? It's an anticlimax; he was clearly the best man by day three.
John once again heads back to the cabin at mid-afternoon to spend time with his son. He'll pick me up at dark. I haunt the river. I notice that I've been fishing a cinnamon ant all day. I don't change it. I still have unshakeable confidence in it. It will bring me my big catch if anything will.
As the sun sinks in the west I hike downstream to a broad and slow bend that's somewhat sheltered from the persistent wind. I find a comfortable spot on the bank and wait for something to happen. This is my last evening here. This is my last chance to find that low light fish of the trip.
Fish begin to rise out in mid-channel. Then one begins to dine fairly close to the bank. I slip quietly into the water.
I get a good float with the ant and the fish sips it in. It's a good fish. I play it carefully. The tippet breaks. The fish takes the ant and most of my hope.
I tie on another ant. I wade out farther and manage another hookup, also a good fish, but it comes undone. Then the fish go down and the dusk thickens around me. That could be the ball game. We'll see what the morning might bring.
No comments:
Post a Comment