A Trout Fishing Fantasy

I lifted the chain, swinging the gate open so Rose could drive the car into the meadow. Once she had passed in, I got back into the passenger seat and directed her down the hill where we parked by the monument to Vince Marinaro and Charlie Fox. “This might be my last time here. It's been a long time, but I've got a lot of memories on this stream.” “It doesn't have to be the last time,” she said. “I know, but it's a long drive, and I'm seventy-one.” I looked through the thin screen of trees to the Letort, one of the legendary trout streams. It used to sit in quiet isolation; now a Home Depot buzzed up on the hill above the far bank. “Let's go fishing.”

I rigged my rod, slipping on a light vest. You don't wade the Letort, you just need shoes that can navigate a soggy bank. We sat on one of the benches and watched. Resting the water like this can tell you a lot. It was a cloudy day — a day of possibilities on a spring creek like the Letort, but right now there was nothing much happening, until. . . on the far bank, a trout sipped an insect off the surface. I was familiar with that spot — a nice undercut for a fish to hide, and let the current funnel food to it. It was a long, difficult cast. I tied on a little hot orange ant and put it as close to the bank as I could. After several tries, I was sure the trout was not buying what I was selling.

I looked back at Rose; she was reading a book. Tying on a Shenk's hopper, I put it about five feet ahead of the under cut, carefully mending my line as it drifted toward the spot. As the saying goes, all hell broke loose. The water erupted, and my reel sang as the trout took line. I slowed it a bit with my palm. Rose called instructions out to me. I put up my hand — “Not now,” I said. Don't worry about her, play the fish. She's a beauty. I've taken her. That's a tough spot. “Ed?” It was Ed Shenk, the legendary fly fisherman. I'd hired him as a guide once. I owned one of his hand made rods, and he gave me a small box of his flies. Yeah, it's me. You're not done with that fish. She's a tough one. That's one of the hoppers I gave you, isn't it? “You died last year, Ed.” When I had fished with him over twenty years ago he looked ancient, with coke bottle glasses and a limp. He looked older now. I know, I know. But Vince, Charlie, and I get to hang out down here. We spent so may years fishing on this stream. . . His voice trailed off wistfully. Some guy from DC bought Charlie's house. He almost never fishes; just likes to look down on the 'legendary Letort.' “Who are you talking to, Gary?” “No one; I was just musing about the history of this place.” “Well, let's get that fish in.”

The trout finally tired, and I brought her to hand. As soon as she was in the net I pulled the barbless hook out with a hemostat and carefully placed her back in the water. In seconds she swam off. Nicely done. Then Ed turned and walked away to sit with Vince and Charlie.