Post
by Otter » Fri Jan 20, 2012 10:46 am
The days rolled by quickly, one after another, sampling, researching, tying flies. No two days on the river were the same, water levels rose and fell, weather changed, fly hatches varied and the trout responded in kind. It was now many weeks later since his first sampling expedition.
Every day Hank brought the telescopic fly rod, intent on catching a trout however on reaching the river he would be distracted by some new event, new discoveries to be made. Gradually he began to read the river, second guessing what was afoot , more than occasionally the sampling proving him correct. More knowledge had been accumulated than he even realised and his awareness of his environment was acute.
A brand new fly box, clear lid over a dozen little compartments had been purchased, not a pill box, a real fly box. Each compartment was carefully labelled and the contents had been painstakingly tied, based on practical sampling of the real flies and much research on the internet. Not a single fancy fly, only seven generic patterns, the rest uniquely specific. Hank was pleased with his labours, knowing that when finally he got fishing that the uncertainties that had dogged him for years were gone.
Joe and Hank met on the river each day and as the days passed Joe began to linger longer, enjoying each others company immensely. When he revealed that he also had been in the navy the bonds of friendship and comradeship were immediate. Joe started helping hank with the sampling and they behaved like excited school children. ‘ Look Joe, a BWO nymph, a mature one at that.’
Hank filled a liberal glass of whiskey, sat back and watched a ball game. Worst game he had seen in ages and he almost fell asleep. He was startled when he heard the knock on the door, it was Joe.
‘ Howdy Joe, come on in, … how did you know where I lived ?’; Hank was more than curious.
Pointing to his nose and laughing ,’ A ranger has to know a lot more than you think Hank. No I cannot come in, I need to be somewhere else an hour ago, this is for you’. Said Joe, handing Hank an envelope.
Before Hank could say a word, Joe was gone. ‘Curiouser and curiouser Rascal’. Sitting down he opened the envelope and gasped. State fishing Licence, Lifetime Licence commencing 1st march 2011. Issued to Hank and Rascal. Hank glanced at the calendar; ‘ Dang diddly, that’s to-morrow Rascal.’ Hank did a war dance, sent the whiskey glass flying, stumbled and fell flat on the ground. Both feet in the air he continued his dance and hollered ‘ We, that’s you and me Rascal, WE are going fishing …. to-morrow, to-morrow, we are finally going fishing. Ranger Joe is a mighty fine friend.’ Only a small drop of the whiskey had been drunk, safe enough to drive. Hank started the engine and drove to the river and parked up for the night.
Hank woke at 11 AM, feeling fully refreshed, he had enjoyed his first decent night’s sleep in weeks. Opening the door he stepped outside, eager to see what type of day it was. He immediately felt the bite of the cold breeze on his cheek and groaned out loud; ‘lordy Rascal, not the type of day I dreamed about last night’. Stretching himself , he glanced at the river; ‘ what the hell am I complaining about, any day is a good day to fish.’ Rascal received a treble helping of bacon and soon Hank was making his way down to the river, rod in hand.
Joe stood as Hank approached, ‘ Howdy angler, you are late. See you got me saying howdy. Not a bad day to catch my trout’
‘Joe, the licence, that is a mighty fine thing to do. Me and Rascal are in your debt’; said Hank.
Joe grinned, ‘ No Hank, the state is in your debt. I brought your issue to the office folk, they brought it higher and it has been decided to change the rules. Licences from now on go year to year. As compensation to you for not been able to fish they decided to issue you a lifetime licence. See Hank, honesty is the best policy. Now, go catch a trout, the river is boiling.’
Hank hadn’t even looked at the river but gasped when he did. Trout were rising everywhere with gay abandon, willing Hank to jump in and cast his flies. Old Hank would have fumbled in the box , tied on his favourite fly and jumped right in there and scare every trout in the river. Instead he wandered to the edge, took out his binoculars and viewed the busy river surface. Spotting some flies coming off Hank smirked, Iron blues again Joe and I have got one of your cousins patterns for such an occasion.
‘ Might be your trout Joe’; said Hank as he waded ashore. Joe took the outstretched net and laid it on the grass. The beautifully spotted brownie lay gleaming on the mesh of the net, a tiny Iron Blue flymph in the corner of its mouth. Joe offer Hank his hand. ‘ Mighty fine trout Hank , mighty fine trout, you are a fine angler and a fine friend ’. After a few photos , Hank carefully returned the trout and both sat watching it disappear into the depths.
After a long silence, Joe turned to Hank, slapped him cheerfully on the back and said. ‘ Hank, I am mightily glad that you didn’t go poaching with your Telescopic Rod.’
‘ Whaaat, how, how did ya know I was…..’; Hank turned a bright red.
Joe tapped the tip of his nose; ‘ A ranger has to know everything Hank, I told you that before. Besides, my cousin Patrick, he is a courier and delivered the telescopic rod to your RV’.
The End
Is it a dream
when all is done
that it matters not
if the trout be lost or won
the incessant call of the bubbling stream.
Last edited by
Otter on Fri Jan 20, 2012 11:00 am, edited 1 time in total.
