The truck rattled as we crossed the river on the one-lane bridge. I knew that the water was higher than usual, and I could hear it rush past us, even while the darkness was preventing me from seeing anything. Anticipation overtook me as we pulled off the road and cut across an open field.
Funny thing about driving on a field. Without a road to lead to a destination, and to mark the place from which you've come, you completely lose all sense of direction.
"I know it's here somewhere," said my companion, handicapped by the fact that neither of us could see anything except that which was in the light from the headlights beaming straight ahead.
We found the clearing, and as my companion shut off the truck engine I excitedly opened my door. The night air was crisp and I reached for my coat. The quiet of the night was striking; there were no other people around for miles and the only sounds to be heard came from a few crickets unaffected by our presence.
There was no moon -- even the light from the stars was blocked by the fog. I held my hand out in front of me, but I couldn't see it. What a difference from nighttime in the city, where there is never complete darkness.
I had carefully organized all my gear so that I could find things without being able to see. I knew what each pocket in my vest held, and my rod had been assembled and strung up with a fly already tied to my leader.
No long leaders, delicate tippets or dry flies here. I went for a short (7-foot) leader tapered only to 4x and a 'lectric leech, which is basically a black wooley bugger with a slightly weighted bead head and some tinsel tied into the tail (a Jim Stallings special).
I wanted to reduce to an absolute minimum any possibility of breaking off my fly. Even though I was carrying a small flashlight, I knew trying to tie on a new one would be a real challenge.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness a bit, we made our way to the water. Thinking of preserving my leader/tippet/fly again, I strained my eyes, looking for a spot relatively clear of trees and brush.
I tossed my fly into the current and attempted a roll cast. I figured the less time my fly line is out of the water, the better. I felt the fly line unroll, taking my heavy streamer fly with it. I could tell it was a sloppy cast, but at least no one could see it.
I pulled the streamer toward me along close to the bank. I stripped in line, keeping the fly line straight and tight, as I waited for resistance. Since I wouldn't be able to see a take, this method of fishing the fly increased my ability to feel one.
For many people, the appeal of night fishing is that the bigger fish presumably come out to eat. I don't know this from firsthand experience, though.
For what seemed like a couple of hours, I silently casted and retrieved; casted and retrieved. There was only the sound of the water as it glided past me.
And then I felt that magical tug on the end of my line. It was a respectable trout, but no monster. As we wrestled back and forth, the fish and I, we splashed around in the water, creating a disturbance that seemed an intrusion into the quiet stillness of the night.
I knelt down and brought the fish toward me, but when I tried to grasp the hook with my forceps, I fumbled in the darkness -- and more splashing ensued.
When I regained control and removed the hook, the fish stopped fighting. I held it briefly, gently rocking it in the water to give it time to rest. I admired its graceful shape and marveled at how strong it felt in my hand.
Then, finally, the trout slipped away quietly into the darkness, and everything was as it had been. Silent.
Special Thanks to the folks at AA Pro Shop for sponsoring Julie's article on GORP!
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