The long hand of my internal, piscatorial clock struck hard, and I knew it was time to go fishing. I felt like I had lost the entire month of October cleaning up after Hurricane Helene and needed to stand in cold water somewhere. After a while, the high-pitched sounds of chainsaws and leaf blowers blended as one between my ears. For sanity purposes, my mind would drift off to previous fishing trips taken in past Falls. This escape mechanism was only temporary and increased my yearning for a trout stream.
During the first week of November, we had chilly mornings and highs in the low 70s—perfect for fishing. The few leaves that remained had turned colors of brown and began dropping. Since the hurricane, we had not received one drop of water, and I was afraid to pray for rain.
The following day a decision was made to go fishing. A small stream flowing in a valley at the base of two mountains was chosen. Considering the hurricane, I wondered how easy the dirt roads were to steer around. Would the stream be flushed away from all the rain or just hard to access from falling timber? I did hope for a few trout to be present with open mouths.
Driving up silently with the window down gave me ample time to worry about such things. This wasn’t a time for the radio. The sound of wind blowing in the truck was enough music. Vast piles of cut timber lay piled alongside the two-lane highway—remnants of the hurricane’s destruction.
All the philosophical reasons why people fly fish for trout emerged. One quote stood out in my mind that day. I couldn’t remember the person who said something like, “it wasn’t the fish we were after,” but I can tell you he was wrong.
The flyrod of mine needed to bend with the tip to be pulled back and violently jerked to the left and right. I intended to feel the sensation of a fish’s surge against this antique, full-flex bamboo stick I was waving. As fishermen, we all have these desired fish-catching moments where thoughts of fishing consume us. It’s all we think about.
After about an hour of driving and pensive thoughts about wild rainbows dancing above the surface with my fly firmly embedded, I pulled off the paved road onto a gravel one. It was almost hidden by a bed of leaves, except for tire indentations exposing the ruts. For the next few miles, my truck would follow this partially hidden trail around the backside of a mountain. Easing to the left fork in the road, I pulled over to park.
The hike down to the river would be a short one, as hiking downhill is always easy. My impatience of catching a fish wouldn’t allow me to hike upstream to the headwaters. Not today. I decided to begin fishing where the footpath empties into the river.
A slight breeze caused the leaves to unhinge from the trees and thicken the air, making the day look like fall. The leaves seemed to flutter and fall in unison, cascading gently downwards, except for a lone beech tree, which stood majestically yellow against the brown forest background. I took a mental camera shot of this scene and have replayed it many times. Its leaves will eventually turn brown,but stay connected until the new growth forces them to leave.
The walk downhill to the river was glorious. Helene had knocked down several trees across the path and pushed over the remaining dead hemlocks, but it wasn’t hard to portage around them. Fish expectations made each step livelier as I neared the river. But aren’t all downhill walks quicker? After spending hours climbing over rocks and trekking around boulders, the return trip uphill always becomes a significant struggle. Being tired and ready to leave can make the ascent steeper.
The river was low and clear. After five weeks without rain, it resembled a July summertime flow. I hoped the chilly nights would drop the water temperature and make the fish hungry and energetic. Despite impatience, I sat on a rock, ate lunch, and watched the river.
Ever the optimist, I hoped to see a fish rise to feed on some remnant October caddis sputtering above the water. The sun was straight overhead and warm and it would have been easy to stretch across this rock, use my vest as a pillow, and nap. The warm sunlight and the constant sound of running water were a tranquilizer, but I fought off the urge. I needed a fish biting my fly.
A management decision was made to fish downstream due to the water level. The trout would be spooky due to the low water, and with the additional barrage of fallen leaves, they may become temperamental.
For the next hour, I fished a dry fly and a dropper, hoping to entice something, but with no luck. Casting across and down the river, the hook points of both flies succumbed to excessive leaf penetration as they swung below me. The combination of hooking several leaves at once and the water’s current caused tension and my rod to bend. The first few times felt like a warm-up to the main attraction. I found it interesting to note how much drag and pull a large poplar leaf can cause, especially two at one time.
Walking downriver, it was evident that high water had eroded the streambank and washed it clean of vegetation. I hoped the trout didn’t get washed away or drowned during the hurricane’s onslaught.
I changed flies and fished a single, heavily weighted nymph in a vain attempt to get below the invasive leaves, which would lessen my chances of foilage hookups. On many occasions, a fish can be caught when the fly starts swinging around as the fly line straightens, but not today. It seemed every cast would yield a leaf. I had expected as much when I left the house, but it’s still nice to be here. If I had stayed home, I would have only been able to imagine the setting where I was standing now.
Fishing was tough, and I needed to find one dumb, hungry fish to bite my fly. Consistently casting to each seam and allowing the fly to drift down the foam lines produced nothing. Wading downstream, it almost became ritualistic to keep changing flies and looking for the one magical fly. Many hooked leaves were thrown back in to ride the currents away for me.
Trying to catch a trout that day was definitely a struggle. But don’t these days make the good ones seem better? After climbing around rocks and fishing hard for almost four hours, I succumbed to the inevitable feeling that any fish would make the day complete. I prayed to the fish gods to at least forfeit one fish for my endeavors and then promised to go home satisfied.
I continued to fish hard and methodically, making excuses for my misfortune. Low water, no rain, too many fallen leaves spooking the fish, the river being in flood stage only five weeks prior, maybe the fish drowned, and the banks being washed clean of debris and hiding places were a few of my rationalizations. Times like this call for the flask to be opened and break time to regroup.
I had been fishing nonstop for four hours, and the most significant tugs were those poplar leaves. Maybe I could start fishing for them as they bent the rod hard in the swift currents. There was one more deep eddy around a rock in the middle right portion of the stream below. This would be my last shot at a fish; anything with gills would suffice.
Easing down and gently dropping the fly above the eddy, I hoped the current would wash it underneath the cut bank. There it was, a hit, and I struck and missed. Being overly anxious and raising the rod tip too quickly to set the hook didn’t let the fish lips attach to my fly securely. Would he bite again? Or maybe he had a brother swimming with him? I cast again to the same place with the same drift.
Patient, but tense, I fished. As the fly neared the end of the eddy, a fish struck hard, and this time I was ready. Lifting the rod tip gently, I could feel the fish shake and see the fly line dart across the leaf-congested currents. I didn’t care how big it was; it was just a sense of accomplishment against all the conditions. I was relieved and excited to have finally caught a fish.
Bending down to unhook it, I admired my trophy. It was the most beautiful fish I had seen all day. I couldn’t have been prouder of my little eight-inch horney head. A gentle release and it swam away.
A fist pump and a giant smile emerged! I had promised the fish gods to leave after one fish. It was getting dark anyway, and the walk back was uphill and would be a struggle. It is these types of fishing days that stick out most among fishing trips. I will never forget how desperate I needed to catch a fish when a single horney head made my day.
