This article, although fictional, was inspired by the memory of my late uncle Vester Boyter. He was a river fisherman extraordinaire. He was not exclusively a trout fisherman, but kept records of his catch with details such as location, weather conditions, size, species, previous catch, and any other pertinent information. At least once, after retirement, he fished every day for an entire year.
He identified his catch by harmlessly clipping a fin, and once, on consecutive days, caught the same fish a mile upstream from where it was caught the previous day.
He was a lure maker and produced thousands of lures sold on consignment at local bait shops. He was approached by a major lure company interested in placing a larger order, but refused because his lures were handmade and it was impossible for him to produce the quantity they desired.
The fly line propelled the leader and fly unerringly to the “sweet spot.” The elusive male brown trout had spent several years near that spot, hidden by a large boulder in the bend of the stream where the current was buffered by the boulder. The boulder created a cushion of slower water where insects could be daintily sipped by the big trout. He was hidden in the shadow of the boulder and only an occasional glint of color betrayed his presence.
The fly presented was a size 18, Blue Dun, tied on a barbless hook. The old timer had tied it with great skill on his old rotary vise. As he cast, it settled on the water as lightly as thistledown, barely dimpling the water. The trout instantly detected the presence of the fly and moved lazily to sip it from the surface of the water.
In all his time on the stream, the trout had never felt a sting in his jaw such as this insect created. He hurled his body skyward while violently shaking his head, but the sting would not relent. His next move was a rush from the spot behind the boulder into the main current, creating a bulge on the water’s surface.
He next swam downstream in a violent rush, but felt the tug of an invisible force that increased the stinging sensation in his jaw.
After several such rushes, he sensed the futility of this tactic and once again leapt from the water with a loud splash, with water droplets reflecting the dappled sunlight beneath the overhanging boughs.
The old timer was no stranger to these tactics. He knew exactly when to apply pressure and when to yield line to the large trout.
His eyes were shaded by a battered, old hat. His vest and waders had seen better days, but the flies contained in the boxes in his vest were each delicately and lovingly crafted. They were wonderful reproductions of the actual insects residing in the streams that he frequented.
Through the years, he had spent many happy hours on the small streams located nearby. The fish that he had caught numbered in the thousands. He had long ago ceased to keep his catch and practiced catch and release.
The old bamboo rod was a treasure that had served him well, and it and the battered Lamson reel had survived many replacement lines. They were like old friends to him.
His mind had wandered, but a renewed flurry by the trout brought his mind back to the present.
Playing the trout was an instinctive action, almost subconscious. Watching him was reminiscent of poetry in motion.
The initial reaction of the trout was an extreme effort to escape, but the repeated failure had led to a hopelessness and a further yielding to the increasing pressure. Nearing exhaustion, he turned onto his side and felt the pressure of the old man’s hand under his body.
The next sensation the trout felt was being moved backward and forward, forcing the water past his gills and providing life-giving oxygen.
The sting of the hook was reduced when the trout felt the pressure of the forceps in his mouth. This provided relief as the hook was slipped from his jaw.
The old timer smiled as the huge trout sped back to his lair behind the boulder. He would be recorded in the tattered old journal, along with details such as water temperature, weather conditions and any other pertinent details.
He rarely took pictures any more, as the little nook where he tied flies had walls covered with photos of trophies that would be the envy of most fly fishermen. Just being on the stream, casting the old rod and enjoying the outing was all that he could ask of any day.
