A Lament

There is a scene in the movie Gladiator where the gladiator imagines his return to his home in Trujillo, Spain. He walks through the wheat field leading up to his house, right hand outstretched, his fingertips brushing the wheat flower.

It is a scene that has stayed with me since I first saw it, so strong visually, almost evoking a sense of melancholy.

On every river, every time I fish, when I think no one is watching, I allow my fingertips to drag in the flow. The cold always comes as a shock, although it should not - steelhead are creatures of cold water. I can always feel the water dragging past my fingertips, as though steelhead water is possessed of a special friction.

I have lived the life of a city dweller, trading crowded schoolroom for busy office. I drive crowded highways to work, drinking coffee that others prepare for me. My food is rendered by others, often to the point that I no longer recognise the source.

I touch water most weekends but only touch something truly wild 10 or perhaps 15 times a year, when I land a steelhead.

I know my brother Ken aspires to fish without a hook point, in homage to our fish. He is inspired by one of the ghostly figures of our sport.

I find a I cannot consider doing so - the act of touching something truly wild comes to me so few times in a year, in a lifetime - I certainly cannot do so.

Not so long ago, a river, a river of my heart, opened for the first time in several years.

Only 600 fish have returned, from a race that once numbered 6000.

I will not fish, even though I could. With only 600 fish, if I risk killing even one, the loss is too much. I cannot face the possibility.

And to fish with no hook? Pointless, if the object of my desire is to touch something truly wild.

For now, I stand on the bank, unable to drag my fingertips through the water, with only memories of wild beasts.

Will the run ever recover? Will I ever feel the friction of those drops of hope, dragging against my fingertips, on the River of My Heart?

Undertaker

The quiet pool

The once busy river is now desolate. I walk alone seeing no one and hearing nothing but the sound of leaves softly hitting the ground and the lapping of water on the rocks. A weak sun hangs low in the horizon, barely clearing the canyon walls, occasionally cutting through the trees and mid morning mist in splintered arrows of light. I fish and walk in constant awe of my surroundings. Mesmerized by the beauty of fall unfolding around me. Later as I wander through familiar places,an amazing fish devours my offering and we dance a dance as the sunlight fades on this fall day. He battles heroically and slips away before I can touch him. I don't mind as it is a privilege to even come across a fish of his size.

One more fish graced  my presence before the day was done.As I drove away,winding my way up and out of the canyon, I had a grin on my face that I could not wipe off. It was so good to be on The River once again.

Perfect hen,floating line and old Sharpe's Gordon

 Some more stunning eye candy from my friend Scott. Just Beautiful

Remembrance Day

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

"Big Sky Land"

By Clearwater Frank

Montana's morn broke dark and drear as I scraped the frost off "Old Blue's" glass, the engine coughed then hammered some as I headed South toward Wolff Creek pass

The Missouri flowed by smooth and gray with a riffle every little way, I saw some geese upon a flat and a whitetail feeding in a draw,

As the engine warmed and my fingers thawed my thoughts turned toward what fly to fish, I thought about a brown as a Christmas wish,

Now I'm up to my knees in the chilly flow my Black Nosed Dace clouded in the snow which flutters down from the cold gray sky,

The wind is whistling past my ears should I head to Craig and have a beer, then the day is orr the score is nil, my body shudders with a chill,

I head for the farm out East of town as the sun is slowly sinking down, I'm home again with the fire's roar I have a warmth deep down inside from a day spent at the river's shore,

No fish today that was my lot but I care not of the total score, just spending time in "Big Sky Land" can make one's life seem truly grand.

October Something

Bulkley Trip- Arrival

Up at 7 and out the door, with only a stop for coffee. 7 hours of beautiful views follow.

At one point, with the sun only low in the sky, I see a wolf, skipping through a farm field.

I see eagles hovering and once, a badger crossing the road.

I pass McLeese Lake and pause to look back down the lake. I always wonder how I could arrange to be here at dawn but its too far "in between" places I might stay overnight.

More coffee and there's only three more hours till I get to Smithers.

At 3, at 140 kms/hour, I pull in to town. A quick stop at the motel, where I literally throw my stuff in the room and suddenly, I am on the Bulkley again after a long year of hard soul killing work.

The water is high but no higher than it was last year.

Gone is the melancholy of yesterday and I have to force myself to slow down - to breathe - I am shaking with excitement. I fish a run I have only fished once before and that time I found fish.

Sure enough, this time I bump a fish in exactly the same spot. Its just a quick bump and then nothing. I switch flies and swing down through the run. Its loooong, a kilometre, I will only get to cover a third of it before dark. Then it happens, a fish rolls over my fly. The fish.

I realise I am standing way too far out in the water. I step much closer to the bank, back up and change flies.

The sun starts down the sky towards the Seven Sisters and a huge October moon rises opposite. An angler and his yellow lab fish the run across from me. The fading sunlight catches his line arcing out across the water. He fishes too fast through the run and does not touch the fish that is always there.

He and the dog leave. I am alone again.

My third fly swings down through the run. I force myself to count 30 at the end of every swing.

At the end of one 30 seconds, a swirl and then the line comes tight.

Then nothing.

I change flies, step, swing, step, swing. A tap, tap, tap, then nothing.

Ten minutes later, it's too dark to see the head marker on the line.

I spool up and walk back to the car.

The river slips by, bathed in moonlight.

Autumn

Special times with amazing friends(new and old) on an unbelievable river.....what more can I say?

Talented tier Scott Travis, graced me with these beautiful examples of some of the classics.

There's a number 5 Blue Charm in there.....just for you Ken!