by Rickey Noel Mitchell
One April morning several years ago found me standing knee-deep in the San
Joaquin River. It was a beautiful Sunday morning to be on the water. Arriving
at about six o'clock, I set up the fiberglass rod given to me by an old friend,
tyed on an elk hair caddis, donned my wadders, and waded for the first time
since my sixteenth birthday. I stripped some line off my brand new Pflueger
reel and made my first cast, landing my caddis in the middle of the river. The
area I was in on the San Joaquin was very shallow; at itšs deepest point, it
was not more than three feet. I was almost shouting distance from the Madera
Bridge, a fact soon to be proven at my expense. Three figures were sashaying
onto the bridge, a man about forty and two boys who looked like they were in
their teens. (We shall refer to them as Pa and the boys. Subsequently I came
up with other names, but they really shouldn't been seen in print.)
Pa and the boys stopped and leaned on the rail of the bridge to watch me. Great,
an audience, I thought. My caddis had been drifting on the water for a few minutes,
when off to my right I spotted a blur moving towards my fly. For a moment my
sprits soared, but the blur turned out to be a young pied bill grebe, a bird
that normally dines on fish. Adult grebes are extremely shy, but this one, as
I said, was a young one, and he was eyeballing my caddis with lunchtime on his
mind. He swam quickly after the fly. I yanked the line up off the water to avoid
hooking him and into the tree behind me, landing the caddis on a limb several
feet above me. Could have happened to anybody, anybody but me. As for my audience
on the bridge, by now they were laughing hysterically, especially the father
who was close to falling backward into the fast moving traffic behind him, or
into the river below him.
Either would have been fine! There's no fish in that there tree, Pa howled.
Is a river running through it? He howled again, noticeably pleased with his
wit. There in that water, the older boy yelled. You can jump in that there water
with them, and your pa with you, I thought to myself. But they were having the
laugh. They were turning my first fly fishing venture, one that had taken quite
a bit of courage to do in the first place, into a nightmare. I mean, think about
it. It takes guts for anyone who has taken up the fly rod for the first time
to step out in public. As for myself, I had put in a reasonable amount of casting
practice out on my front lawn each morning for a few weeks. I won't even get
into the drive-by remarks I've had to endure there. Yet here I was out in public,
on stage, with those hecklers on the bridge for an audience. I could not have
played a better fool if I had rehearsed, and I wasn't done yet. I gathered my
wits and courage, determined to make my day, not theirs. First I needed to retrieve
my fly, but I was going to catch a fish . The limb the caddis had caught on
was about ten feet above me. The tree itself, a big sycamore, was about fifteen
feet back from the river's edge, from the trunk down to the water. The shore
slanted ever so slightly, forming just the hint of a hill. On the bank itself,
you could stand comfortably enough and fish, as I said, it was a bit of a hill,
the same one I was standing on now, looking up at my fly, listening to the howling
from the bridge. I gave my line a good tug--a really good tug. The caddis pulled
loose from the limb it was on, and came flying right at me, line and all. I
swung myself out of the way, only to slip on a patch of mud, and I do mean slip.
Feet straight up in the air. As this picture forms in your mind, the one of
me lying on the ground, flat on my back, is there laughter coming from your
direction? Well, it was definitely coming from the direction of that bridge,
and it was infuriating, but I didn't break my rod. In an effort not to break
my rod, I stuck my rod arm straight up in the air, while the rest of my body
plummeted to the ground, falling backwards towards the river, creating the pefect
back cast, a nice tight -loop, with the line straightening out into a beautiful
presentation. The fly landed right in front of the grebe, who promptly pounced
on it. I pulled the rod back, hoping to move the caddis out of the bird's reach,
only to set the hook in its beak. The grebe dove under the water, my line swiftly
following. I pulled back. Did I mention grebes could fly? This one was no exception.
Up out of the water, back down into the water. He did this repeatedly, three
different times. I must say, having a catch on the end of your fly line that
could fly, was an all together different situation, but being an avid bird lover,
I was avoiding tightening my fly line for fear of breaking the grebe's neck,
who by this time was in hysterics, as were Pa and the boys on the bridge, for
different reasons of course.
The grebe reversed his direction and started swimming towards me. He was frantic--and
that made two of us! I started quickly stripping in line. As I stated before,
we were in shallow water, so I was able to get the bird close enough and shallow
enough to pin him down with my rod. I grabbed the grebe and got him up on shore,
pinning down his back against the ground with my forearm, while trying to hold
his neck and head in my left hand. The barb of the size 12 caddis was through
the top right side of the grebešs beak. I took my nippers and clamped down on
the hook just above the barb; the grebe took his beak and clamped down on my
left index finger just above the fingernail. We are talking pain here!! That
little bird could just as well have been a vice with a mind of its own. I do
remember yelling, although I don't remember what, which is probably for the
best. I did manage, however, to cut the barb off the hook, causing the rest
of the hook, fly line and leader attached, to fall out of the grebešs mouth
which stayed attached to my finger. I was still yelling and still in pain, but
coherent enough to hear Pa shout some comforting words from the bridge, Doesn't
that bird do catch and release?? The grebe and I, as a unit, waded back into
the river, where I stuck my hand and the grebe under the water up to the elbow.
He let go immediately and promptly vanished into the water. What a relief!
Well, there I stood in the San Joaquin --my left index finger throbbing, rod
in other hand, and my audience on the bridge...jeering! Through this entire
incident I had not felt a bit of embarrassment; I never had the time to! And
so, clearheaded, I focused on a stump in the middle of the river, the top of
which was just a couple of inches above water, and about twenty feet from where
I was standing. I checked my line; leader and fly both were miraculously intact.
I cast, this time a roll cast, about ten feet up-current of the stump, so that
the fly would drift right past the target, about a foot past. Suddenly, splash!!!
Nineteen inches of rainbow ate my caddis!!
I set the hook -- the rainbow came a good three feet out of the water. Then
he mainlined it down river towards the bridge where Pa and the boys had stopped
jeering and started cheering (for me or the fish I wasn't sure). Although completely
startled by this sudden change of luck, I still managed to keep a tight line
on him. He was about twenty-five to thirty yards away from me, and as I said
before, he was going down river, a fact in his favor. I did not want to lose
this fish!
Wading then into the river, keeping in mind to stay in the shallows, and moving
down current with the fish, the battle raged on. Two more splashes and jumps
from the trout. All the time both of us moving closer to the bridge and Pa.
Then another splash--on my end of the line--me! The waders I had donned earlier
were the same waders I used for duck hunting; they were boot foot--big, awkward
boot foot . So while in pursuing the rainbow at the fastest wading pace possible,
I had managed to trip over my own feet and fall flat on my face in two feet
of water. Then standing up ever so quickly, and not having a waist belt on my
waders, the water that went in them went straight down to my boots, raising
my voice considerably on the way down.
I didn't break my rod; I had none of the self esteem or dignity that I'd left
home with that morning (but I did not break my rod). The fish was still on the
line, the battle was still on, and the fish was on my reel. I was reeling line
in, not stripping it-- miracle of miracles--and wading the river after the rainbow,
until he was no more than ten feet away from me. I felt something bumping on
my back as I closed in on him, and feeling for the cause of it, discovered a
net. In all the excitement , I'd forgotten about it. It sure would have helped
with the grebe, but I was truly grateful for it now! So now, no more than five
feet from the rainbow, taking net in hand, I moved within three feet of him.
Shifting my rod hand behind me, I pulled him right over the net I had waiting,
and then with a quick swoop, I had my fish!!
My first fish on a fly that I had tied--I was floating on air. The feeling was
incredible. This was what fly fishing was all about!! Then I heard a loud, booming
voice from above, That was some show!
Well, it wasn't God-- it was Pa! The whole episode between the fish and me had
ended right under the bridge. I was looking up at them. No more then ten feet
above me, there they were--Pa and the boys, their faces clear as day. The humor
they had been enjoying at my expense, for who knows how long --showed on them,
along with perhaps just a tad bit of admiration. That was some show! Pa repeated.
And then, with complete seriousness, he looked down at me and asked, Are you
going to be here next Sunday??
HOME
/ BOOK & VIDEO STORE / CLINICS
& SEMINARS / FORUM
/ TRIPS / LINKS / CALENDAR
OF EVENTS
ARTICLES / PHOTO GALLERY
/ BIO / RIGGING & REVIEWS
/ CONTACT ME