Take me to the River.

I had grown weary and just plain tired. Not physically, but mentally. Bad news, constant changes, even simple issues around the house left my mind foggy. The global pandemic, civic tensions, and news cycle were taking a toll. I needed a distraction in the worst way. When the Angry Dane asked if I'd like to fish, I think I sprinted to the basement and collected gear. There may have been a little skipping too. Fierce hours were spent at the vise tying an assortment of dry flies and nymphs. It was time to hit the river and perhaps enjoy an evening hatch.

In recent years, fishing to dusk wasn't an option, so the urgency and excitement was palpable. The location I planned to attack was one I hadn't had the luxury of fishing in the evening for a good two years. Last June, I attempted to take my wife there, (her birthday present to me). It is a good thirty minute hike. As I was rigging up, trout were surfacing everywhere like water boiling. The sky darkened. A low rumble ambled our way. Lightning flashed all around and thus the rains poured... mercilessly. We took a good drenching as we hustled to the car. To add salt to my wounds I'd snapped the tip of one fly rod while bushwhacking back. The saving grace was our decision to visit the El Paso Bar and Grill. They got their money's worth. I'd lent my jacket to the Mrs. while out it in the elements and so bought a dry t-shirt from the friendly bar keep. We put down burgers and a beverage or two. The imprint of fish roiling about the surface and being able to take a cast weighed heavy. A year is a long time, friends. A very long time!

Another casualty of the 2020 pandemic was the increased number of kayakers and anglers sneaking along the rivers. As I made my way along the river valley to park at the bridge, one might think they had just pulled into a retail store. Numerous vehicles littered both sides of the road, most with out of state plates. The Angry Dane had recently purchased a new truck and I couldn't recall the make or color. With no cell service in the valley panic crept into my mind... Are there going to be people in every hole? Are those KAYAKS?? HERE?! Do I wait for the Dane? Two more cars were pulling in and another angler was rigging up. Did he pick the right spot or is he back in the canyons? Should I wait or just go? What would a real friend do? Wait, right?

I hit the river like a bolt. The Dane would find me or he wouldn't and we could share a beer later in the evening. He'd understand, right? And even if he didn't, there were fish to catch!

I hustled to put distance between the other angler and I but carried an air of caution. It wouldn't do to snag my waders on barbed wire or bust either of the two rods I carried, (both have happened before). I had one rod rigged for dries and the other for nymphs. I didn't want to waste a moment re-rigging tonight! Fortune smiled as I made my way through the thickets and into the first river flat. Nobody was fishing the first couple hundred yards. I pushed further to the crossing. Just along the opposite side was a deep pool as the river made a bend. This wasn't where I wanted to focus angling attention but figured it a great spot to take a few casts while I waited for the Dane.

As it happened, there was a decent hatch of silver dun and a couple caddis. Fish were rising along a seam near the far shore, including a couple bigger trout! I put the nymphing rod along the bank, and eased into the river. I'd put on my smallest cinnamon caddis, applied a little goop, and placed a few casts along both sides of a riffle. Nothing. Fish were rising on both sides, so I laid another handful of casts again. Not even a refusal. I switched to a size 16 blue wing olive and cast. Nada. Zip. Zilch. About that time, I heard someone bungling along the path. Sure enough, twas the Dane.

"In a hurry?" he barked at me.

"Walmart was running low on toilet paper. I needed to get there quick, before our friends across state cleaned us out," was my reply.

Our formal greeting finished, we got to the business at hand... getting to the coveted water. We ambled along the trail at a good clip. There's nothing better than being along a trout stream in late May. The canopy above has leafed out and greened beautiful yet you can still catch golden pools of sunlight streaming through the woods. The forest floor is fresh and earthy. The burning nettle is still low and visibility amidst the woods is ample. You never know what you'll run into on the next turn, morel mushrooms, newly downed limbs, barbed wire, or even a newborn fawn.

Luck was with us. We only ran into one other angler well before the stretch I had in mind. We shared A hello with the gentleman, wished our angler brethren luck, and continued. The lush greening land opened up as did the river. Ahead was a wide swath of water several hundred yards back with nary a tree to tangle with. Clear casting for the dry fly aficionado. The Dane went a tad further downstream. Sunlight warmed my back as I eased into the tail of a wide pool. Trout were rising steadily. I checked my rig and began working the seams. The fish were rising directly in front, several yards right, and at the head of the rapids. All that anxiety I'd been carrying melted away as I turned my focus to the scene around me.

A tan cinnamon caddis was my weapon of choice. The fish ahead and right of me was my initial target. He was sipping flies every couple minutes. My four weight fly rod gained tension as I started applying line to my cast. I had put on an extra long leader, nearly fifteen feet to help with spooking any fish. The line laid cleanly across the water and passed right over the fish. The fish went for the fly and refused viciously. Seeing that fish attack and shake its' body away at the last moment gave me a quiet thrill. I cast again with no luck. My next cast was to the opposite seam with the same results. About this time, the fish ten yards ahead was breaking the surface. I laid a cast over it. Nothing. At this point I opted to switch to a size 14 blue wing olive. Both fish were still rising. They wanted nothing to do with the blue wing.

"Here we go!" called the Dane. He had tied into a nice brown and was working to pull him between a set of boulders. Me, being a gracious fishing partner, offered an assist with my net. He belligerently refused. "And have you lose him? Get lost!" The Dane handled his prize capably, removed the fly and returned the trout to the river.

He paid no heed to me and cast again. I watched a moment then made my way back and continued fishing. I took the opportunity to change flies again. This time I put on a silver dun. Fish were surfacing all over almost like the previous year. My casts were clean, relatively accurate, and no takers! Not even a refusal. "Got another," called the Dane. I considered offering again to help with the net but then, he'd already landed one and I had nothing to show. This wouldn't do! I couldn't have the Dane outfish me on my home water!

That anxiety which had melted away had now manifested into a competitive torrent. I refocused and doubled my efforts. With feet carefully stepping across the current and slippery submerged rocks shifting in the swells, I moved ahead to "fishier" water near the head of the pool, just behind the rapids. It was to the same tune. Fish were boiling over the water yet they were having nothing I offered. When the Dane landed his third trout I decided to see what magic he was throwing.

"It's a cinnamon and tan caddis, green body, with an orange tinge. Barbless, which accounts for that last one I lost," said the Dane. This fly was nearly identical to the first I had tried, minus the orange. I quickly changed back. The Dane said he was moving ahead and I could fish his water. "I've caught enough out of here. I'm sure there's at least one that'll play with an old Austrian like yourself."

Pride stung? Hardly. "He'll eat those words... and I'll catch two out of this stretch just to rub it in," I resolved. Fish were rising in the Dane's waters yet. Casts were clean. Lines were good. My fly had a solid presentation. Heck, even my mends were working right. Nothing. Absolutely nothing! What was I doing wrong?

"The pool has just been spoiled by the Dane bungling around in it," I reasoned. "Let's just move ahead to new water. We'll tie into a few yet!" I set my jaw firm and pressed ahead.

The next ninety minutes were an exercise in patience, humility, and absolute futility! I honestly couldn't get a fish to give me a single look. I went through any number of caddis patterns, mayflies, blue wing olives. I even went to a trico... in late May!! As tensions mounted I saw but failed to take in the nesting pair of eagles along the bluff. I ignored the whitetails crossing the river behind me. The sparrows and redwing blackbirds flitting about the field. I'm glad it registered, but do regret I didn't take the time to appreciate the scene. The heat of battle will do that. I couldn't see the Dane and hadn't heard him gloating, so I assumed things had quieted for him as well. Boy was I mistaken.

Perspiration flowed along my temples as I concentrated on another pocket of water with a large boulder to the far shore. A nice trout was sipping flies every minute or so right off the rock with precise attacks. At least a half-dozen times I had laid the fly directly over his window. Once he took a caddis directly next to mine. It was maddening.

"Boy, you put it right over him. Shoot. I was hoping you'd get him. I'm done fishing," said the Angry Dane.

"Say what? It's early! Is your back bothering you?" I asked.

"It's getting mighty tired carrying these." Sure enough three nice browns were lying snuggly along the bottom of his creel. "I'm limited out!"

"I haven't had as much as a refusal," I confessed. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

"Well, I got them all with that cinnamon caddis with the orange. Sure wish I had one I could pass. That last lunker mangled my fly pretty good," teased the Dane. He must have felt I'd suffered enough as my head bowed to the river in shame. Next thing I know he produced the fly. It was so similar to what I'd been throwing but it had just a hint of orange hackle. It was medicine.

The next cast thrown got that big fella under the rock lunging and missing. Repeated casts were unsuccessful. "I had better luck up ahead," offered the Dane. We ventured forward. Let the record note, the Dane offered and carried my nymphing rod. May the record also reflect the Dane sat above the rive bank and pointed out potential trout. Truth be told, he made a pretty good guide!

The sun was beginning to make its arc to the evening horizon, yet the beams of light spilling over the pockets of water still held strength. The insect activity on the river was increasing. We were witnessing quite a hatch! It was noticed by more than us. Swallows were screaming across the river snatching up what they could. The trout were increasingly rising as well. Caddis and may flies were bouncing along the current. I took pause as we reached perhaps my favorite stretch of water on the entire river. It is a rather straight run, shallow to to western shore with the main channel running towards the east bank. There are limestone boulders of size along the east side which offer shelter and ambush points for cunning trout. The water flows quickly with enough activity to keep the surface busy... not full-out rapids but not at all placid. A strong set of rapids lays at the head of the run, which in numerous outings, has provided large trout on the nymph. Nymphing would not be necessary this evening. It was as classic a night for dry flies as I'd ever experienced.

"Put one ahead to the left of that boulder," offered the Dane. "A nice one is sitting just off the rock." There's nothing short of magic when you see the surface of the water break and tension comes across your line. I set hook and the rod came to life. The fish shook its head and took a direct line to the deep channel. With the Dane's fly being barbless I was keenly aware of maintaining tension. I remember vividly anticipating what I'd do if the fish made a run towards me. I'd simply raise the rod higher and strip madly to catch up with the fish. Of course when it happened, my plan was abandoned from a complete lack of execution on my part. I was simply taken by the excitement of a cagey brown showing me his stuff. Fortune finally smiled as I was able to apply tension and kept the fish hooked. When he was finally in the net and brought to the shore, for measurement, I was short of breath and my heart beat fiercely. I took a few deep pulls of air and brought out my measure. The fish was a quarter inch shy of being legal. Disappointment must have shown on my face as the Dane stated, "You won't be able to stretch him out any longer, Austrian. Don't worry, there's plenty of keepers in here."

I eased the trout back to the river and held him to revival. Then it happened. The fish began to slowly swim away. I thought all was well but he went belly-up and floated back towards me. I know nothing is wasted in nature but guilt struck me. Had we kept him out of the water too long? Had we handled him roughly? I didn't think so. To have such a splendid fish put up such a great fight after a long drought of being fishless added a dark cloud to the beautiful evening. I righted my little friend and he swam a few feet but went to the bottom. I feared for the fish but then he wiggled once and bolted back to the deep run. The Dane and I both felt relief. We could now turn our attention to landing a few keepers!

Two casts later I hooked into another. The first legal fish. Again I battled the trout with a barbless hook and the fish gave a good account of what a brown trout can do. They'll run, shake, and attack you if you let them. This one was landed neatly, measured for accuracy and put in the creel. The family would be fed.

The following forty-five minutes had me battling fish on nearly every cast. It was one of those nights that fuel the fisherman's soul. Cooperative fish along a beautiful run, a steady hatch, and solid dry fly action. The cork handle of my fly rod felt comfortable, and the steady bend of rod with healthy fish is something you not only remember but actually still feel in your arm!

Then I hooked into the final fish. Call it cliche but it was my kitchen sink fish. The Dane had spotted it between the far bank between a grass-covered limestone boulder above the water and a white flat rock within the river. I placed the cast just ahead of the white rock and the water exploded as the fish missed. Another cast came across the window and this time we connected. The fish ran me through the main channel, moved me several yards up the run before turning and running down river. The brown made for the cover of submerged rock. I risked horsing it away from the boulders. It gave several harsh head shakes working to throw the fly before running upriver and tiring some. I got it to slack water along the west shore but it wasn't done yet. The Dane and I were able to get a good look at the trout but he wasn't having it. The fish ran right past me making one more run before I brought it back against the current and landed it.

The heft of the creel with three healthy trout and knowing the Angry Dane had one as well brought an earned smile. Congratulatory words were shared between us but the Dane did mention something like, "I left the guppies here for you. Just wait till you see what I'm carrying." Fighting words if ever I'd heard them spoke.

The walk back took us past the same angler we'd met coming out. The gentleman said he'd had one or two on sulphurs but it had been tough. He inquired about our success. "We did fair," I replied. "If you've got anything with a little orange on it, that seemed to help," I added.

There was plenty of light yet as we reached the vehicles. I stepped out of leaky waders and went for the cooler to enjoy a not quite luke-warm Coors. The Dane grabbed one as well and sat in his camping chair as I rested on the tailgate. After toasting to our good fortune and a couple swigs, we got to the unfinished business of the hour. We took turns putting our catch along the back of the truck. Our first two fish were nearly identical but as he pulled his whopper and I placed mine alongside. My trout edged his out by a good quarter inch.

Medicine. This night on the river was simply medicine. The world can be going to Hell and back with pandemics, violence, protesting, and noise but the river is there. There to wash all those cares and worries away. I pray it will always be that way.

"You're welcome, by the way, Austrian," barked the Dane.

For once, I just said "Thanks!"