In this issue:

• Edifying Thoughts of a Tobacco Smoker
• The Voice of God
• The Frugal Fly Fisherman
• Working in Two Worlds
• William Plumer Quote
• Websites of Interest
  

The trout was still there, just like it had been last Saturday and the Saturday before, just like it will be next Saturday and the Saturday thereafter. This was a fish not easily fooled: a wise old brute of a brookie whose instinct for survival had not diminished with age, whose ability to discern the actual from the artificial was legendary amongst the anglers of the Amble. Many men tried, but apparently this was one trout that could never be caught.

The Reverend Izaak Greyfriar rose early, rolled out of bed, read a Psalm and rushed off to the river. By now he and the brookie were on a first name basis in a manner of speaking, the trout being his nemesis and mentor, his friend and foe alike. Every Saturday morning they would meet for an hour or two over coffee and a good cigar. In fact the relationship became so oddly intimate that one morning when Izaak stepped into the river the Trout (now with a respectful capital "T") swam right over and hung at his heels like the family dog. The flattery fell flat, however, upon realization that every time he shifted his weight the fish would feed furiously on whatever edibles plumed up. "How'd he learn that?" Greyfiar muttered to himself incredulously, over and over again.

Although Izaak was a relative newcomer to fly fishing, having been at it barely two seasons now, the Trout had shortened his learning curve tremendously. He could drop a dry into a tea cup at twenty yards, thanks to its tutelage, and he knew more about bugs than most degreed entomologists. His stream-bed stealth was down-right scary. Greyfriar was undeniably good, yet never quite good enough. Nonetheless, today was the day the Lord had made and, as always, the ever optimistic preacher had high hopes--plus an extra long 7x leader and a handful of Henryville Caddises exquisitely tied by the esteemed and venerable Mr. Munson, fly-tyer extraordinaire.

The Lord had made a marvelous day, indeed: just the right combination of heat and humidity to be conducive to a sunrise hatch, but not so much as to depress the spirit of the predatory angler. Greyfriar was a man with a mission; he intended to conquer the Trout once and for all. He was also a praying man who recognized the sovereignty of God in all matters big and small. With a reverent familiarity Izaak lifted his voice heavenward and said, "My Father, if be thy will--and I pray that it is--please allow me to bag that brookie before I go home. I really want him...badly." He then positioned himself in the pool, carefully and quietly so as not to unduly alarm the speckled spook residing therein.

For the longest while all Greyfriar did was watch. He lit a stogie, smoked half of it, and during the interim observed the specific movements of his quarry and its prey. He mentally marked a point in the current and timed how many seconds it took for a caddis to float from that point to its consumption. Izaak did this many times, and by such scientific methodology determined precisely where to land his fly and how long to let it drift.

The reverend was not a rich man by worldly standards, though a few of his acquaintances on the water and in the woods might have thought otherwise. Really, he was nothing more than the happy victim of an unsolicited kindness: a rather well-to-do uncle, in consequence of characteristic generosity, had given him a magnificent Parker side-by-side and a mint (Jim) Payne rod. As the story goes, when Izaak demurred in polite response to the sheer extravagance of the gift, his uncle--a solid Christian gentleman--chided him strongly, saying, "It's the Lord's will. Don't be an idiot; take the stuff!" Real-life lessons in practical theology are sometimes painful, but under the sting of his relative's scolding Izaak learned that when God wants to surprise you with a few unexpected benefits it is best to simply say, "Thank you."

Greyfriar was not one to turn antiques into museum pieces if they were usable. Thus, the Payne--in prime condition--provided his initiation into the wonderful world of fly fishing. It was a glorious tool in all regards, and cast so well that even a fruitless day was adequately compensated by its gracefulness. It was this rod that Izaak carried with him on the morning he ventured forth to finally nail the Trout. He tied a Henryville Caddis to the tippet of his leader and began working out some line, false-casting more than necessary because he loved the feel of the cane. With pin-point accuracy he put the fly dead on target. It rode the film beautifully, drag-free, but received nary a nod of acknowledgement from the brookie. The real insects, however, were subjected to far more attention than they presumably wanted.

Izaak tried again and again to no avail, so he thought it wise to season his efforts with more supplication, "Lord, I'm wishing to catch this particular brook trout in the worst way possible. I don't care about the rest--just this one. Perhaps you will make it so." What happened next can only be attributed the weird workings of divine providence. Greyfriar made his cast and allowed it to drift. For a split-second the Henryville imitation paralleled one of the live caddises. Suddenly the Trout, which had taken a serious fancy to the genuine article, sort of lobbed itself at the fluttering fly. Upon splash-down the brookie hit Izaak's leader, pushing it downward and the fake caddis upward and--by some mysterious act of hydro-physics--straight into the fish's left pectoral fin.

The Reverend Izaak Greyfriar was aghast. This was hardly the scenario he had envisioned. He had dreamed of banging the brookie fairly and squarely, and after a fine fight, releasing it gently--with a prayer for its well being. Instead, he was tangled up with a foul-hooked creature, its body snagged in a fashion that could ultimately prove fatal. Normally, a squaretail caught by one of its fins is not lethally injured. The actual danger lies in the absence of leverage that comes with a jaw-hooked fish, resulting in a drawn out battle that can literally tire the trout to death. Izaak jerked his fly rod hard, desiring with all his heart to rip the Henryville loose: a most regretful maneuver. He broke the tip on his precious Payne. Fueled by rage, he stomped out of the river, laid the rod down in the dirt, grabbed his fly line, hand-hauled the Trout quickly to the edge of the bank, and set it free without a single word of blessing. He then threw his rod, reel, vest and waders into the trunk of the car and drove home considerably slower than usual. He had an awful lot on his mind.

"Well, did you get him?" Mrs. Greyfriar always took an interest in her husband's fishing.

"My dear, all I can say is this: 'Be very careful how you pray--you might get exactly what you ask for.'"