26 December 2001
Dear Bishop Hackle:
Today is December 26th; Christmas is done. America at large--and fly fishermen in particular--ought to be back on the job, slaving away so they can spend more. I will assure you, my dear bishop, that far too few of the latter are taking seriously their patriotic duty to revitalize Lady Liberty's flagging economy.
Assuming both blue and white collars should be putting in a full eight hours, I drove to the Swift early this morning with the expectation of possessing the river entirely to myself. Arriving at the parking area slightly upstream from the hatchery hole, behold, my fondest wish seemed to have come true--no cars in sight, not even one. Sweet solitude. Hallelujah!
I strung up leisurely, savoring the ritual of locking an antique Hardy onto a cherrywood reel seat, threading the silk line through guide after guide, and selecting a fortuitous fly. Then, whilst warming frozen fingers with a bowl of the finest English blend ever mixed by yours truly, I shuffled down the bank in hopes of catching a speckled beauty instead of pneumonia. The weather was clear and painfully cold.
Forty minutes of splendid serenity elapsed, punctuated only by the occasional appearance of a rather reluctant rainbow, before the quietude was interrupted by another angler asking, "Get anything yet?" I spun around at the sound of his voice and, mustering as much false politeness as humanly possible, returned question for question: "Why aren't you working, sir?"
"Called in sick, took time off for fishing. How about you?"
"I'm a preacher. . . on vacation."
"Shouldn't you be doing the Lord's work?"
"I am. Genesis, chapter one, calls it exercising dominion over creation."
"Great excuse! Did the Boss upstairs bite?"
"Pagan pig," I muttered almost inaudibly, and continued casting without further conversation.
Now don't get self-righteous on me, Harry. Yes, I treated the fellow with considerable rudeness, but I dare say you would have done nothing different in the same circumstance. After all, I didn't risk frostbite so I could enjoy being thawed out by warm fuzzy feelings towards some middle-aged fly rodding bubba bent on scamming his foreman and crowding me out of my rightful space on the stream. The guy stood no more than thirty feet away; one deliberate back cast and I could have ripped his head clean off.
Then, to make matters immeasurably worse, three additional yahoos materialized from the woods about a half-hour later, trampled down to the pool, and positioned themselves on top of each other--and me. I had to leave, flee elsewhere, but where? Without the foggiest notion of a specific destination I hopped in the car, lit a torpedo sized stogie, and headed more or less northwest. The method to my madness was simple: Upon finishing the cigar, I'd stop driving and wade whatever water might be found--which just happened to be the Hoosic in Williamsburg.
That river, veritably swimming with big "PCB" browns, is generally ignored by those looking for a state sponsored meal because the fish soon become quite poisonous. You can't eat them, which doesn't really bother me because I practice catch and release exclusively. Anyhow, there's a slow deep stretch where the Green dumps into the Hoosic, and because it's a frustrating hike through the brush from the main road, only the fiercely dedicated would dare to nymph it in the midst of winter. I, being prominent amongst such company, naturally decided to cut a fresh trail through the bushes and friars, the prickers and stickers, for the luxurious pleasure of complete privacy. The effort proved eminently worthwhile.
Beginning with a Woolly Bugger is generally a good idea, at least for me, but a faint cranial utterance said, "Try an Egg Sucking Leech." I listened closely enough to toss a pink-headed version above a semi-submerged tree trunk. Before the end of the drift I found myself quarreling with an intensely irate brownie who apparently regards Episcopalians with extreme disdain. Words cannot sufficiently describe the severity of the fight, but when our struggles were over, my waders were full and the old bamboo rod showed a definite set. Allow your imagination to assign size and weight, and you'll surely be wrong. Guaranteed. Try 25 inches, 6-1/4 pounds.
Well, Harry, after finally saying farewell to a worthy opponent, I hustled back to the Buick, turned the heat on high and drove home hastily, fervently praying I wouldn't meet a zealous police officer along the way. Interspersed with those supplications were many praises for His gracious providence. For you see, had God not plagued me on the Swift, I would have never landed the trout of a lifetime in the Hoosic.
Tight lines,
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E mail Perry Fuller at darkcahill.com
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