44
NOV/DEC 2018
45
FISHING|
FALL: THE PAGE TURNS
BY EDMUND WADESON
impenetrable tangle of roots and limbs below and
break me off. My net was far too small to handle
the fish so I wrangled its head in and grabbed the
tail with the other hand. I released it and watched
it swim back to the refuge of the depths between
the logs and limbs below.
A theme started repeating at the back of my mind
throughout the afternoon although I can’t say why.
It must be important for some subterranean rea-
son I have yet to fully understand. I drove home
repeating it randomly until it has become some-
thing of a mantra for the season, and a harbinger
of what is just beyond the horizon - “The Septem-
ber wind whispers promises of winter across my
cheek then disappears”. And so it does.
The east slope of the mountains are as bare of snow as I can recall ever seeing them.
They appear parched and brown each morning on the drive to work, with the few rem-
nants of whatever glaciers remain shrinking by the day. I am trying to adjust to the
changes of season even as they quietly happen around me. I never get ahead of the
curve, I invariably find myself chasing after it.
The changes are noticeable on the water also. Last week it was clear that Fall had arrived
when the current carried a continual parade of orange leaves past me as I spent an after-
noon thigh deep in the water of a favorite place. The willow greens have faded to brown,
copper, saffron and gold. There is something about the quality of light as it penetrates the
water surface less directly as the sun stays closer to the horizon. Submerged objects are
rendered as slightly oblique and trout are more easily missed when scanning the depths.
Shadows are longer too and the wind carries a keener edge. The afternoon sun falls with
a more golden quality about it that is impossible to convey in written words, even the most
perfect ones. It is unmistakable however when you see it across the water and feel it fall
across your face. These days are always memorable for their mellowed feel, very different
from the crisp sunny afternoons of May. The bank side grasses have turned a bleached
out color, like wheat ready for harvest and they rustle when I walk through them. Ripples
on the water are tinged with a bit more gold.
I took a pause in the search for trout last time I was out with the fly rod and sat down on
the bank edge in the late afternoon. The whole gamut of fall flavors was writ large and laid
out in front of me. Sun, wind, water, foliage, grass and even trout combined into a beautiful
tableau that struck me as I paused along the bank. It is amazing how a limited palette of
colors can be so awesome and so rich. I had to stop, sit and take it in. A few moments
after I sat down in the grass a trout perhaps 18 inches long slowly made its way along
the bank and stopped a few feet away from where I sat. Normally I would have responded
to the inherent prompt to stalk a trout of that size and cast a fly, but not then. I just sat,
relaxed and watched as the fish slowly cruised the shore line and made its way out of my
sight. It was one of many silent sideshow events in a beautiful afternoon on the river.
I did hook and land some typically beautiful trout that afternoon. I found them hanging
closer to the bottom and less interested in swinging back and forth from their holding
places. I did land one very large trout that held its place in a deep hole among downed
trees and branches. I tempted it out with a gold egg pattern that I managed, after several
vain attempts, to set on the bottom close to it. It came and looked at the egg closely then
turned away, then turned back, then turned away. When it finally tipped down and grabbed
the fly I let it almost return to its lie before I applied rod pressure and slowly set the hook.
We played tug of war for long minutes at the surface, which was my saving grace. Some
fish charge headlong when hooked, others bend each way violently shaking their heads
to rid themselves of the hook, some take to the air in repeated leaps. This one came to
the surface and tried all that but it did not, as others have done, pull the line down into the
Maybe I am becoming mellowed, now that I don’t
have to try as hard as I once did to hook and land
every fish I discover. I don’t have to cross to the
other side every time I witness a rise or a swirl
that denotes a feeding fish. There’s no doubt I am
husbanding my strength and picking and choos-
ing more these days. Perhaps autumn has come
to me too? All things in their own time, I suppose.
I have no doubt that one day I will probably leave
winter fishing behind as too much hassle; too
much discomfort, and as the need to land a trout
relinquishes its hold on my psyche. I can’t say how
the mellowing I am seeing in myself will resolve
itself as the years pass, but until then I hope to
venture out and savor at least one or two of what
few golden afternoons there may be left to us yet
this year. The trout will be there too.
Edmund Wadeson lives, fishes and introduces
others to fly fishing in Central Oregon.