water was hard fought. The fish took me to
backing once and was certainly a team effort
to land and release. But he only the first.
The Owen is a wiggly river, winding its
way into the tundra. We walked in and out,
forensically looking for fish. In one run, the
clouds opened enough for the sun to pass in
long enough to ensure a shadow was in fact
a living fish. For what must have been 30
minuets I made the exact long cast, upstream,
above him putting nymphs on his nose. Un-
deterred and experienced, Dave went through
19 fly changes, but we were only encouraging
refusals. I’d never seen anything like it. Big
fish in skinny water rejecting everything being
fed to him.
Keeping a firm eye on him as we walked
up to the next pool, Dave spotted another and
I got into position. “This is the one. I think
it’s a double (digit).”
Then Dave started on his set up mumble
to himself. “Let me see that. Not that fly. Cun-
ning, these fish are cunning. Where’s the sun?
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A fine specimen from one of the many
streams fished by Owen River Lodge guests.
OK follow me. Jason follow me.” I guess that
last one was directed at me.
I stood in water not deep enough to lap
over my boot laces, the sun high and too my
right illuminating all the water save a green
pool under two trees. These were going to be
long casts and prayers were being squeezed
off to be the best I’ve ever made. Dave walked
higher in the riffle to get a better look and
provide color commentary.
“He’s gonna … he’s an eater …”
Still not sure if those were to me or him-
self. I tried everything I’ve ever learned about
double haul and slowing it down for a soft
presentation. For a brief moment, a lifetime of
this passion came together.
“UHHGH!” Dave’s word for set.
I set. He was on. Heart pounding like kiss-
ing a girl for the first time. The fish immedi-
ately turned downriver, ran into the sun and
bolted like being shot from a 12 gauge. I gave
him all the slack I had, quickly getting him
on the reel and kept tension holding the rod
high in the air. But the fish was unimpressed
and broke off as if my fly was just a bug on
his windshield.
That’s when we sat down on the Owen
River and called it the greatest day I’ve had in
a lifetime of fishing.