A Woman's Angle

Haunted Stream By Beth Wilson I go to the stream in the morning, the little stream that very few have found, and push through the brambles and overgrowth to where the sound of water begins. This water is perfect for trout, full of deep pools headed by riffles, undercut banks where the fish can lie in wait for the unsuspecting earthworm or cricket, and fallen trees that provide safe hiding places. This place is cool and shadowy, and so overgrown that the light is dim until midmorning. The sun has not toughened the grass here, and it is velvet thick, the roots having been constantly bathed in the groundwater that emerges into the little stream. In the gloom, it is nearly impossible to attach the tiny fly to the leader, and my fingers feel like monstrous, inept sausages as I squint to find the eye of the hook. “You have to be patient, girl, or you’ll spoil the outing with your frustrated fumbling.” “Don’t be so hard on yourself—if you want to use a bigger fly until it gets lighter, then go ahead and tie on a bigger one.” The temptation is there, but I want to start small to avoid a spook, and I explain this to the advocate of the larger fly. I have come in so quietly and carefully, and have spent some precious time just sitting, becoming the grass and the trees and the earthen bank and the bits of sky that peep through the cover, so the trout will not see me as anything other than another part of its world. I do not wish to ruin such an effort by casting a fly that was easy enough to thread but impossible to present with any finesse on a stream this size. I’ll take my time and tie on the smaller fly, thanks. “Soocherself…” I sense a smile and the twinkle of an unseen eye. Finally the fly is on the leader, and I roll cast under the branches of the trees and around the camouflaging thorn bushes, risking my clothing, skin, eyes and tackle to settle the fly into the water as gently as possible. “Not bad, but it needed to go a little more upstream. You’ll have to cast again sooner than you want to.” “Mind you don’t let that fly drag, or all your trouble will be for naught.” Kibitzing, I think. As if the fish don’t make me nervous enough, I have kibitzing. I have brought a cup of coffee with me, and it steams on the bank, waiting for me to drink it and waken my sleepy fingers, so that I don’t foul the line or toss the fly up into the branches; but as long as the fly is in the water, I don’t dare take my eyes from it. I have spotted a few cautious eddies as hidden fish pass it, watching it for any hint of falsehood. I hold my breath, waiting for the bump. “Steady… steady now… ” The voices in the wood hush, waiting with me. The strike comes, and I feel the thrill of seeing it. All catches are good, but to see a fish strike on top of the water at a dry fly includes an angler in the process. “Nice brown trout.” It is a nice one: about twelve inches long and deep through the chest and belly, golden with large brown spots ringed in red. This one’s a keeper; this one is breakfast. The leaves shuffle in the breeze over my head, and I know that I have disturbed the soul of a die-hard catch and release angler, but I also know that flesh eaten with awareness and gratitude is never consumed in cruelty. This fish will feed my spirit as well as my body, and I am glad for the opportunity to have it be so. I wash the fish, put it in my creel and set the creel in the water where it will stay fresh and cool. The catch has caused a disturbance in the water, so I decide to sit back for a while and let it settle. I put up the rod and secure the hook, pick up my coffee, and just listen.