The Reed

The fog of Christmas was far behind us as we drove up to the little cabin on the South Toe River. I could not help but wonder as the truck hugged the steep curves if the trout were still there. The hurricane's signs were everywhere. They would be there; I promised myself. And they were. Not like before. Nothing was like it had been before. The boulders of the river found a new home on the fairway of the old golf course. Cart paths and bridges ripped apart. Had Godzilla visited Western North Carolina?

The good news: fishing was once banned during golfing hours. Golfing hours were long gone and would never return. I was free to roam the river's edge and stalk my prey. It was an unseasonably warm day for the week after Christmas, but a cold front was barreling down from the Midwest with low temperatures and high winds. The trout would be eating, and I was ready. It has always been easy to find fish in the crystalline waters that run through the fairways and greens. Much harder to trick them into taking a fly. A beautiful wild rainbow took my streamer in the first fifteen minutes, and as I gently released it into the cold current, I was reminded of just how beautiful the fish are in the South Toe. My confidence was high as I pushed further upstream.

Suddenly, along a sunny stretch that separated two fairways, the temperature rose, the sun shone, and on my neck I felt the familiar wiggle of a caddis. The air was suddenly full of tiny, winged specks. A hatch. Sure, enough thirty feet out a large rainbow began to feed on the surface. My ego got the best of me. I would catch a December trout on a dry fly. I opened my box. No dry fly. A tiny black woolly bugger would have to do the trick. It would float on the first cast, maybe a second if I was lucky.

I rerigged and began my cast. Did I mention my confidence was high? My stroke reflected that spirit. But oh, how the castle can easily crumble. I felt it. One back cast too many. My fly snagged a tall reed on the unkempt bunker behind me. I watched helplessly as an inch long clump of stiff brown weed passed by my head with a wobbly swish and landed in the perfect spot. My heart broke. And then rose beating out of my chest as the trout crushed the reed and pulled it under the water with its mighty jaws.

The hook, completely shielded by its passenger, was useless. After a second or two, the trout let go. I fiercely pulled in line, and the rainbow, with equal fierceness, continued to strike the woolly bugger and reed all the way back to my feet.

I pulled the reed off, the sun sank behind a cloud, and the wind almost blew my cap off. The river is still. The caddis is gone. The day is over.