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1st Place: You’ll Never Forget Your First
by Eric Linkenhoker
I turn my head and look out the window at
the passing trees. Jason, my brother, shifts in the
back seat, trying to find a comfortable position to take
a short nap. Dad’s voice rises and falls as he speaks
of local politics, the economy, global warming, the
neighbor’s noisy lawn mower, and how glad he is that I
don’t fish with a can of worms next to me anymore. The
road meanders through mountains and limestone valleys.
Sheep, growing heavy with fall wool, stand lazily on the
sun-spotted hillsides. The smell of fallen leaves and
last night’s rain shower blends with the smoke curling
slowly from dad’s pipe tobacco.
My eardrum flutters uncomfortably at the
pitch of dad’s voice as he yells at the person in a
sports car that pulled out in front of us before
stopping in the road to look at a groundhog nibbling on
the tall grass at the side of the ditch. I nod in
agreement with his coarse words, shake my head at the
other driver as we pass, and let my mind drift to the
fly rod tucked safely in its hard green case behind the
back seat. My brother grunts behind me and then slips
back into silence, his head resting on a rolled up pair
of light brown chest waders.
My focus shifts back to the gentle roll of
the mountains blanketed by an azure sky speckled with
pale gray clouds. I sense life’s tension ease from my
limbs and I close my eyes. The three of us wait in the
silence that lies between life as it is and life as we
want it to be. I try to remember what I learned the
week before; look above and behind for trees, wet the
knot in the leader before pulling it tight, don’t let
the tip of the rod drop too far, don’t let the fly drag
across the current, keep my shadow off the water I’m
casting to or the trout will spook and dart away.
Dad makes a left and I hear the change in
his voice as the whine of tires on tarmac gives way to
the satisfying crunch and pop of gravel. I roll my
window down and breathe deep the sharp edge of morning
air. The river appears as we crest a hill. Sunlight
filters through the red and yellow foliage to dance on
the surface of the water.
As we cross the bridge, dad lets out a laugh
that wakes my brother. Jason sits up and yawns as dad
tells us how he used to come here with his brothers
before we were born. One day, it got too hot to fish so
dad and two of his brothers walked up to the bridge
where they were parked to rest and get something cold to
drink. They’d all worn green felt hats they’d ordered
from L.L.Bean a few weeks earlier. A carful of
fisherman stopped at the bridge and pulled out their
fishing licenses and offered them to my dad. He quickly
realized the hat he had on looked like the hats game
wardens wore and the men in the car thought he was
checking to see if they had their permit to fish for
trout. After inspecting the men’s licenses, dad and his
brothers killed time waiting for it to cool down by
checking the license of anyone fishing with bait. One
side of my mouth curled into a mischievous grin as I
imagined dad trying to maintain his composure while
asking to see a stranger’s fishing license.
The road becomes more rutted and uneven
as we drive past the stocked trout waters to the grassy
parking area for the fly-fishing-only section of the
river. We park, get out to stretch our legs, and begin
suiting up for the walk downstream. I listen to the
dull rustle and inhale the plastic smell of my slightly
used waders as I pull them up over my clothes and fasten
the suspenders. I check the pockets of my vest to make
sure I have my reel, fly box, and extra leaders before
unzipping the case and taking out my fly rod. We have
miles to walk, so I leave the rod broken down to make it
easier to weave through the laurel and greenbriers.
Dad leads the way as we ford the river,
climb the far bank, and set out over a ridge that runs
down to the water’s edge. As I walk, my waders become
hot and uncomfortable and the wading boots slip on wet
leaves. I wipe sweat from my forehead and trudge
forward through the undergrowth, looking ahead for
briers that snap back from the passing of my brother
just ahead.
We descend to the bank of the river where
the water looks cool and beckons me. Despite the
coolness of the morning, the hike and my waders make me
want to jump in headfirst. Dad told me before we left
to carry them in and put them on just before we start
fishing, but I didn’t listen. He looks at me as I roll
the waders down to my hips but doesn’t say a word. We
walk a bit further downstream, stopping occasionally to
peer into the water and look for trout we will angle for
on the way back.
An old fire ring marks the place where we
leave the trail and make our way into the water. I take
my reel out of the case and place it in the seat. I run
my line carefully through each eyelet before realizing I
have the reel backwards and have to turn it around and
run the line back through the chrome loops. The sun
warms the bank where I sit and the mirrored surface of
the river that lies before me. I pull eight feet of
line from the end of my rod and look to the water for a
sign. I see gray-winged insects leave small ripples
behind as they break the surface tension of the water
and flit away into the trees. I take the fly box from
my vest and it makes a sharp, snapping noise as it opens
up to reveal the colorful flies my dad tied and placed
there for me. My fingers pass over the nymphs,
streamers, and bright Royal Coachmen to take hold of a
number fourteen Adam’s fly.
I run the fingers of my left hand down the
line to the thin leader end and pass it through the eye
of the hook in my right hand. The bimini twists over
itself as I turn the fly between my fingers before
passing the line through the small loop I leave at the
head of the fly. I place the line to my tongue to wet
it and then pull the loose end to tighten the knot. The
tip of the hook makes its way into the flesh of my index
finger as I pull on it to check my knot. An expletive
escapes my mouth as I pull the hook out. A single drop
of crimson bubbles up on my skin and I suck on it to
ease the pain.
My dad points out how the river splits into
two currents in the middle. He tells Jason to wade down
and out to fish the far current so I can stay close to
the bank so I can hear dad. I wade out a short distance
from the bank and reach into the top pocket of my vest
for a bottle of floatant. I squeeze a small drop of the
milky silicone onto the fly and massage it into the
feathered wings of the fly. The oily liquid burns the
hole in my finger so I dip my hand into the water to
wash it away. Remembering the rules of catch and
release, I take my hemostat and pinch the barb off the
end of the hook.
The water presses against my waders as it
rolls by, creating an odd sensation of being cooled and
rubbed up against without getting wet. Looking
overhead, I see no low-hanging limbs to grab onto my fly
as I cast. Dad reminds me to keep my rod tip up higher
than I had the first time and to follow the fly with
it. I cast out a short distance and then listen to the
clicking of the reel as I strip out a few more feet of
line for the next cast. I lift my rod, wait for it to
load up and cast forward. The line jerks and stops my
arm mid-cast. Turning around, I see that I hooked a
clump of grass growing on a rock jutting from the
water. Dad shakes his head as I turn to wade back and
retrieve my fly.
On the other side of the river, I see my
brother bite his lip as he flicks his wrist upward,
setting the hook into the mouth of rising trout. The
line strips from his reel as he holds the rod up high.
I stop to watch him play the fish long enough to land it
without causing it too much stress. Lifting the trout
in his net, he holds it up long enough for dad and me to
see the shimmering, striped side of the rainbow trout.
Dad nods in Jason’s direction as he tamps some fresh
tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. Jason let the trout
rest for a moment to get some oxygen before releasing it
and watching it explode upstream through the current.
Dad motions to me from the bank and I
retrieve my fly from the grass. I walk back up to cast
again. My fly lands upstream of a trout and floats
toward it. I squint my eyes and try to follow the fly
as it bobs up and down on the current, slipping over the
brown and purple rocks resting under the water. The
trout swims forward and starts to ascend. I feel my
muscles tighten. The rod tip shakes ever so slightly
and the fly screams across the current at an odd angle,
leaving behind a wake. The trout dives and swims
upstream.
I reel in some line and pause to take off my
hat and dip it into the water before putting it back on
my head. The cool water wets my hair and runs down my
face. I wipe my face on my shirt sleeve and look over
to dad. He says nothing, just points the mouthpiece of
his pipe to a rippled target on the surface where
another trout had risen to feed.
Breathing deeply, I begin stripping enough
line to cast above the trout. I lift my arm next to my
head and feel the line tug at the rod from behind.
Moving my arm forward, I hear the line faintly as it
passes overhead. I settle into a rhythm and let the fly
linger just above the water before pulling back to let
out more line. My arm moves back and forth in unison
with the fly rod. For the first time, I really feel
what I am doing. It feels like a poem without words.
With one last gentle forward motion, I let the fly
settle on the surface. It floats high and offers no
resistance to the river. I see the trout rise and
tenderly take the fly into its mouth. With a subtle
flick of the wrist, the hook sets and I feel the weight
of the trout on the end of my line replace the weight
I’d carried on my shoulders. I reel in the line,
keeping the rod tip high, and slowly bring the trout to
my net. The net slips under and cradles the trout as I
lift it from its world into mine.
I look and see that it is a rainbow trout.
I hold out my hand next to the body of the trout to get
an idea of how long it is; about fourteen inches. My
brother caught a bigger fish, but this one is mine.
Studying the bright blue and red streaks painting the
side of the trout, I wonder how they blend in so well
with the rocks under water. Over my shoulder, I notice
my brother looking in my direction. I turn to show him
the trout in my net. He smiles and pumps his fist in
the air. I hear dad move on the bank and I turn to see
him rubbing his reddish-brown beard. I try to control
my childish enthusiasm but laugh despite myself as I
lift the net up to show dad my catch.
Dad stands up to looked at me. I feel his
eyes even though I can’t see them through his dark
sunglasses. Taking the pipe out of his mouth, he points
it at me and smiles. “Alright, a rainbow,” he says. I
lower the trout into the water and back the hook from
its jaw. The mouth gasps for water until I lower it the
rest of the way. With one powerful flip of its tail, it
leaves my net and swims to a pile of rocks submerged
upstream. I look back over to dad and see him tie a fly
on the end of his line. He raises his head to speak to
me. “You’ll never forget your first.” He turns his
pipes over and strikes it with the palm of his hand to
knock out the ashes before putting it in his vest
pocket. He nods his head in my direction and walks
upstream to find trout of his own. |
