They brought the boat to bank on island in the stream where the current divided into two separate runs on island’s sides ever-shifting and moved, season on season, by wash and pushing of the water.
One side was broad and shallow, riffles that lit in length over water’s spread. On second side, channel narrowed and current cut fast, shelf of stone at island’s start that cut and fell into deep of hole where water back-eddied in its hold. Along channel’s length, water cut into underside of bank overhanging in brush and trees in speed through narrow channel until island’s tail and two paths merged again to one.
There were many ways to fish the water: simple casts upstream, watching and feeling fly in its drift; cross-stream casts of streamers, appearing as small minnows and crayfish fighting across the riffled current’s rush, stripping line and giving loose into the water for tumble of streamer like prey’s stumble or losing strength. These were the ways of the riffled run.
On narrow cut, lighting fly on underside of rock shelf’s carve, letting undertow and back-eddy draw and keep it in deep of hole where big fish lurked, feasting on stunned creatures in fall from shelf and caught in sudden different current; casting into the undercut of banks, giving line as streamer in shallow but controlling for natural sweep and flow and appearance to fish in drift and path of fly. One lost many flies this way—and caught many fish.
He walked to island’s point and began on rock shelf’s ledge.
Anna went to the side of softer current and riffled run where light danced on ripple-wash and water spoke in gentler tone. It was the scenic side, water chosen by ones in priority of sight and rewards of presence more than of piscine.
In match to the water and seek, he chose for her a pretty fly hand-tied by him in years before. Fine long-tailed, cream dubbing and pheasant quilled body, black and white flecked hackle and wings of a dove harvested in fall before: a fly that was art offered to the water by idealists and dreamers who do not care that it is the ugly, common flies that most often catch more fish.
Fly fishing is a beauty, ideal and art of action, and there is nothing wrong with choosing and going all the way in tying fly to fine-end tippet that is creation-ideal of same.
She thanked him, and he gave her space for backcast and roll to fish the open water that she chose.
Tyler fished the other side. He started in eddy and back-current of hole beneath the rock shelf ledge. His fly was ugly, bronze beaded hair’s ear, size 16, that was nothing more than semblance of bug fresh lodged and washed from stone and sand stream-bottom.
Short cast, no beauty, backdrift of the fly, stike sensed through rod and line. He set the hook, he caught it fast—rainbow of forearm’s length.
He strung stringer line through mouth and gills and returned the fish to swim in cut of the pool, stringer line held and kept from loss and escape by rock upon its end.
Another cast, another fish, he repeated process of the same.
Wanting more than to simply “catch,” he followed path of the fast-wash current. Under overhang, into undercut, he cast fly low—but not low enough—catching and losing in the brush.
Next, he fished a weighted wooly bugger. It sank fast in the current, and swept in streamer course from cover into open channel in imitation of escape. To imitation, aggressive strike came—a brown from brush and cover hitting fast and hard and stripping line in run downstream.
Strong fish on light line, one cannot muscle but must tire and wear and work to landing. So he did, fish tiring after first hard run and take of line, brought back, fish’s fight in cross-weave of the small channel, hooked mouth in face upstream to the current.
Not having net, he landed it to bank and took it into hands. It was larger than the rainbows of hole before.
Truth, two fish, they had enough to eat and so he let it free. Tired, it did not bolt, but woke from windedness and stun, slowly, and swam away the same back into cover of brush and shadow.
He wondered how Anna fared on other side.
Looking back, he saw her, piece and part to river scene; yellow bikini top and khaki shorts, skin’s reddened tone of yesterday’s sun bronzing in returned openness to sun; beauty and ideal, like fly he tied, in open river offering.
He did not care about the fish. He did not care about their fight. Sundance on the riffled run, soft sound of its water-speak, yellow-bright of top, tan of skin—witness-presence was the prize.
He watched as she waded outward into center of run; water from ankles deepening to over her knees, khaki above, sheen of skin between.
The light and slow of her cast—still learning—wave and fold and roll of the line in lay of fly upon; hinting of its drift, a fine he could not see, and then the splash of lips in surface take, her set and sudden live of rod and line; rod’s arc and bend and taught of the line, fish’s run across broad of rifffle’s sweep; the sound of her laugh, gentle like stream’s in pleasure of hook and fish’s play.
He watched it all, near but afar, clear unto its landing to island-bank.
Only then did he join her where she was; large and beautiful rainbow dream—greater than two of his; caught in cast and hook of beautiful ideal and water chosen of the same.
Sometimes, it was where true and greatest dreams held—against all reason and logic.
Truth, one never knew.
What he did know—she was beautiful, she was happy, and he was in love.
She smiled on fish. He smiled on her, both admiring their catching of a dream.