It’s 5:30 AM. I look down at the path that leads to my secret fishing spot, my honey hole, if you will. There are trout the size of dragons awaiting below.
It’s just below Silver Hill on the east fork of the Carson River in Markleeville, CA.
I haven’t been here in what feels like a few lifetimes. The traverse down to the river is now a deceiving one since the Tamarack fire decided to try and devastate this little town I’ve grown to love over the years.
I start the descent by careening my ass down a crooked cliff band. Daybreak is momentarily absent. My only source of light, being the lamp upon my head just flickered dead.
So here I stand in the shadow of a new dawn with my only guidance being led by a gut feeling.
And I’m left with no choice, but to go for it.
I know this route like the back of my hand, my muscle memory manages to keep its forward progression. Moving to fast though, I slipped, tripped, and fell. But if not for one strategically placed rock, the moonlight and my right hand, I might have not escaped a dance with death today.
But I did. Adrenaline set in tenfold.
The moonlight's reflection bounced off of the water, helping me navigate my way through the canyon. The stars shone down upon my soul, instinct, now my only courier to the sanctuary in which it is I seek.
I stumble down one last stubborn boulder of mental bedrock. My feet now steady and my heart calm, standing still on the banks of the river.
The hue upon the horizon islowly glows with shades of daylight, as amplified pastels slowly take over the darkness. The river’s surface was smooth, serene, almost as if it was painted with moonlight.
All of a sudden, an impulsive eddy disrupts the pool’s surface. Aquatic life was surely bustling below. This was definitely the honey hole. I haven’t been here in ages.
I assemble the four piece rod and attach the reel. l feed the line through the eye and surgically tie a few knots back together. I tie a dragonfly to the leader and choose my path of eternal salvation. The barb is crimped as I plunge into the midst of the flow of this river.
I wasn't here to torture and eat. I was here to be challenged and to fish in the stillness of myself.
I meander erratically, slipping with grace through the mysterious depths below the surface, as my balance and the flow of the current accompany each other with an unknown poise.
I find solid ground beneath my feet, and don't move for what feels like an eternal moment, as to allow the environment underneath a chance to churn back to life.
Time, like myself at the moment, is frozen in this sanctuary like a statue; there is no beginning and no end. Just this moment. I feel the chilly touch of the river flowing against my legs and an unforeseen warmth shivers up my spine.
I hone in on my point of attack.
The rod sways with flexible and congruent civility. The fly line loops with the pattern of infinity, and unloads itself as I present the dragonfly with precision upon the gently lit pool. It lands upon the targeted surface, creating a sort of rippling effect.
I mend the line slightly upstream with ease into the capricious current. The dragonfly floats with the elegance of a ballerina into a dead drift. The slack from my line glides it’s way through my fingertips, as anticipation is overtaken by a belly of confidence.
Without heed, or warning whatsoever, the poor little dragonfly was swallowed whole.
The rod then bends with the most industrious force from a pound of flesh that a man has ever known. I raise an imaginary roof with my arms, my hands clutching the reel as though I am praying to the heavens.
The line darts eleventeen hundred and some odd feet upstream leaving its own little wake behind it. I let the slack run all the way til the end of its rope, until the pound or two of flesh seems weightless.
I knew what was next.
The dragon sized trout blasts off from beneath the surface, taking its one last shot at freedom. It‘s dorsal fins dance like angel wings toward the heavens with a suffocated beauty, only to fall back into its natural habitat.
And ready, to fight for it’s life.
I sling the tip of the rod above my shoulder with every ounce of satisfaction I have left in my bones.
The hook was set. I loosen the drag and let it run, before I start trying to reel it in. It grows tired quick, and I do too. It was pretty damn early after all.
The adrenaline again courses through my veins and quickly kicks back in. The weight of the struggle almost brings me to my knees, as my entire being falls halfway into the river, though I am quick to regain my balance, and start reeling it all in with all of my might.
And at last, the fish rolls over a few times with every last bit of energy it wishes to exhaust, and with the rod tucked under my arms, it slipped delicately into my hands.
I pull the net from the back of my vest, as a king would wield his sword to protect his queen. I’m in awe with amazement at the unique colors that the heavens painted this two pounds of flesh with. It is the most divine thing my one good eye has ever had the pleasure of seeing.
I delicately release the hook and cradle the fish with fragility just below the water's surface, as to memorize the gorgeous and authentic placed speckles upon this certain trout.
I glance at the sky and commend Heaven for this dubious fight with a blown kiss, as I caress such a unique fish back to its wild and native habitat.
And with a hint of volatility, the fish swam infinite circles around and through my legs. Then she shimmied her pretty little tail my direction one more time, as a sort of symbolic hug and a kiss and an “I’ll see you soon.”
And in a flash, she was gone.
Til the next time.
Yours Truly,
Ryan Love
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