Whoops, oops, kersplash

On Wednesday, May 26, the “Bamboo Gang” held its first meeting of the year. Rod Futerhas took this opportunity to show off the fly rod that Kuma Kirri had refinished for him. In addition to the beautiful refinishing work, Kuma built two new tips for the rod. This is a Eustace Edwards rod that had been built around 1925. I cannot help but feel that Mr. Edwards would be pleased with the quality of Kuma’s work and how promptly the work had been accomplished. Barb and I both cast this rod. Despite its age, the stick cast as gracefully as the day it was made. While still a relatively unknown rod builder, Kuma can work magic with a culm of bamboo. After a light dinner, we went our separate ways in order to go trout hunting.

Barb and I went down to Centerville, but were disappointed to find another car already parked there. Two fishermen already were in the pool. Fortunately, they moved off upstream until they were out of sight. After watching the water in the long flat with no rise forms on its surface, Barb elected to read in the van. It did not look promising, but I geared up and rappelled down the steep bank. The first hour I did no more than sit on a comfortable bank side rock while watching the East Branch flow by on its long journey to the ocean. Every once in a while a fish would rise, but none worked steadily. Then a fish rose twice and I was tempted to rise up, wade out a bit and try for him. The rod easily sent the fly out for the fish to examine, but my casts drew no positive reaction. When I attempted to return to the bank my legs went numb. Briefly, I tried to maintain my balance, then clumsily tumbled into the river. I managed to hold the bamboo rod high and safe. “Down went McGinty to the bottom of the sea, he must be very wet for they have not found him yet.” I struggled to my feet and returned to my sitting rock, damp but unharmed.

Night slowly came to the river. As Kate Smith once sang, “the moon came over the mountain.” It was time to climb back up to the car. Ah but wait, look there. Three trout are rising steadily and carelessly in the middle of the river. Shall I try wading out into the inky black flow to try for them? Even if the only light on the river comes from the moon and the stars, no fly fisher worth his salt walks away from rising trout. I wade out cautiously. First, almost knee deep, then mid thigh, probing ahead with my wading staff. I’d like to avoid another involuntary swim.

OK, I can reach them now. The little #16 Rusty Brown spinner is sent again and again and again out towards the rising fish. It’s far too dark to see the fly. I have to guess if I am putting it over the fish. This is discouraging fishing. Ah, the hell with it. One last cast, then it’s quits and back to the car. The cast is made. Out there on the oily, black, smooth flow, a rise form appears. I strike gently to see if anyone is home. Fish on. This fish is so heavy the rod tip is pulled over and down into the water. Minutes fly by, but this fish is still not under control. I lose count of how often my reel sings the song anglers love to hear. The fish comes to the surface, wallowing mightily in the moonlight. Then my quarry makes one last wild dash heading for the far bank, and is gone. I am standing in a river with only a busted leader on the end of my silk fly line. Go home fly fisher, for it seems as if “the moon and stars no longer shine.”

- Clem Fullerton