A Day on the White
From the Pendergrass Library
Down below the bridge I crossed the river where it was shallow, moving slowly so as not to spook any of the already rising trout, and now the nearly full moon was to my back. Away from the river the blackened shadows danced quietly in places where the moon couldn’t reach, the land yawning at the approaching night.
Where I stood, looking back upstream, the calm waters of the White River spread out around me. Across the river’s surface hundreds of hex-flies drifted along, their tiny bodies gliding along in the current, their transformation from nymph to fly a miracle of nature happening right here, right now.
Also along the river trout rose rhythmically, as if on a cadence; you could see them up the length of the waterway. Some fish came up quietly to take the bugs, cautious about giving away their spot in the water. Others leapt with reckless abandon, madly going after the flies, leaping from the grips of the river in their desire to satisfy their hunger.
The humidity was high, the swarms of mosquitoes intense, and the hope that I could hook up with one of these German brown trout great.
This wasn’t our first trip here this year. The night before, when thousands and thousands of hexagenia flies were lifting off the river, my son patiently coaxed a 20-inch fish to take his offering. The fish held deep for some time, but eventually gave in to the lift of the rod and the resolve of the angler. We stood close together in the dark, our eyes gazing upon the net that held the fish, our headlamps forming a hallo above us. The fish was nearly perfect in every way.
Now, down and to the right, a weighty trout was splashing recklessly near the willows. Moving his way, with each noisy rise and splash, the anticipation of hooking into this trout overwhelmed me. I wanted to catch this fish. Casting out to the fish it was a struggle to synchronize my fly with the rhythm of his feeding routine. I stayed at it, but eventually the trout shut off and I turned my attention elsewhere.
On this night my son kept closer to holes and eddies where he’d enjoyed success before, the result a 16-inch trout that eventually game to the net. I don’t usually see this sort of patience in my son’s life like I do here on the river. There’s a lot that happens here that you don’t see every day.
When there is this many ‘real’ flies on the water it takes a healthy amount of luck to line up a ‘fake’ fly in the choreography of the feed. Indeed, patience is the key to this endeavor, but sadly it isn’t typically one of my own virtues. On a half dozen occasions I watch trout rise and take flies that are within inches of my own. But I won’t sulk.
Sometimes the measure of success must be marked alongside the yardstick of failure. Three trout seemingly rose to my flies, pulling them beneath the water, one was stung for sure; another hooked up only briefly. Did I catch a fish? Had a trout come to my net? No. Was the evening a total flop? Far from it; very far.
Above me the stars shimmered across the vastness of the sky and the heavens. The heat of the day silently gave way to the coolness of night. A whippoorwill called out to its mate over across the field. A bullfrog gave a throaty croak nearly at my feet.
Along the river other anglers stood in the dark, alone or in pairs, their thoughts on fish that rose before them, collectively sharing the hope that one of those trout would take their fly and the realization of angling dreams would be fulfilled.
At the end of the hatch, when the fish shut down for the night, when the chorus of coyotes began calling out over near the pines, we’ll all gather back at the bridge. Stories will be told I in the dark. Faceless handshakes will be shared. And unseen smiles will be offered.
Only then is the day truly over.
Darrell Pendergrass lives in Grand View.