ChaseChrome
Banned
- Joined
- Dec 9, 2011
- Messages
- 2,448
It was a little trib I fished as a child…our house backed onto the ravine that my father built steps into so as to allow for access to the water. Those insouciant and genial summer days of one’s youth were often marked by climbing along the river banks from morning until early evening…around each bend and under every stone the potential for adventure. More often than not such excursions were accompanied by my fishing rod…I am a fourth generation float fisherman so the iconic red/white bobber was long ago replaced with porcupine and pencil floats. So long days were spent fishing for the chub and rock bass (that populated this watershed) and which willingly took a worm or other insect I could affix to my hook.
I only have memories now of grandfathers and, more importantly, my father (that intrepid explorer) who schooled me in angling…
Now, more than 40 years later a pact is made to meet up on a river with some members of this forum. As turns out, I’m called in to work and again my plans for a rendezvous on the water are disrupted. I’m driving back from an otherwise brutal day and think I should pay my old childhood stream a quick visit. No longer the inadequately oxygenated and silted water it once was, but a vibrant natal watershed for migrating Mykiss (testament, it seems to the good work done over the past decades).
It’s Saturday and think to myself the weather will have brought out a host of anglers…much to my delight, I pull into an empty parking area. My window to mine chrome in a few holding areas is narrow and stumble down the steep embankment…I’m already false-casting as I approach the first run…the water has a slight stain and proffers perfect cover to late afternoon steel. I need to cover as much water as possible and settle on a nice holding slick at the bottom of some fast water strewn with large boulders…Second pass and I’m onto a hot fish that propels itself from the water 6 times. Another 15 minutes of fishing and two more come to hand. It’s my home water…I anticipated these fish…confident that I could hook up…confident that the lessons learned so long ago are carrying me toward a deeper appreciation of the finer art of angling…
I only have memories now of grandfathers and, more importantly, my father (that intrepid explorer) who schooled me in angling…
Now, more than 40 years later a pact is made to meet up on a river with some members of this forum. As turns out, I’m called in to work and again my plans for a rendezvous on the water are disrupted. I’m driving back from an otherwise brutal day and think I should pay my old childhood stream a quick visit. No longer the inadequately oxygenated and silted water it once was, but a vibrant natal watershed for migrating Mykiss (testament, it seems to the good work done over the past decades).
It’s Saturday and think to myself the weather will have brought out a host of anglers…much to my delight, I pull into an empty parking area. My window to mine chrome in a few holding areas is narrow and stumble down the steep embankment…I’m already false-casting as I approach the first run…the water has a slight stain and proffers perfect cover to late afternoon steel. I need to cover as much water as possible and settle on a nice holding slick at the bottom of some fast water strewn with large boulders…Second pass and I’m onto a hot fish that propels itself from the water 6 times. Another 15 minutes of fishing and two more come to hand. It’s my home water…I anticipated these fish…confident that I could hook up…confident that the lessons learned so long ago are carrying me toward a deeper appreciation of the finer art of angling…
Thanks for reading...
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