OK, I Lied
By lex, on Sun – September 12, 2004
I do have one more post in me before going to sea tomorrow.
Tailhook was a blast. Met many friends, have a fabulous meal or two in lovely Reno. Spent quality time with the Hobbit, ex. requirements for the instant gratification of our superior children’s whims. Played a not entirely discreditable round of golf on four and one half hours of sleep. Networked on the topic of future employability. Was over-served in the area of adult beverages. Went for a long run. Was suddenly and vividly reminded of Reno’s 4500 foot elevation above mean sea level. Learnt some things about naval aviation I didn’t know.
Learnt.
Why is it that a Brit can still use a word like “learnt,” while we on the distaff side of the Anglophony feel like either rubes or poseurs for doing so? “Learnt” has brevity, which we have been instructed, is the soul of wit.
American English actually tends to be more conservative in some respects: Most of us will talk about “the fall,” rather than “Autumn.” But “the fall” is an archaism in modern British English.
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We traveled north in darkness, arrived just past 0100. Today we drove back down, and in the daylight saw all the parts of the eastern Sierras that I love so much, and have not seen for far too long.
The Walker River joins US 395 for many miles on its journey northbound. It is trout water, which means it is like the nectar of the gods to me. I didn’t bring my fly rod, for which fact the Hobbit is no doubt eternally grateful. But we did stop at a likely spot, and walked the banks – the Hobbit in some bemusement, while I was enraptured.
I cannot resist a trout stream.
You cannot be in a hurry when trout fishing. There is a rhythm to it, an enforced rigor from 10 to 2 o’clock on the forearm. Rush the stroke, and you’ll foul the tippet and leader in windknots or in overhanging branches or in a plashing presentation that sends the trout themselves screaming into dark, impenetrable places, with their appetites for dry flies and nymphs ruthlessly suppressed. Patience too is required – there are many tiny knots to tie, clip and retie over the course of a day on the river. Rainbows, Browns and Goldens demand precision of the angler who would hold their beauty for an instant in his hand, before releasing them back into their world.
The river itself runs happily by at an unhurried pace. It was here before you came, it will be here when you have gone. From this spot, or from this earth – the river doesn’t care.
There is an eternal optimism to trout fishing that is refreshing to the soul, no matter how many times it has been disappointed in the instant. I have many a morning stopped to wet a line for an hour at a likely spot – an hour, no more! And found myself still there as the sun sets down behind the embracing mountains, the air turns briskly cold, with many a tedious highway hour between where I am and where I need to bed. Always there is the next turn in the river, always the next pool or rill. The promise of a better place, just around the bend, the laughter of the river, the sighing of the wind in the tamaracks. The fish you have not caught.
There are many fine fishermen who will fetishize the number of hackles on a fly, the weight of the line, the length of the leader, the size of the hook, barbed or barbless. I am not one of those – I buy my flies in small stores where men who wish they were on the river spend their time tying flies for those who soon will be. There is a living to be made this way, but I would not trade it with them for the time I save from ten to two o’clock.
Walking up to a trout stream is like starting a love affair – you close with much excitement, spend as much time as possible (but never enough!) in exploration, walk away with much regret, and many a backwards look. You might come back again someday, but even if you find the same spot, it will not be the same river.
The river has moved on.
