Down on the Aspen Emil had a grumble going, "There's more to Ted's method than meets the eye. I'm working it just like he showed me but the trout seem to be giving the fly the stink eye. Treat it like it's poison. Could be I'm doing something wrong. Could also be the reason hangs above, pierced in a branch about fifteen feet up in that popple. Oh well, that was the last of Ted's flies and it was beat up pretty bad. Guess it's back to cast and shoot."
The sun was balanced on the treetops, taking its time to topple over the horizon. One of those evenings when life slows to a crawl. Fine with me. I was in no hurry and could slow down with the best of 'em. Didn't figure I was missing anything down in the cities. The Fourth of July had come and gone. Didn't need us at all. What they were celebrating with parades and fireworks was pretty much what we were doing along the Aspen. Freedom and the right to bare arms in the warm air.
I always had a good time watching Emil work the stream. Nothing fancy. Waded in his old Keds, trouser legs rolled to his knees. Carried a few flies and a length of leader in an old red and white Altoids tin stuffed in a shirt pocket. Fifty years later he'd have been called a minimalist. Guess he knew what he needed and saw no reason to pack more.
"Nothing but a buggy-whipper when I'm out on the lakes. Doesn't seem to matter as much to bass or bluegills. But here on the Aspen it's another story. Delicate. And doesn't require as much line. Ted was right about that. Noodling and flipping. Get the fly to land on the water like it's alive. Lay it out, let it drop. Then keep up the ruse. Sometimes that's nothing more than having it drift along like there's no line attached. That doesn't work I try pissing 'em off. Skate the bug and confuse the trout. 'Specially brookies. They're curious little guys always ready to come check out what just dropped in. More like bass that way.
Emil paused a moment, slowly lowered his rod tip then missed the hook set, "Damnation. Oh well, such are the mysterious ways of Aspen Brook. Should a real fly fisherman see me work a stream it wouldn't take but two seconds to figure me a faker. Heck, so would my fifteen buck white plastic rod for that matter. But I fool a few fish now and then. And sure have a good time whether I do or not."
Yeah, it was worth ten minutes sitting stream side listening to Emil. Wasn't that I didn't enjoy worrying the trout myself but our stream fishing was a procession of leap frogging. When we'd pass we'd chat. Or sometimes I'd simply stop and enjoy the view. Wasn't enough water in any one pool to share. Also, wasn't enough trout to fish any pool for more than a dozen casts. The trout always let us know when it was time to move on. Seeing as how they bored easily, we worked our way down stream at a good clip. Two hours on the water might find us a half mile from where we started. Though we were rarely shoulder to shoulder, we were always within earshot. Emil had a habit of chuckling and talking soothingly to a hooked fish that told me how he was doing. Most often than not he was doing just fine. His current grumble amounted to no more than he'd passed fifteen minutes without a hookup.
Over the summer we saw, fished and fell in love with close to two miles of stream, learning as we waded. One of Emil's overworked saws had to do with trout being educators. Told us what they wanted. It was up to us to pay attention. Try something and see their reaction. The smart ones were hip to our game from the get-go. We figured those fish couldn't be caught. At least by the likes of us.
A few minutes after the grumble Emil gave up the ghost, came and sat with me on the shore. There's moments in life that carry more meaning than others. This was one of them. We didn't say much but our words bore a lot of weight.
"So, Archie me lad, how's your love life?" That's a cliche of the first order. Just words to start a conversation. Not much for me to say. Oh, I loved alright but my love hadn't as yet found life. So I simply cocked my head and gave him a stare.
"Wouldn't worry. Wasn't much of a Casanova myself." Emil returned my look, one eyebrow raised, "and there's nothing wrong with dying a virgin. Can't say I'd recommend it. Though I once talked with a sheepherder out in Wyoming who said he was happy, almost euphoric, being alone, just him and the sheep. He figured a man could never be lonely surrounded by a few thousand sheep. Nah, I wouldn't worry about it. Your time will come and you'll know it when it does."
"Any new thoughts on school?"
Stared down at my dirty, once white canvas, slip on tennis shoes, Dutch printed on the toe of one, Elm on the other. Had to think about the question for a minute. Still wasn't excited about attending the U. Might even have gone into the Army had I the choice. But there was a hitch. A big hitch. Back when my time came to register for the draft I'd put it off 'til tomorrow. Then another tomorrow. Well, those tomorrows just kept piling up and now four months of them had stacked high, wide and deep. I felt terrible anytime it came to mind. Not having registered was illegal and in my mind, immoral. Men in my family did their duty and served in the military, simple as that. I knew I'd have to step up someday and clear myself with the Draft Board. When the thought of my lack of action arose I sweat bullets about the consequences, then crammed it right back down. That's what loomed behind my choice of going to school. Damned if you do, damned if you don't and it was me doing the damning.
"Nah. Still not thrilled but I'll go."
"Seems to me getting the Army out of the way would be the thing to do. Gonna have to sometime."
"Yeah, I suppose. But me and the Army have issues. Don't know of a better way to describe it and don't really want to talk about it right now."
Guess I wasn't ready to make the leap. If I couldn't with Emil how would I be able to face a board of complete strangers? For lack of a better phrase let's just say I wasn't man enough. Not easy being a hypocrite, no sir, not at all.
Emil didn't have much to say after that. But it seemed to me he knew. And knew any words he might say would be a waste of time. If anything, whatever he'd say would only make things worse.
"Fine by me. No doubt you know what's best. At least a part of you does. Sometimes it's necessary to do something wrong for things to turn out right. This could very well be one of those things. One way or the other, you've been a good worker Archie. And a good companion on all our doings over the years. Couldn't have done a one without you. And for that I'm grateful."
With that Emil returned to the brook. All the while he'd been eyeing a chunky brook trout slurping down bugs on the far bank. Before wading he'd tied on a colorful, black and orange, tiny blob of fuzz he called a Royal Wulff. Awful small wolf if you'd asked me. While humming 'Goodnight Irene' he did a couple of false casts to work out his line then laid the fly a few yards upstream from the trout. For the next few seconds the blob drifted like a leaf, sweet as could be. When she hit, the brookie made a sucking sound like the last slurp of a milk shake.
A couple of foot high jumps and she rocketed down stream with my uncle in hot pursuit. Rod high and his black, Keds high tops gallumping along, his one good eye on the fish. Nearly went down once but did not lose the trout. Finally, thirty yards around the bend Emil skated it to his feet. Could have been seventeen inches, maybe more. He waited for me so I could enjoy his prize.
"Doubt we'll see another this large. Best part's she's barely hooked. Easy release. Would have been a shame to kill something that'd lasted a half dozen Arrowhead winters." A twist of the hook and the trout was gone.
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