A CONSPIRACY

During the month of July last I found the opportunity to venture afield to enjoy a day of angling for the wary and elusive trout. Upon traveling a short distance from my estate to my favorite lake I discovered that all the best angling spots were already occupied, and so I decided to venture farther than normal to try my skill in a picturesque glen of the same vicinity. A dear friend had once advised me that the small creek winding its way through said glen held many fine trout, some of them quite large. Unfortunately, some years past, and since I received this information, there had been a remarkable flood that had devastated the glen and subsequently rerouted the stream into a new streambed. Even so, as my other options had failed me I decided that the glen was worthy of investigation, and as I had seen fish in the creek on several occasions when exploring the glen since the flood I flattered myself that I might enjoy a degree of success there.

The stream in question follows a serpentine route through the glen and passes under a country lane before cheerfully gurgling on toward points unknown. Though it passes within but a few rods of the lane, the only evidence that it even exists comes from a faint but steady rushing sound emanating from a dense thicket that crowds its banks. I was gratified to see this dense undergrowth was virtually unbroken, indicating that no other anglers had been here in quite some time. I rigged out my pole with a Soldier Palmer and boldly wriggled my way into the tangle of brush in the fashion of a hound on the trail of a rabbit. Upon breaking through the outer barrier I happily found that the gentle canopy of trees and thick brush effectively screened out the daylight, offering the twin benefits of choking out much of the underbrush and obscuring my shadow from my quarry. Some of the undergrowth that had managed to flourish in this dim, mottled light had achieved monstrous proportions, suggesting an almost prehistoric quality that I found strangely appealing.

I found the stream itself to be quite narrow, being less than four feet across and in some spots less than two feet across. The banks, however, were cut several feet deep and completely hid the stream from view, so that only the sound reveals its presence until the angler stands directly above it. The underbrush, though thin, was sufficient that I found it difficult to maneuver, and so I endeavored to take to the streamed itself in hopes of finding easier progress. After a brief search I found a place where the banks were less sharp and I stepped into the brook. The water was cold, fast and clear, but only a few inches deep -- barely washing over the tops of my shoes. The bottom was firm and composed of a mix of colorful stones, gravel and sand, offering an ideal habitat for trout. However, the water was far too shallow to harbor fish where I stood, and so I began to carefully pick my way upstream looking for a deep pool or undercut pocket that might hold a trout.

This was not as simple a task as I had hoped. Though my situation was markedly better than when I was above the banks, the brush and trees sweep down over the stream creating a tangled labyrinth of twigs, branches, roots and leaves. As I crept along, twisting and turning, paying particular attention to both my rod tip and my step on the loose, slippery rocks, I pondered whether the Chinese art of Tai Chi may have originated with an angler on a similar stretch of stream somewhere on the opposite side of the globe. I quickly discovered that the best way to successfully proceed forward was to squat down as low as possible, well below the rim of the banks, and assume a short, awkward gait not unlike that of a drake engaged in its mating dance.

It was in this peculiar posture that I made first contact with my intended prey. As I was rounding a short bend I chanced to glance up and saw a long, narrow pool a few rods ahead that cut well under the bank. Just as the idea came into my head that this might be a good spot for a trout to seek cover, there was a small movement. If I hadn't been hunched down, my face not more than a foot from the surface of the water, I probably wouldn't have even seen it. However, the steady patterns of reflections from the canopy above and the angle of my view revealed, for one brief moment, a telltale V-shaped wake amidst the ripples of the current. Just as quickly, the little reflection returned to its original position. This little ripple was barely noticeable and if I had not been attentive I might not have seen it at all, but to an experienced angler that subtle chevron might as well have been a bright silk banner with "trout" emblazoned on it in gay colours.

I now found myself faced with an even greater challenge. I was too far downstream to attempt a proper presentation, and gnarled fingers of brush thrust out at me from all sides begging for a chance to ensnare my fly. I decided I would have to work the pool from above, drifting my fly down into the hole where my fish would be waiting.

Unfortunately, the banks were very steep and narrow in my current position and effectively prevented all efforts to turn around. I made careful note of my surroundings, singling out a conspicuous dead tree to mark the place, and retreated backwards down stream, using the same duck-walk posture, until I found my original entry point. I then clambered up the bank and worked my way back upstream, giving the creek bed as wide a berth as possible in an attempt to avoid startling my prey. In the streambed I had low-hanging roots and brush to contend with, but here I ran into a new foe -- the dreaded mosquito. Down in the creek bottom I hadn't been annoyed by them, but as I slipped through the sparse underbrush I kicked up vast swarms that rose up in a dense cloud around me. Within minutes my shirtsleeves were saturated with these tiny brown insects. As I crept along I quickly developed the technique of deftly transferring my angling pole from one hand to the other as I eased it through the brush, alternately shaking mosquitoes off of one arm and then the other.

I soon came to the large, dead tree that marked the upper edge of the pool where my trout lay. I slowed my pace and gave the tree a wide berth as I circled around towards the bank. As I recounted previously, the stream was particularly narrow at this location, and with the dense canopy overhead and the tangle of undergrowth below there was no discernible place to flick my Soldier Palmer onto the water. However, by slipping my rod tip under an abnormally large cowslip I succeeded in flicking the fly over the bank and down into the brook. The Palmer was swept downstream and hung up on an exposed root almost immediately. It was quite a feat extricating it back through the narrow mantle of greenery, and once it was successfully retrieved I began searching for a better opening. I endeavored to get closer to the bank where I might present the fly from a more advantageous position, and with no small difficulty I found such a place. I then waited, frozen in place, in hopes that my somewhat awkward approach had not been detected by the fish. Regrettably, this motionless attitude allowed the mosquitoes a small banquet at my expense, but by now I knew that this particular fish would be worth it. After waiting but a few minutes I managed to flip the fly into the narrow cataract that fed the pool where the fish lay and let the fly tumble downstream. I moved my pole along so that it kept pace with the fly in an attempt to avoid communicating any abnormal resistance of movement to the Palmer.

Upon my third attempt at this technique, I sensed a small swirl, or gurgle about ten feet downstream from my current position. I glanced up just in time to discover a robust brook trout dart out of his hiding place, snatch a small black fly that had fallen into the creek, and disappear back under a tangle of roots creeping out from the bank. The fish was surprisingly large considering the modest depth of this stretch of brook, and I reasoned that he had probably lived his whole life in this narrow little pool, trapped there by the swift cataract above and the shallow water below.

The fish's true position now discovered, I saw that a spot lower down, closer to the pool offered a slight advantage over the place where I had been angling. The pool had a slight bend in it, so that I could see more of the stream surface and could better monitor the actions of my fly. The bend also made it necessary to start the Palmer's drift at a lower point, and I selected a spot just a few feet above where my trout lay to drop my Palmer. Here I had room for a very short backswing, and I conceived of a plan to mimic a wounded insect by tumbling the fly over the lip of the bank, dropping him right on top of my trout's nose. My first attempt at this plan failed as I did not allow enough backswing to successfully propel the fly over the edge of the bank. On my second attempt I over-compensated and the Palmer shot high up over the opposite bank, causing me to jerk the rod tip back to prevent entangling my silk leader in the brush. To my great satisfaction, the fly dropped onto the very edge of a huge cowslip frond that swung low over the far bank. I confess that this situation was not at all what I had planned, but it did present me with an excellent opportunity as I could simply flip my Palmer into the water and brace myself for the strike.

I took a long, deep breath and held it, gave a little shudder to shake off the hundred or more mosquitoes that had settled upon my face, neck and hands, and gave my rod the most minute twitch that I could possibly muster.

Like a piece of dandelion fluff caught by a warm spring breeze, my fly lifted from the leaf and began its decent towards the water. Down it floated, lazily passing the lip of the bank, causing me to tense in anticipation. There was a small swirl and a flash of bronze under the bank of the stream as the Palmer tumbled down toward the rushing water.

Then my little fly stopped.

Unperceived until this very moment, a fine lace of web spanned the banks just inches from the water. My fly had become fixed in it. With an excited little swirl, the trout suddenly showed himself, darting out from his hiding place, stopping and holding himself in the current, waiting, just below that cursed web. It suddenly became clear to me that this was the trout's method of hunting; he would wait for an insect to become trapped in this fragile web, watch it struggle to free itself and, if the insect succeeded, the trout would snatch it in that brief moment of disorientation as it broke free and bounced off the surface of the pool. Despite my current dilemma it entered my mind that I could quite possibly mimic this behavior and still have a fair chance at taking my fish. I carefully began to vibrate my rod tip in an attempt to free the fly; twitch, twitch, and the Palmer began to move in the web, appearing surprisingly lifelike. To my amazement, a spider showed herself, a delicate wisp of a creature, fooled by the Palmer and my subtle twitching. I silently cursed the spider for choosing this exact spot in building its web. Twitch, twitch. The trout glided impatiently back and forth directly below, like an expectant father pacing in the parlor while his wife gave birth upstairs. Twitch, twitch. The spider advanced a few steps towards its perceived prey. Twitch, twitch. The Palmer turned over and began to work free.

I found my mind straying as I reflected on how alike the three of us were -- the fish the spider and I. All three of us patiently waiting in anticipation -- they for sustenance, myself for both sustenance and sport. How odd, I thought, that the three of us should come together at this precise moment in time, our muscles tensed, our eyes peering out from very different worlds yet focussed on one common interest: a tiny, glistening Soldier Palmer.

But such philosophical musings have little place in the sport of angling. In that brief moment of mental distraction, I twitched my rod tip just a fraction of an inch too far to the right and nicked a dead twig. To my horror, a two-inch piece of this brittle little branch tip was clipped off and sprung into the air. It spun around, turned over and then dropped at incredible speed, ripping down through the web before crashing into the pool with a deafening splash.

In that horrible instant, my trout darted upstream, wiggling through the cataract and disappearing around the bend. The spider too deserted me, scurrying back into its hiding place somewhere below my feet, probably cursing me for my deception and destroying its skillfully-crafted web. The Palmer, still dangling sadly from the now shattered web sparkled up at me mockingly.

It only was then that I realized I had been the victim of a conspiracy. The fly, the fish and spider had seen to it that, from the moment I entered into that mosquito-infested thicket of hell, I was doomed to failure. An entire afternoon and a full pint of my blood had been sacrificed for nothing. But there would be another day. And I swore then and there that my diabolical little Soldier Palmer would not be a part of it.