This Special Place

Everyone has their own special little place where, no matter how the day went, or what tomorrow holds, the time spent there calms the nerves and brings peace of mind. A place where you feel in touch with everything around you and time has no measures. Whether it is a hardwood ridge in the fall, or an open meadow of newly born crocuses in the spring, this is your space. Your safe haven from all troubles and turmoils you have left behind.

My little haven happens to be a stretch of wild river that is as beautiful to behold as it is to fish. For some reason this river calls out to me. It beckons my bravery, and sanity, to try and cross without being swept under by the heavy current. To hold my footing as I glide my feet cautiously across the polished rock bottom. Many a fishermen have been dunked and swept downstream of this river by charging across like a moose through young undergrowth. Respect has taught me to read a path across. As many fishermen will attest, knowing how to read a river is an art in itself. Reading the river can not only keep you out of harms way, it can put a lot more fish on the table.

This stretch of river is sorrounded by 20 feet of rock face to each side. It is not for the most part a place for you to try out your freeclimbing skills. The top of the rockface is considerably more dangerous than the river as it is riddled with open fissures big enough for a large man to be swallowed whole. Natural springs produce numerous waterfalls introducing cool, oxygen enriched water, for the waiting trout below. This is a stretch of quality trout water with a minimum size of 12", and a creel limit of two. Enhancing the beauty further is an artificials only rule that keeps out the majority worm dunkers.

After much deliberation I opt for my spinning rod armed with a small arsenal of panther martins and rooster tails. My fly rod begs me to reconsider by falling out the door of the pick-up and nestling square across my feet. Ah, not today, you went last time. Walking away I feel a certain amount of guilt and indifference but one must still such critical choices even in a place such as this.

As I wade through the waist high tangle of everything that grows wild I can feel the river and all of it's power and beauty filling my senses like a deer testing the wind for danger. Sparkles of water dancing like diamonds in the snow start to appear through the heavy vegetation. Ah, I can hear it. Like a strong wind building and sweeping through a cedar forest the river announces it's presence to me. For a moment I stop and gaze, grinning and catching my breath, it is just as I left it.

The first glimpse at the drop down the rock face is intimidating. The best plan of attack is to lower the bottom half of your body over the edge with feet searching blindly for a solid foothold. What if... no, we wont go there. After completing the toe grip of death on the rocks crumbling walls, my shaky hands now slide to the edge, I can look down now, the rest is easy. A short descend and the river is at my feet, I have conquered the climb, now the river.

Might as well get the feet wet right from the start, it is inevietable in the long run. The first cast produces a small brown trout. Nothing big, but always special. This is not a place where trophies abound but, they are here for the taking, lurking the edges of the mainstream where the abundance of food gets distributed to those most skilled. Further downstream I hook into a decent fish, he's a keeper, and a good fight for a small spinning rod in the powerful current. A quick glance and he's back in the water, that felt good. With dusk closing quickly I notice a good rise beginning and wish I had my fly rod. As I dream of floating a fly my rod bows to the river, good fish!

All of my thoughts of fly fishing quickly turn to the wise choice of choosing my spinning rod and fighting the football size brown. Oh, four pound test don't fail me now. A quick run down the river, with me in close tow, and the fight is on. Hunkered down in the current, I watch as the brown peels line heading for slower water, he has tired some. The trout leaves small wakes and boils on the rivers surface while searching, seemingly calm, for a place to hide. The water has taken on an ink-like appearance and the evening closes in, it's now or never. I gain small amounts of line with slow steady pumps and quick retrieves while the trout is approaches the only obstacle between us, the whitewater.

 Working the fish towards the current I already feel a sense of satisfaction to have been part of this natural spectacle. As if on cue my prize brings me to my senses by stripping line that I had regained earlier. Into the current, a short run downstream, and alas... he's on my side. Only thirty yards of line between me and the trophy which has begun to float on his side, he is mine. As I cup a gentle hand beneath his belly I feel his exhaustion. I see the longing for water as a prime trout out of his natural habitat seeks a need for another chance at life. I to feel a need, as I release the somber giant back into the water. A need to leave things as I found them, in this special place.

copyright James L. Bruner - WaterandWoods.net
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